Poetry, Diane E. Dockum

MY LOVE

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I would rather stay asleep than wake

Remembering that you have died

The stillness of the house

Is always a rude awakening

Throwing salt into my wounds

I do not want to spend my life picking at scabs

I do not want to spend my life

Forgetting about our love

Or waving goodbye as you recede

Into the aether

Your energy and heat

Are something I ache for

You have changed from flesh and blood

And beauty to something new

I hang pictures of your past faces

on the walls

Memories of your touch

Invade my mind at odd moments

I overflow with tears

Flashing back to your last breath

You were still warm when

I closed your eyes and mouth

And slipped your wedding ring

From your finger onto mine

Did you hear my last goodbye?

Did you hear my last I love you?

Did you feel

my last kisses?

Diane E. Dockum

August 29, 2021

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

 

 

 

 

Dog In The Morning

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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

FOUR SILLY LIMERICKS

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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

 

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

 

 

If You Saw Me

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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

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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 Drivers By

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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

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

Never Hug A Thistle

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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