Because we hope there is a heaven
Where we are still ourselves
We cling to every quiver
Of our individual cells
There is a universal call
We are torn between earth and star
And somewhere in the middle
We find out who we are
By Diane E. Dockum
©April 3, 2014
Under the pavement
Water roars to the river
I watch through the grate
Diane E. Dockum
©2014
Grandma’s Quilts
Patchwork pieces
Stitched with care
Each thread linking
Generations
Her flowered apron
Worn to make the bread
School dresses with lace collars
Sewn next to Uncle Harry’s boxer shorts
Flannel pajamas
Of sixty cousin’s cousins
Held together
With love
Grandpa’s work shirts
Blue and green worn soft
After years of day shifts at
The paper mill
Here and there across the years
The fabric of our family
Held together with a
Common thread
Diane E. Dockum
©2014
If you saw me standing at the end of your driveway
You would know how much I missed you.
And if, at night, you heard me whisper in your mind’s ear,
You would know that, in my dreams, I had traveled to your side.
If I stayed too long you would put sleep between us
And I would return to my body.
If I fell asleep too soon
You would hold me there in the dark.
If I trembled at the edge of understanding
You would only wink and wait.
You would speak softly and make perfect sense,
Building bridges to new horizons.
If you saw me dive off the edge of sanity
You would know how I love the feel of falling.
If you saw me with my fingers framing the moon,
You would know I was still looking for Tranquility.
If I ran down your driveway jumping and spinning through the air—
If I forgot worry and my pitiful sense of responsibility
You would know I had given you permission to love me,
And forgiven myself for loving you.
© 2008, Diane E. Dockum, Just Beyond The Hill
Slivers
The arrogant voice that glides through
My mind pretends falsely to dwell
Within my pocket. Unknown
Particles and crumpled gum wrappers
Occupy space in the corner,
And even though I wash and wash, the
Cloth still smells of Bazooka
And I can’t remember my fortune.
I live without understanding
And when they shout at me I cringe
And squint my eyes in the bright light.
I cover my ears with my hands and
Hear only my heartbeat and the breath
In my throat. I remove myself from
Questions and infamous people
And walk in dimly lit rooms
And never smoke cigars without tips.
He is huge and sweats. His belly glistens
In the sun and a fly is playing in his
Navel. The hair that surrounds it
Is wet. The gas pump is too hot to
Touch. But still they use it without noticing,
And open pop bottles with their teeth.
A car passes by scattering dust in
Its wake. It settles on the dishes
I have placed on the picnic table.
I shiver and though it is ninety degrees
In the shade, I pull my collar up behind
My neck to keep the wind from touching me.
I lick my lips for moisture and clear my throat.
Believe the one who tells you to wait
And things will turn out fine.
The paper they use to catch flies is full and
Hangs over the open salad on the kitchen table.
No one wants to eat it and
I wonder why she wonders why.
Silly songs and happy thoughts
Delight me in the quiet of the day.
© 2008 Diane E. Dockum
Just Beyond The Hill
The horse that stands in the field
Resembles the toad stool in my dream
And smells of hay and Listerine
But I am not repulsed by the
Odor of cleanliness.
I see within the horse to his
Heart and Soul and he is
Blessed with kindliness and
I am not—I have to work at it.
He chews the grass that I lie upon
And I look up into his nostrils
And yawn in the sunlight.
He ignores me, and grazes on.
The startled Blue-Jay leaps into
The air and flies in circles ever wider
Until it reaches the tree limb
Where he hides behind branches
Of green leaves and whispers
His fears to his mate.
They take their time telling
Horror stories of close calls
With Humans and I
Peacefully watch them from
My bed in the grass.
Butterflies do not inhale
The smoke of factories nor do
They practice falsehood.
It is remarkable to me to think
That all they do is fly from
Thing to thing and wait to die.
But butterfly shadows are not intrusive.
My shadow is equal to my light
And I have made friends with it
Despite my misgivings.
I am better off now.
©2008 by Diane E. Dockum
Just Beyond The Hill
On the inside I am sitting on a large boulder
On top of a mountain singing
To the music of the sunset
As I play my guitar.
The breeze gently lifts
My dark waist length hair,
And silver bracelets are sliding
Up my slender left arm, as I find the chords.
The long skirt I wear is colorful
And comfortable, it brushes against
The bracelet on my ankle, and the setting sun
Glints on the crystal toe ring on my right fourth toe.
On the inside I smell like warm
Summer sunlight and Patchouli flowers.
I am wise and have great spiritual knowledge.
I give good advice.
Of course no one sees this inside.
My outer surface is very different
And I appear to be a woman of a certain age
Having a weight problem.
On the inside I rise above this
Unfortunate circumstance
And listen to the music
Playing in my heart.
©September 29, 2013
Diane E. Dockum
The night grew dark and lights I lit
And by the table, here I sit
The window, open, lights the grass
And by the cars and drivers pass
Do they, do they look within
While their ride is gliding by?
Or do they turn their heads and look
Into the house across the way?
It matters not, for I am here
Doing something still and true.
I look into my lighted screen
And type a poem just for you.
Diane E. Dockum
August 30, 2013
Wet clay, and pond scent in the air, and towering
Cat Tails baking at mid-day
Welcome us to the edge of the stream,
Delicious cold stream, with rocks placed just so,
Making stepping stones into the world
Of Clay Mountain.
Gray sands rise in ridges fissured by the rain.
We run and jump over the little valleys.
We marvel over the carcasses
Of dead birds or beavers’ bleached bones
Along the railroad track that runs along
The edge of Clay Mountain.
Remnants of the St. Lawrence Seaway dig,
The big dig, with trucks of gravel gouged
Out of Grandpa and Grandma’s farmland
Carried to make cement
For the Great St. Lawrence Seaway
Connecting the Atlantic Ocean with Chicago.
We never understood back then,
When we used this Clay Mountain for exploring,
For digging up the clay, for imagining a Moonscape
Where we beamed down from Star Ship Enterprise.
We never understood how it got there,
That big Clay Mountain.
We, the Secret Five, who met up in a Maple Tree,
We had our little world of Barbie and of Honey West,
The Beatles and the Man from U.N.C.L.E.
I wonder now, how it looked before
Trucks and heavy equipment came to rearrange the landscape.
Before the Pit and the two Ponds appeared.
by Diane E. Dockum
©June 2013
Never Hug A Thistle
Never hug a thistle
It is easy to explain
A thistle is so prickly
And it gives you lots of pain
Though you try to cuddle
And hold it more and more
A thistle doesn’t want it
And makes you very sore
Never hug a thistle
Though her blossom’s like a star
If you try to get too close
She will leave you with a scar
Though you hold it to your heart
And you stroke its fuzzy leaves
The thistle with its stabbing thorns
Will really make you bleed
If you’ve ever hugged a porcupine
You know just how they bristle
Well the same thing happens often
When you try to hug a thistle
Never hug a thistle
I’ve said this twice or thrice
A thistle doesn’t like it
She just isn’t very nice
So, if you know a thistle
And I think perhaps you do
Keep your distance and just whistle
Or she will damage you
By Diane E. Dockum
June 9, 2013
Marble Hill Press 