writing

THE VOICES

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Have the voices in your head gone silent?

When you were younger, they rarely ceased,

At times, drowning out your own voice.

You thought it was God.

Now, you know better, or at least you think you do.

Who knows? Maybe it WAS God.

She told you stories, sometimes.

Gave you guidance when you were lost

Entertained your lonely hours.

When you stopped listening

She hammered at the doorway of your soul

Until you let her back in.

May have been your Muse. I wonder.

There was more than one.

And in the quiet of the afternoon

When shadows started the slant across the yard,

The voices came awake.

Or, in the early part of sleep,

At the edge of unconsciousness,

The babble formed into words

You were too tired to rise and write.

Now, regretfully, you THINK you should have —

KNOW you should have given them credence.

No, they have not gone. As you grow old

The voices drift through at higher speeds

Making it harder to keep up.

And sleep comes to dull the inner senses.

So, while you are aware, take the time.

Do not ignore the fleeting moments of clarity.

Embrace Her, before she is but a specter,

A phantom caught at the corner of your eye,

Waving silently as she fades.

© 2009, by Diane E. Dockum

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

 

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

Rooster & Bear Go Fishing ~ Chapter 3

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Rooster & Bear Go Fishing

Chapter Three

By Diane Dockum

 Rooster and Bear sat on the bank of the stream with their fishing poles. Bear wished he were alone. Rooster was in his glory. The sun was bright and sparkled on the water. The air was fresh and clean.

Rooster threw back his head and let out a most awesome crow. He couldn’t help it. He was, after all, a rooster.

“SH-sh-sh” Bear said, clamping Rooster’s open beak shut with his big paw. “You’ll scare the fish away!” he reeled in his line with a jerk left and a jerk right, mumbling to himself.

Rooster stared and blinked his bright yellow eyes. He cast out his line again and wiggled his bottom down into a comfortable spot on the grass.

A beautiful rainbow colored trout leaped above the water and grabbed hold of Rooster’s line, yanking it away. It was a very big fish. Bear saw it and dropped his pole. He jumped up and started yelling instructions to Rooster.

“Hold on, hold on … now give him some slack, you got it, you got it! Start reeling him in! Pull this way – pull that way…”

“Quiet,” said Rooster, “you’ll scare him.” And he snapped his beak shut.

The big sparkling fish decided to swim up stream and Rooster, being a bird of meager* build, left the bank in a flutter of feathers and was yanked into the water, with a squawk. *(Here “meager” means slender, slight or mostly made of feathers, and not at all very strong.)

Bear’s mouth dropped open and his paws covered his face. (He was laughing, but didn’t want Rooster to see him.)

“Help!” cried Rooster as he was dragged over the rocks and up the stream.

Bear lumbered out into the water and cast his line as hard as he could. The hook attached itself to Rooster’s fishing vest and for a moment he was suspended above the water in a sort of tug-of-war moment.

Then the fish let go and Rooster flew backward toward Bear, who was standing on a large wet rock in the middle of the stream. Bear saw him coming, but didn’t think fast enough. Bear forgot to duck.

With his feet kicking wildly Rooster hit Bear in the middle of his chest and knocked him into the water.

Bear locked his right arm across Rooster’s throat, partly to save his life, and partly to shut him up, and swam heroically to shore.

“Sorry Bear,” Rooster crowed softly.

-end-

Morning To Evening

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Morning To Evening

(3 Haiku)

 

Crystal clear sunlight

Incandescing everything

Snow on iced branches

 

Ice and snow flatten

The Birch and the Mountain Ash

So cold, deer huddle

 

The setting sun lights

The ice on the tree branches

They burst into flame

 

 

by Diane E. Dockum

1.15.2012

On Writing

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On Writing

I’ m having trouble thinking of things to write about. I wonder why it is so hard sometimes to get words worth reading on the page. I wonder why there are spaces of time when it is easy and it flows, and it is followed by weeks and then years when we can’t think of anything.

I’ve spent a lot of money on books about writing, and I have read them. In the middle of reading these books about writing and writer’s block I start to wonder if I am reading too much and if that is preventing me from writing.

So today I am trying writing about writing.

They say that everything you need to know about writing is found through writing. That is what life is like. You live, you learn. You write, you write. That is so Zen.

So many authors, these days, are trying to live in the moment, experiencing life as it happens. I hear them say that they don’t worry about tomorrow, that tomorrow will come and the problems that come with tomorrow will be dealt with as they happen. I have also heard that Jesus and Buddha have both said that.

When I write a poem or a story, it begins to take on a life of its own. It begins to unfold in its own way. As in life, I have to give up control, and let it go.

I am trying to do that. It is harder than it seems. Day to day worries and insecurities creep into my mind. It is 2012. They say the world will end this year on the twenty-first day of December. I really don’t believe that, BUT….things have been a little weird lately.

Who knows? Maybe the Myans just ran out of rock to chisel their calendar on. Or, maybe they just knew something we don’t know. I guess we’ll find out this year. I just don’t want to go and spend a whole lot of money on Christmas presents, and then not be able to give them away.

I’ve been talking to a writing friend, ironically by writing to her, and she writing back to me. She has always given me a little spark, just enough to push me forward. I love her for that. I know she knows who she is.

I also think that I am beginning to sound like the Late Andy Rooney.  Whatever. I always liked Andy. I just hope my eyebrows never get like his did.

Well, this is my blog about writing, and writer’s block. I can’t think of anything else to say about this subject right now, so I guess this is a good enough place to stop.