Nostalgia

My Father’s Wallet

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There was no money

Left inside,

Taken, I suppose, for purposes

Of need at the time of his passing.

 

The wallet, a tri-fold

Of black leather,

Soft and fragrant,

Still held photos of his grandchildren

 

And his “Order Of Old Bastards”

Membership card, and his

Drivers license, social security

And pistol permits

 

For the .357 Colt revolver

The .22 Ruger, the .22 Smith & Wesson

And his Pinkerton Detective card

From 1962.

 

Like the folded napkin

Of a special guest who has left

The dinner table too soon

On urgent business

 

It remains here in his absence

And I can imagine

His spirit is as near

As the memories he left behind.

 

 

©Diane E. Dockum, April 6, 2015

 

 

 

 

Passing Through

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I passed through town

Riding in the passenger seat

Of the Dodge

And watched the trees

Pass by, and watched

The telephone wires rise and fall

From pole to pole

And time melted away leaving

Only images of the time gone by

I passed through town

Riding on the hard wooden seat

Of the carriage and watched the trees

Pass by, and watched the horses drink

From the trough outside

The drug store

And the lady at the dress shop arranging

Her window display waved as we passed,

When my father spoke to me

And I returned to the seat of the pick up truck

Wondering where I had been.

 

© Diane E. Dockum 2014

 

 

CLAY MOUNTAIN

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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

Unstructured Time

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Unstructured Time

 

You are eight, almost,

And it is 1962.

Kennedy is still President,

But you don’t know that

Or if you do, you don’t really

Think about it.

 

Your mother has gone into the store

To get some groceries, and

You and your sister

Are left in the 1957 Buick convertible.

The top is up because the sun is too

Bright, and makes the plastic seats hot.

 

Cars pass by, and pedestrians scuff

Along the hot sidewalk

No one knows that someday

There will be few who do not

Own a cellular phone,

So they walk along actually

Talking to their friends, who walk next

To them and make eye contact.

 

Panty hose have not been

Invented yet.

Phones have dials.

Televisions have knobs that you walk

Across the room to turn on.

Your mother still gives you a

Vitamin every morning

Before breakfast.

 

Your sister, who is five,

Sits in the back seat

Kicking the back of yours,

Thumping, thudding,

Annoying you,

As you stare through

The front window of the store

Waiting to see your mother paying

For the groceries.

 

There she is, in her red lipstick

And white cotton gloves.

Pulling paper money from her

Purse as the grocer packs the food

Carefully in cardboard boxes, and the tomato

carrier with the curved handle.

The store door jingles, as he smiles the

Boxes to the car,

Calls you Sport or shorty,

winks at your sister.

The trunk pops open

And you can’t see them anymore.

But you can hear them exchanging pleasantries.

 

“See you next time Mrs. ______,

Looks like it might rain tonight, the humidity is real high!”

You can smell the ripe bananas in the trunk,

And your mother has bought each of you

A red rubber ball with stars and stripes.

When you get home, you run around the yard

Just to feel the breeze.

 

 

 

Diane E. Dockum

March 15, 2012