Dog In The Morning
Back to the highway,
The yellow dog
Faces the flower-bed.
Stoic –
Silent –
Unflinching,
He watches mums
And Gladiolas;
The Tiger Lilies dance.
Dog-butt in the dew-laden grass,
He too is planted.
Regal chin held level.
What is he thinking?
The cars pass by
Unchased.
by Diane E. Dockum
ONE
There once was a sparrow named Jack
Who said “I’m a duck, I can quack!”
He jumped in the moat,
Made a quack in his throat,
The fish had a nice little snack!
TWO
A man with a giant physique
Wore shoes that would constantly squeak.
So, often he chose
To butter his toes.
They smelled rancid just after a week.
THREE
While making a strawberry float
An elephant, cat and a goat,
Two mice and a hen,
Six toads and a wren
All whistled a high sounding note.
FOUR
There once was a serious monk
Who startled a very large skunk.
His butt hole was pink,
He let off a stink,
The skunk hit the ground in a funk!
© Diane E. Dockum, 2014
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
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
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
He said, She said
It was raining
And the clouds were gray
In spots
I sat in a corner booth
Drinking coffee
They were college young
He wore a beret
She, a short blonde cut
He asked her why she’d called
She said I missed you like crazy
He pretended to cry
He wanted a sirloin steak
She said it was too expensive
He said she sounded just like his mother
She felt that was lame
He wanted moist, soft meat
That slid right down
The conversation I’m sure
Had sexual undertones
He giggled like a girl
I think she missed him
But she didn’t know why
She studied macrophysics
He had transferred in from Harvard
She mentioned her boyfriend
He asked if he was banned From her room
Probably, she said
Her boyfriend needed to see him first
No offence
But he looked twelve
The wings and dip came
He wanted to share
But Erica, that’s her name,
Said she couldn’t
Share dip,
She absolutely couldn’t
Share dip
Even with her boyfriend
He said she should see a doctor
She had issues
They talked about Los Vegas
And when he lived in Europe
And when he went to Amsterdam
During Thanksgiving
And then Paris at Easter
I could hear the chicken wings
Smacking On their lips
A crow walks
the yellow line,
head bobbing,
wings folded,
boldly braving traffic,
focused on
the banana peel
glistening,
its heady scent
wafting with the breeze.
Just the thing
for his stash
of rotting rubbish.
Reluctant,
he relinquishes
the pavement
for a car,
only to return
cawing at the air
cheering his own gall.
By Diane E. Dockum
Marble Hill Press 