I remember striving to reach my aunt’s house,

Because she needed help.

I reached the road where she lived,

Walking up the hill toward the house.

 

There was a field filled with deer.

I wondered why there were so many,

And how had they escaped from the

Fenced area where they belonged.

 

The deer became people milling

Silently around in the road.

I looked into their familiar faces, one by one,

Recognizing them as cousins, and other relatives.

 

They were dressed in clean and crisp shirts and slacks.

Their clothing looked newly laundered.

They looked over the distance down the hill

Toward the mountains and over the railroad tracks,

 

They kept looking without speaking

Looking as if expecting something

Or someone to come into view,

Looking hopefully, waiting.

 

It wasn’t until I woke up

That I realized that the people in the crowd

Had already died, and I was

Wearing a clean crisp shirt and slacks.

 

 

 

©Diane E. Dockum, April 26, 2014

 

 

Snowbank

Dirty, icy

Melting, shrinking, crumbling

Last remnant of a cruel winter

Water

 

 

© Diane E. Dockum, April 25, 2014

The jealous rain

Dripped across

The moon

Running the paint

On the old

Barn door.

Yellow dust

From goldenrod

Kissed the peeling wood

Ruffled by

Wind.

Hinges curse

Offended by

The push of a stranger

On a night like this.

The porch light

Comes on

To the insects

Who crawl across

The only warm thing for miles.

© Diane E. Dockum, 2008, Just Beyond The Hill

I do not take a walk today

I do not run a mile

I sit and ponder unsung songs

And twiddle thumbs a while

And as my mind will wander thus

My eyes unopened stay

I listen to the unbreathed air

And while away the day

The undone things I do not do

Will there remain no doubt

I do not do them just because

My thoughts must run about

Once I did so many things

I lost my point of view

And now I watch my inner brain

And whistle as I stew

Some folks may think me dull and blind

Some folks may scream and glare

But I ignore them yes I do

Because I do not care

I let untaken walks pile up

My list of tasks grows long

But when I drain my undrunk cup

I’m filled with unsung songs

© Diane E. Dockum

April 22, 2014

There once was a rabbit named Pete

Who wore a brown wrapper so neat.

I bit off his head

Until he was dead,

He was the best chocolaty treat.

 

© Diane E. Dockum

April 21, 2014

The Tintype

 

She has no smile,

And possibly, she thinks

Her corset is laced too tightly

 

Her hair is

Twisted in dull bunches

Above the ears

 

The starched high

Collar cuts under

Her chin

 

Her lips are rigid

Holding, holding

Until the flash powder

 

Blinds her, she blinks

But we do not see

She smiles

 

Too late for her great, great

Grandchildren

Who stare

 

At her image

Searching

For their own faces.

 

 

 

© Diane E. Dockum, Just Beyond The Hill, 2008

 

What are those birds

That say, “Birdie, Birdie, Birdie”?

 

Wouldn’t it be nice

If my bird book had sounds?

 

Like instead of

“Scratch-And-Sniff”

It would be

“Touch-And-Hear”.

 

Oh yeah…

That would be

The internet.

 

 

© Diane E. Dockum

April 18, 2014

 

 

I am driving home from work

Yawning most of the way

The separation between work and home

Closes at 45 to 50 miles per hour

 

I pass by car dealerships

And a few houses that need repair

Several hundred feet of wetland

And cross a railroad track

 

The car bumps over the rails

I look down and around the curve

A deer is standing in the tracks

I worry the train might come

 

Now the road inclines

Past an old drive-in movie theater

That is now a used car place

And a dog grooming place

 

Then there is a car repair place

And lots of woods

And a dirt road

And a Frito-Lay storehouse

 

I pass by cornfields

I pass by a field full of wild turkeys

And many more deer

To the bend in the river

 

The road becomes a hill

A curving incline

I look down through the trees

And see the river getting rid of its ice

 

I enter my village

Decending the hill

And I see there is still a Christmas Tree

In the living room window of a house

 

This is odd, I say to no one.

Some giant dogs play in a driveway

And I signal to turn onto my street

And in seconds I am home.

 

© Diane E. Dockum, April 17, 2014