It’s not the road I usually go down.

But for some reason,

That day I turned down

A different road.

 

The day was pleasant

And my mind was wandering,

So I followed.

The car just seemed to drive its self.

 

Eventually I thought about

Getting to where I was going

But now I was lost

And the sun was going down

 

The different road

Was longer than I thought

And I was coming to crossroads

Where I didn’t know which way to turn

 

Driving around not knowing

Where you are,

But knowing where you are not,

Makes an interesting afternoon.

 

You just need a good sense of

Direction and extra time

And lots of gasoline

In the car.

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

© April 22, 2016

 

 

 

I am writing to say

I have nothing to say

It’s hard to be clever

At the end of the day

 

My head has a pain

That is driving me mad

The aches and the pains

Are making me sad

 

This is sappy and lame

This poem just plain stinks

There’s a blur in my eye

And I have cramps in my feet

 

The day was a long one

And another tomorrow

I need a vacation

Some time I can borrow

 

So I’m writing to say

I am burned to a crisp

Pooped out and brain fried

Tapped out and I quit

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

© April 21, 2016

 

In sacred places,

Places of power,

Temples were built

On mountains, where once there had been

A communion with God

Once, a song was heard that was glorious and haunting

Once, a voice had called out from a high place

Once, the people came and glimpsed God

In the beautiful things, and in nature

There, the people joined together

With the spirit and

Built the beautiful houses for the One

Who needs no home

 

`~`~`~`~`

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 20, 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To sit under pines

Breathing in cool river mist —

Lets all the pain go

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 19, 2016

 

Our morning was

Ruined because that other

Cat was in Our spot

She should not

 

Have tried that

We gave her a swat

But she batted back

She never does that

 

We’ll show her

We will eat her food

That will change her mood

And sit in the sunspot first

 

And when she tries to

Get in there, We will hog it all

We will stretch out tall

Flop over on Our back

 

And feel the warm sun

On Our belly and paws

It is Our window

Because We are The Cat

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 18, 2016

 

 

In the quiet of the morning

My cat kneads my thighs

Preparing to nest there for a while

I listen to the quiet

And empty my mind

Cars pass my window

The washing machine enters

The spin cycle

Cycles — a beginning a middle an end,

Then a beginning again

Never ending cycles

What part of my cycle am I in?

Nearer the end now than the beginning

But now nearer the beginning than the end

Birds sing with ideas of their own

Out in the new spring day

The cat now warming my lap

Listens too

The clock ticks the minutes away

In this quiet house where my love

Still breathes in and out in sleep

My mind is not quiet just now

As I admire the ink sliding out of this pen

  One word at a time

~

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 17, 2016

 

 

A train is coming.

Still far off, the whistle blows.

An idea is close,

Barely audible,

But surely, it is coming.

 

It will cross just

Over that hill.

Cross between the night

And day

 

While the half moon

Is directly overhead

And smiling as it gazes down

On the shining pond

 

Under the bridge.

A train of thought is coming,

Surely coming and soon.

Can’t you hear it echo

 

Through the valleys

Of your mind?

I hear that far off sound

Calling from a mile away,

 

And the power of its engine

Surely takes my breath away.

It pulls all my attention

And I stop to listen

 

And estimate the distance

And the time

Before it’s here

I close my eyes and wonder

 

Where it came from,

Where it goes

I wait until it reaches me

And I wait until it goes.

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 16, 2016

 

 

 

 

I gagged on the coffee

Then put in two shots of cream

And tried again

 

It was definitely burned

And tasted bitter

It set my face in a grimace

 

Sometimes life

Is like that

No matter how you try to dilute

 

The nasty taste at the back

Of your tongue

Alas, it is futile

 

It is what it is

And that means you can

Either take it or leave it

 

If you choke it down regardless

Of the displeasure

You just might earn your reward

 

Or you could send it back

Where it came from

And order tea

 

It may be simply the realization

That you should never order coffee

In a Chinese restaurant

 

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 15, 2016

 

Something heavy in the air

The smoke from chimneys

Hangs low

 

Like fog over the road —

Like prayers trapped by

Unbelief –

 

They fail to lift higher

Than the rooftops

From which they were shouted

 

My eyes burn, my tears run

Something heavy in my heart

My ears catch a sound

 

Whispers distant and pleading

Repeat a prayer

Without ceasing

 

A collective sigh

Ripples in ever widening circles

Washing up against our shore

 

 

 

Diane E. Dockum

©2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

After my sister ate my dad’s cigarettes

And after she blew into the ashtray

Choking on the dust and coating her eyes

My dad decided he would quit smoking

 

My dad may have been firmly persuaded

To quit smoking

I remember being his helper,

And lighting his cigarettes

 

Once with a match

Once with his aluminum Zippo

That he got in the Army

I felt so grown up.

 

The story was that he quit

Cold Turkey, one day

He just didn’t smoke anymore

And the ashtrays in the living room were removed

 

He was the one who burned the trash

Out back of the shed

In a big barrel that stood

Where the barn that fell down used to be

 

He was out there in the dark one night

So I followed him

Sneaking out in my corduroy slippers

Quietly stepping down the rickety shed stairs

 

Out on the big gray stone that was our

Step to the back door

It was pitch black

And damp after the rain

 

The back yard was up against the woods

I could hear the night song of the Whippoorwill

The rhythm of crickets

But I didn’t see any fire in the barrel

 

Just a little orange light

Back behind where the Lilacs were

It moved slowly up

Then down, up, and down

 

 

 

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 13, 2016