Carrying a Bag

Carrying a bag of

batteries and face cream

and light bulbs and

toilet paper

 

I stop to watch the river

move around the flat rocks

and feel

like I am moving too

 

The light changes and

the smell of hot dry leaves

fills the air

 

The bag grows inconvenient

as I want to spend

the afternoon walking

in the woods and listening

to the changes in the season

 

A twig snaps

under the weight of a crow

who, startled, leaps above the tree.

What Freedom!

 

 

by Diane E. Dockum

 

Sometimes people think your poems are about your life, well…sometimes they are, but sometimes they’re not anything like your life at all. They’re just a story you thought up in your head. Sometimes we edit ourselves just in case someone might read the poem, and MIGHT think badly of us, or think we really shouldn’t have aired our dirty laundry in public.

I say our power is in the writing, and we should return to it no matter what people think.

The power of writing is that it cleans you out. Even if what you are writing is completely NOT what you are living. The beauty is that no one really knows for sure if the poem is something you lived through, or not. That’s the wonder.

So, write your poem, and let it go.

~~Diane

The Page

 

When I was cut I bled in rage

It poured in ink across the page

I screamed in pain until the

Blood did stop and all was still

 

I felt it leave me like a bird

That suddenly leaps into the air

I felt it drain away as though

My cut had bled me dry

 

I put the page into a book

And closed it up and left it there

And went my merry way

 

But someone found my page of pain

And put it in my face again

This time it only stung me

But, in the mirror of my rage

 

He’d found the pain that I’d bled out

As though that ink had been alive

It brought it back and made it thrive

It tore a hole in what was good

 

It made us hurt more than it should

And so I cauterized the sore

And it will threaten us no more

 

By Diane E. Dockum

Looking For A Poem

 

 

Out walking, looking for a poem

I remembered chores

I should have done

But the day was almost spent

 

The poem hung inside my mind

Like morning fog

Remnants of dreams

Dissolving as the light changed

 

Out walking, standing in places

I had not stood

I waited for the poem to form

Ignoring time – ignoring “shoulds”

 

Deeper into the autumn woods

Inhaling sunlight, fading fast

I came upon deserted toys

A tree house built by little hands

 

With carpet remnants

Nailed fast

Into the wood

A broken chair that in my kitchen

 

Once had stood

And that baby blanket

I wondered where

It had gone

 

Long deserted, faded now it hung

Where once a

Door had been

My poem was there instead.

Welcome to MarbleHillPress!

I hope to share my poetry and short prose, and maybe a few opinions about creative writing. Who knows what will develop here. This is my first attempt at a blog, and I hope I get all the bugs worked out soon.

It’s the 3rd of July, 2011, and Norwood is poised to celebrate. In honor of this I will share my poem called:

 

Fourth Of July

10 am Parade
Passes through the middle of town
Waving flags

Later, that same afternoon,
Lawnmower races in the park,
Hunched men in dirty T-shirts lean into the battle

Fries sizzle in vintage anniversary grease

Hot sun on dirt near the beer tent
Smelling of cotton candy,
Deep-fried bread dough, and armpits

Tired underdressed women
Push sleeping babies in strollers,
Bumping over the grass

Grandma fans her face with a paper plate
In the Bingo tent

A softball “tinks” against an aluminum bat
Generating chatter and shrieks

Twilight cars cruise the road
Searching for wayward teens
Who have not called home for hours

Dimming of the day –
Thinning of the crowd

Cars line the back roads for miles –
Even the dry bridge is full of people

Fireworks display
Including screaming babies, who don’t understand the celebration,
only boom- boom- boom of thunder

Hard core drinkers linger in the semi-dark
With raised voices insinuating accusations of adultery

Spinning red lights appear
As more people decide to call it a night.

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum