Roses of red, pink, white
Twelve at first,
Then eight
Then five
A family, siblings
That go at different times
And petals drop
Or curl and dry
Leaves, no longer green
Crisp and fall away
Now, the last few remain
Stems blacken toward the top
A touch of age hanging on to beauty
Sending out their scent
In heavy vapors reaching
Red deepens to blood
And pink, the shade of sleep
White opens her petals wide
And drops them like abandoned dreams
©April 16, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
Upon my shelves the books in rows do stand,
A library of dreams, both vast and grand.
Each tome a world, a tale, a voice to speak,
Yet time, the thief, makes every moment weak.
With every dawn, the hours swiftly slip,
As pages turn to dust within my grip.
The stories wait in silence, still unread,
While life demands its path by duty led.
Oh, how I yearn to wander through each tale,
To sail on seas where wondrous words prevail.
But tasks of day, like anchors, hold me tight,
And keep me from my books from morn till night.
So here I stand, amidst the works that gleam,
And dream of time to read without a seam.
©April 15, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
April 15, 2025
Ok, so yesterday I could not come up with a poem, despite the fact that I was at writers’ group which usually inspires me for the next few days.
I ended up pushing my deadline to a few minutes after midnight and posting an old Haiku written in 2014. I am hoping I can make up for it by extending poetry month into May 1 to add an extra day.
I will try again today to fulfill my personal wish of a new poem each day.
Under the pavement
Water roars to the river
I watch through the grate
Diane E. Dockum
©2014
Pulling a thread through time
Unraveling generations
I grew curious about
My ancestors and wanting
To know more
The evening passed quickly
Name after name
And tempted by the many
Branches in my tree
I concentrated to stay
True to my mission
Six generations later
Neck cramping
Eyes blurred
I closed my laptop
And my eyes
But the names still
Call to me
Through time
©April 13, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
I close my eyes and search my mind for words
That say how I feel, but reach beyond my
Narrow path. The night grows short as time slips
Into day, my eyes ache for sleep and dreams.
I put this off as long as I can, but
this does not help me find elusive words.
I go from here to there and back again
With my bucket scooping and sifting thoughts
From the accumulated sediment
Within my muddled head that make no sense,
And after all is said and done, no doubt,
You will be left still wanting to know why.
©April 12, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
Is this the year?
Is it time?
I've been putting it off
But maybe this year --
Still not sure
I can do it.
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
But I cannot picture
The finality
Of the underground.
But still it is my duty
As the grieving wife
To see to it
No matter how much
It disturbs me.
Just that I cannot
Say good-bye, ever
Not ever.
Our parting was too quick,
Is this why I delay?
©April 11, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
Where sun is scarce,
The snow retreats
To hide in darkness
And shadows deep.
The trees are still,
Like soldiers stand
And wait for sun
To heal the land.
But gray’s the sky
With threatening winds,
And soon the snow
Will fall again.
©April 10, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
In the hush of the dawning day,
When winter’s grasp begins to sway,
A whisper stirs within the breeze,
Promising life among the trees.
Soft the sunlight, tender gold,
Warming earth that’s still and cold,
Awakens buds from slumber deep,
From frozen ground, green tendrils creep.
The crocus peeks with vibrant hue,
Petals kissed by morning dew,
Daffodils in clusters bright,
Chase away the lingering night.
Birdsong fills the crisp, cool air,
Notes of joy beyond compare,
Nests are woven, twigs entwine,
In the dance of spring’s design.
The brook, it sings a fresher tune,
Reflecting skies of pale blue noon,
Ice that choked its babbling voice,
Melts away, and streams rejoice.
Early spring, with gentle grace,
Transforms the world, renews its face,
Subtle shades and fragrant air,
A tender prelude everywhere.
Each nuance of this season’s start,
Whispers softly to the heart,
With promises of life reborn,
In the quiet of the morn.
©April 9, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
I managed to clear the table today and put a table cloth on for looks
But, now I still have a few things left to find homes for on the coffee table.
Here is a list:
Two fake wasp nests that I need to scare hornets and wasps away from my house.
A stapler
A purple ball for squeezing that my husband brought home when he cleared out his desk at work
Four scented Yankee Candles
A cranberry colored vase
A mug that I had cocoa in earlier today
A spoon
A wooden clothes pin
A file holder from my desk
A Kindle device (my first one)
A roll-on perfume bottle that I just got, and it smells very nice by the way
A stack of Archaeology magazines
A stack of Smithsonian magazines
A newspaper that I am going to do the crossword in
A loose leaf notebook filled with lined paper in which random thoughts are written
A laptop carrier
A Longaberger® tissue box
So, you see, I still have much to do. Maybe tomorrow
I have to write my poem for today
Oh, yes, and two wind chimes that are brand new and still in their boxes
©April 8, 2025
Diane E. Dockum
Marble Hill Press 