From room to room
I wander
Noticing the altars
Of my life
Built unknowingly
Pictures placed just so
Incense burning
In gentle prayerfulness
Books arranged
With no seeming order
Only the one
In my mind
I see with opened eyes
Reverence for my
Wake, and the passing
Of my energies
Into those who will follow
After me, and look also
Upon the shrines
I’ve left behind
by Diane E. Dockum
© 5.25.2003
Entering the forest
Without moving the grass
Unfailing power
Dispelling the darkness
Igniting the colors
Revealing the secrets
Nothing is hidden
The soul surrenders
Entering the forest
Without making a sound
White light cleanses
The air and the ground
Let the light in
Open the path
Walk in the sunlight
Like on the first day
©Diane E. Dockum, April 15, 2014
Fog creeping through the cemetery
Crossing the highway
Forming a wall of white mist
As the waterlogged land meets
The cooling twilight
Setting sun fills the sky with fire
And in the shadows of leafless trees
Creeps the fog
Over rolling pasture
Over the long slow hill to the river
Prowls down through fields
On panther paws
Hiding the long stone walls
In the encroaching darkness
Veils the brown undergrowth
Curls down into the waiting laps
Of ancient trees
Who wait patiently on the sloping bank
And begs a bedtime story
Without words
©Diane E. Dockum, April 14, 2014
Here is a poem from my book, Just Beyond The Hill, published in 2008
I don’t think it’s been on this blog yet. For some reason this poem has been going through my head all day as I was sifting my brain for a new poem. No new poem has come yet, so, for now, I will post this one. Hope you enjoy it, and it speaks to that part of you that has gone through, or is now experiencing that long dark night of the soul:
LET NIGHT BE NIGHT
Let night be night.
Do not prevent the bats from flight.
Your mind takes flight while others sleep.
Let darkness heal your soul tonight.
Let night be night.
The pallid moon to guide your sight,
Go out among the blues and blacks
In shadow-armor fight your fight.
Honor that which is your plight.
There is no refuge in the light.
Feel the earth beneath your feet.
Pure intention makes it right.
Let night be night,
And inner voices soft and bright.
Listen close with open heart.
The growth of spirit now takes flight
Address the darkness and the fright.
Face the stars in deepest night.
Feel your truth and live your life.
Give birth to your own inner light.
Let night be night,
In hunger let your soul delight.
There’s yin and yang in day and night,
For from the darkness comes the light.
© Diane E. Dockum, Just Beyond The Hill, 2008
Sights & Sounds of April
On the morning after
The snow had almost gone,
The birds had quiet conversations,
And the sun was bright
On the squashed grass.
The shadows of bare branches
Reached across the sodden lawn, and
Painted the pavement
With rivers of light and dark.
The far away sound of wind chimes
Blessed the air with mellow tones
And the quiet ticking of the clock
Counted seconds as the last deep drift
By the hedge receded into the earth.
Shriveled blood-red berries on the
Mountain Ash tree waited
For the Jays and Crows, and
For the Starlings’ return, poised there in the sun.
Last autumn’s apricot colored maple leaves
Still shivered on the branches,
Stubbornly holding on as they had all winter.
Shockingly tenacious,
They prevailed through the bitter cold.
They kept hold despite the arctic blasts.
They would not give up to the heavy nor’easter snows,
Though they were dry and fragile even then, they
Held fast, waiting for their reinforcements to appear.
© Diane E. Dockum
April 12, 2014
If you could see a movie
Of your secret life
Would you recognize yourself?
Or would it seem a small whisper
From the dark interior of a cave
Or a shout from somewhere deep
Inside a closet
Under a pile of old letters —
An embarrassment best forgotten?
If you could see a map
Of your secret life’s landscape
Would you recognize the hills
And valleys as the heights
And depths that formed the muscles
In your legs?
The secret life left behind
Is soon forgotten
And long remembered
In the dark night
And alone while driving
Along a back road
Where the stones and gravel
Kick up against the fenders
And the smell of forest litter
And dry leaves insinuates
Its aroma into
The fabric of your
Turned up collar
Like a lingering scent of familiar
Perfume on the breeze
Or new varnish on the floors
Of the schoolhouse
After a long summer vacation
by Diane E. Dockum
Birch trees against snow
Tiger hides in the jungle
Sparrows don’t worry
© Diane E. Dockum, 2014
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
My Father’s Hands
My father’s hands told stories,
Always in motion.
He would cup them around his mouth,
Just so, and whistle
Like all seven dwarves in “Snow White”.
After dinner he used his hands
To fly the sugar bowl lid,
Making U.F.O. sounds as his hands
Hovered the imaginary space ship
Through made-up space.
My father’s hands buttoned my dresses
And rubbed a dab of Brylcreem
Into my hair before school,
Furiously massaging my scalp
Until I was dizzy.
As years pass since the day
His hands waved good-bye to me
On the stairway of my apartment building
It’s been hard to see them, remember them
I wish I could feel them again
Patting me on the back in a bear hug
Or brushing my tears away
When my heart was broken.
As years pass since I watched
From the upstairs window as he
Cleared the snow off his windshield
With his bare hands
And drove away
From our last visit
It is harder to remember
The feel of his hands
This makes me weep.
This makes me search
My mind for memories
Of my father’s hands.
© Diane E. Dockum, 2014
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
Marble Hill Press 