stream of consciousness poetry

Time Melted Away

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Photo by Monoar Rahman on Pexels.com
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 Dad spoke to me

And I returned to the seat
Of the pick up truck
Wondering where I had been





By Diane E. Dockum
©April 20, 2023

The Catalogues Have Arrived

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
To paraphrase Phil 
From the movie City Slickers
If Catalogues were people I'd be China!

Something happened
When I reached 
Senior citizen status

Each day, catalogues arrive
In stacks of colorfully emblazoned 
Glossy paper, filling my mail box with temptations

There are the ones for clothing
If you are fat, with arthritis, and can’t fasten buttons 
Or for when you travel, which I never do

There is the hardware store 
Kind, with whatever works for
Whatever kind of household hack you need

There are the salves and potion
Kind, with subscription-worthy pots
Of goop that one absolutely needs

There is a little catalogue
Narrow, with a tea bag sample
That offers countless kinds of tea

Jewelry, make-up, razor blades
Vibrators, oils, candles
Wigs, and toupee catalogues

Where did I sign up for this
Deluge of paper?
Is there somewhere I don't know about

Where it's leaking catalogues
And if so, can I stick a rag
Into that hole?

Yet, some days I pick them up
And look, just in case
I might need something.



By Diane E. Dockum
©April 19, 2023

Some Days

/ marblehillpress / 1 Comment 
Some days
     it's hard to move
     to get out of bed
     to open the curtains

Some days
     the promise of coffee
     or a shower
     is reason enough

Some days
     I don't bother to wear make-up
     or shower
     and put off getting dressed

Some days
     are too much trouble
     are too quiet and lonely
     but the idea of going out is unthinkable

Some days
     I look at old photographs
     to convince myself
     you were really here, with me. 

Some days
     I hope I will see you again
     I hope we recognize each other
     Some day



by Diane E. Dockum
©April 15, 2023

Photo by Diane E. Dockum

Back Into It

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This picture makes me think that I want to get back into Yoga.
Stretching 
And feeling my body
Reach its limits
And holding

Holding a pose
As the candle burns
And the music plays
And the incense burns

I want to get back into it
It's been so long
My body cries out
I am out of balance

I need to get balance
I stand on one foot
I slowly tip to the left
I'm out of alignment

So I put my hands on the floor
There once was a time 
I was supple and bendy
The warmth in my muscles

The visions in my mind
Stretching is good
For people my age
So they say

Gets the blood moving
Gets the brain going
And I want to get back
Into my groove


By Diane E. Dockum
©April 8, 2023

Unmoored

/ marblehillpress / 1 Comment 
I am alive
So they say
Yet it is up for debate 

It is true 
That I feel like 
A hollow log

Floating unmoored 
Down a river 
Spinning 

Turning 
Bumping against waves
And other debris 

Flotsam and jetsam
In the gin weeds
and pucker brush

Perhaps one day
I will drift ashore 
On the other side 


copyright by Diane E. Dockum
March 15, 2023

Butterfly Shadows

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The horse that stands in the field

Resembles the toad stool in my dream

And smells of hay and Listerine

But I am not repulsed by the

Odor of cleanliness.

 

I see within the horse to his

Heart and Soul and he is

Blessed with kindliness and

I am not—I have to work at it.

 

He chews the grass that I lie upon

And I look up into his nostrils

And yawn in the sunlight.

He ignores me, and grazes on.

 

The startled Blue-Jay leaps into

The air and flies in circles ever wider

Until it reaches the tree limb

Where he hides behind branches

Of green leaves and whispers

His fears to his mate.

 

They take their time telling

Horror stories of close calls

With Humans and I

Peacefully watch them from

My bed in the grass.

 

Butterflies do not inhale

The smoke of factories nor do

They practice falsehood.

It is remarkable to me to think

That all they do is fly from

Thing to thing and wait to die.

 

But butterfly shadows are not intrusive.

My shadow is equal to my light

And I have made friends with it

Despite my misgivings.

I am better off now.

 

©2008 by Diane E. Dockum

Just Beyond The Hill