An old shoulder bag 
Caught my attention
In the basement
While I was doing laundry

And I thought it was
A lovely bag
With the leather
Embossment of flowers

And maybe I could 
Use it again
And the shape
Was so generous

But it was covered
With a green furry mold
I put it on the counter
By the sink thinking

I could save it
But then I realized
It was organic
And the leather

Was decaying
It was too far gone
So, I pushed it
Into the bin

With a little pain
In my heart
And a lot
Of regret


by Diane E. Dockum
©April 14, 2023

Down a narrow winding lane, there suddenly appears
A little house, an olden house, gray and spent with years.
Once you've seen the lonely spot, your thoughts cannot depart,
Because the silence reigning there, lingers in your heart.

Greenest fields, forgotten lie, untouched by knowing hand;
Those loving hands and hearts now gone -- none to understand.
Save for the low, soft chirping of a friendly little bird,
There is naught to break the silence -- no other sound is heard.

What a strange enchantment seems to linger ev'rywhere,
While through trees and grasses, moves a vision, soft and fair.
Up the hill ascending, lightly through the mist she glides,
With her eyes fixed on the old house, where she still resides.

To the old house, as to heaven, o'er the shady lawn,
Drifts the dear old soul so sweetly, at the break of dawn.
To the east-view window walking, to her old armchair,
She gently whispers to a loved one, sitting near her there,
"Nowhere else in all the world, shines the sun so fair.
"Shines the sun so fair, my dear, shines the sun so fair."



By
EDITH SANBORN COBBLE
From her book, Drifting Sands

New Voices Publishing Company
New York: 1952

The poem posted tonight is one from my Grandmother, Edith Sanborn Cobble, written around 1952. I think she was remembering her dear mother, my Great Grandmother who had died. I imagine she was relating a comforting thought of her mother returning to sit in her armchair by the home fire on the old homestead farm in Northern New York.

I have a legacy of poetry in my family. Both of my parents had Mothers who wrote. Whenever I feel stuck in my writing, I read one of theirs. Once in a while I feel that their voices should be heard, even though they are no longer here.

Exercise: Write a prose poem about a dream, but don’t say it’s a dream.





The driveway was muddy. There were still a few snowbanks around the yard and small house. I parked my car by the well and up on a small rise away from as much mud as possible.

Opening the door to the empty house, I was met with the stale smell of abandoned rooms and old carpet.

I was not sure why I had come back to this place. Memories of life here were beginning to resurface. 

The crib had been in this room. The cellar door was heavy and ancient. It was like a giant trap door, and took up almost all the hallway. 

The back bedroom was moldy on the ceiling just over the window. The closet floor had been patched with old license plates to keep the rats out.

Familiar curtains were hanging in the living room windows. There was not a sound, as there were no appliances in the kitchen or electricity to run them.

Darkness was coming. Why had I come here?

This house was no longer mine, yet I was here wandering through rooms I had once inhabited. Rooms where I had existed, not lived.

I looked at the door wanting to fling it open and run. This place was not where I belonged. The well was empty. It was cold here. I shivered.

A car pulled up the driveway and a man and woman stepped out and knocked on the door.

“Come in” I said inside my head, and I opened the door. I gave them the tour. Livingroom, kitchen, hallway, bathroom, bedroom.

“Cute”, the woman said.

“Who are you? I asked.

I couldn’t understand what they saw in this place, but handed the key over and went to my car.

Driving away, I saw them in my rear-view mirror, unloading their belongings.



Diane E. Dockum

© April 11, 2023

There was an old man in a cap
Who drilled holes in trees for the sap
He wore a thick coat
Had a beard like a goat
And fed his dog in a hubcap



by Diane E. Dockum
© April 10, 2023