Our morning was

Ruined because that other

Cat was in Our spot

She should not

 

Have tried that

We gave her a swat

But she batted back

She never does that

 

We’ll show her

We will eat her food

That will change her mood

And sit in the sunspot first

 

And when she tries to

Get in there, We will hog it all

We will stretch out tall

Flop over on Our back

 

And feel the warm sun

On Our belly and paws

It is Our window

Because We are The Cat

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 18, 2016

 

 

In the quiet of the morning

My cat kneads my thighs

Preparing to nest there for a while

I listen to the quiet

And empty my mind

Cars pass my window

The washing machine enters

The spin cycle

Cycles — a beginning a middle an end,

Then a beginning again

Never ending cycles

What part of my cycle am I in?

Nearer the end now than the beginning

But now nearer the beginning than the end

Birds sing with ideas of their own

Out in the new spring day

The cat now warming my lap

Listens too

The clock ticks the minutes away

In this quiet house where my love

Still breathes in and out in sleep

My mind is not quiet just now

As I admire the ink sliding out of this pen

  One word at a time

~

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 17, 2016

 

 

A train is coming.

Still far off, the whistle blows.

An idea is close,

Barely audible,

But surely, it is coming.

 

It will cross just

Over that hill.

Cross between the night

And day

 

While the half moon

Is directly overhead

And smiling as it gazes down

On the shining pond

 

Under the bridge.

A train of thought is coming,

Surely coming and soon.

Can’t you hear it echo

 

Through the valleys

Of your mind?

I hear that far off sound

Calling from a mile away,

 

And the power of its engine

Surely takes my breath away.

It pulls all my attention

And I stop to listen

 

And estimate the distance

And the time

Before it’s here

I close my eyes and wonder

 

Where it came from,

Where it goes

I wait until it reaches me

And I wait until it goes.

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 16, 2016

 

 

 

 

I gagged on the coffee

Then put in two shots of cream

And tried again

 

It was definitely burned

And tasted bitter

It set my face in a grimace

 

Sometimes life

Is like that

No matter how you try to dilute

 

The nasty taste at the back

Of your tongue

Alas, it is futile

 

It is what it is

And that means you can

Either take it or leave it

 

If you choke it down regardless

Of the displeasure

You just might earn your reward

 

Or you could send it back

Where it came from

And order tea

 

It may be simply the realization

That you should never order coffee

In a Chinese restaurant

 

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 15, 2016

 

Something heavy in the air

The smoke from chimneys

Hangs low

 

Like fog over the road —

Like prayers trapped by

Unbelief –

 

They fail to lift higher

Than the rooftops

From which they were shouted

 

My eyes burn, my tears run

Something heavy in my heart

My ears catch a sound

 

Whispers distant and pleading

Repeat a prayer

Without ceasing

 

A collective sigh

Ripples in ever widening circles

Washing up against our shore

 

 

 

Diane E. Dockum

©2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

After my sister ate my dad’s cigarettes

And after she blew into the ashtray

Choking on the dust and coating her eyes

My dad decided he would quit smoking

 

My dad may have been firmly persuaded

To quit smoking

I remember being his helper,

And lighting his cigarettes

 

Once with a match

Once with his aluminum Zippo

That he got in the Army

I felt so grown up.

 

The story was that he quit

Cold Turkey, one day

He just didn’t smoke anymore

And the ashtrays in the living room were removed

 

He was the one who burned the trash

Out back of the shed

In a big barrel that stood

Where the barn that fell down used to be

 

He was out there in the dark one night

So I followed him

Sneaking out in my corduroy slippers

Quietly stepping down the rickety shed stairs

 

Out on the big gray stone that was our

Step to the back door

It was pitch black

And damp after the rain

 

The back yard was up against the woods

I could hear the night song of the Whippoorwill

The rhythm of crickets

But I didn’t see any fire in the barrel

 

Just a little orange light

Back behind where the Lilacs were

It moved slowly up

Then down, up, and down

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 13, 2016

 

 

 

It starts somewhere around 3 or 4 or 5 am

That numb feeling in your arms

That sharp stab in your back

 

You think again about getting

A new mattress

So you roll over

 

And discover you have to cough

Or sneeze, or go to the bathroom

The faded memory of a dream

 

Hangs in the air

Unresolved as usual

And its molecules sparkle

 

And separate in mid air

Floating off into space

Then the sun comes up

 

The alarm goes off

You roll the other way

Hit the snooze

 

But your brain tells you to get going

Or you will be late

And if you get up now

 

You will be less late

The ritual begins with filling the

Water well in the coffee maker

 

Selecting a cup

And petting the cat that has come

To sit with you in the kitchen

 

While you sip that hot

Welcome reward

For spending the night in bed

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 12, 2016

 

Homage to Robert Louis Stevenson,

Inspired by “Bed in Summer”

 

BED IN WINTER

 

In Summer I get up with birds

And dress by sunny mellow light

In Winter, quite the other way

I’ve got to go to bed by night

 

I slide beneath the blankets deep

Wiggling toes and snuggling tight

I pull the blankets to my chin

Until I’m in my spot just right

 

And while the snow falls gently down

I hear the furnace kicking on

And while the moon shines on the sill

I close my eyes and wait for dawn

 

 

Diane E. Dockum

©April 11, 2016

 

Neither up nor down

Hot nor cold

Neither passion nor pity

 

Something in between

Troubled and fine

 

The dividing line

Makes me nervous

That I have forgotten

 

How to feel

Except once in a while

 

Tears will well

Heart will lift

Anger will flare

 

Depression and anxiety

Flat lined

 

Makes an even field

Removing the bumps along the way

So uncomfortably numb

 

I have to dig deep

To find my feelings

 

Thankfully ungrateful

Of the little pill

That evens my keel

 

By Diane E. Dockum

© April 10, 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Original

Indigenous, authentic

Genuine, actual, true

A prototype of things to come

Primordial

~~~

Dry

Arid, parched

Scorched, wilted, bare

A place without nourishment

Unemotional

~~~

Meditation

Contemplation, thought

Musing, reverie, pondering

Cultivating the presence of God

Prayer

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 9, 2016