In the pure bright wake, I went fishing’ for calm and all I caught was tumblin’ time.
The hours were soppin’wet with pond scum and the seconds kept getting’ away as soon as I thought I had them hooked.
The minutes peered up at me from the crepuscular waters and told a lie. “Be patient, those seconds can’t escape forever! You can get them, we just know it!”
They spoke with bubbles in their mouths, then those minutes were gone.
I struggled with my fishin’ pole, the line hopelessly tangled with some phantasmic bugbear, my nightmares come alive! Probably a log, though.
The hours in my bucket (catch of the day!) pulled me from my musing with weepin’ and howlin’, it was all so unlovely. What were they cryin’ about?
“Our beloved minutes! Precious seconds! We are in ruin without them, can’t exist without them,” the poor things whimpered.
I kicked the bucket over and the dark water inside spilled the trapped hours onto the dock and over the edge. Sploosh! Plop!
The hours proclaimed a love that is by far the only great love there is. Flawless. Desperate. Irrevocable. This paramour is unheard of! I heard the whispers on the bubbles.
The person I used to be hides in the shadow,
awaiting an unexpected moment to expose
secrets best left forgotten.
Perhaps a shot or two of Macnaughton™
will quiet the desire of the demon
that screams in the zemin~*
Or at least let me sleep without nightmare,
without that old bugbear;**
sleep like a child beneath an old willow.
*Noun: ground, floor, basis, background
**Noun: an imaginary monster used to frighten children
How I peer at piano's lifeless plate,
And crave, covet to be that plucky piece
Which, silken soft her fingers gets to kiss,
Now dancing sprightly, now at gentle gait,
Whilst my lips starve, and eyes left but to stare,
To wait for once in lifetime blue-moon chance,
A flitting hope to steal a furtive glance
At gutsy keys I can’t but grin and bear.
O plucky keys, my bugbear and black beast,
Pray, seldom can I paint my attitude
Fair, a duel of hound and hare the least—
That, life-less wood so crude should prove so good.
So, let that wood blush O in rosy bliss
To have kissed fingers, if I can the lips.
__________________________________________
Sonnet |15.11.2008| kiss, envy
Poet’s note: This piece draws no mean inspiration from Shakespeare's Sonnet 128. Let imitation at best be still an imitation, but it is my way of paying tribute to the bard. An attempt that falls short of the bard’s subtlety in painting the scene.
Long years back writing just was a job,
To my boss— a bugbear, my pet lob,
It then turned to hobby—
To numb noise my Dolby,
My life’s passion by now consigned FOB
Of an unpaid cabby,
A do-not-so hubby,
A horse in harness, show-off doorknob.
_________________________________
FOB: Free on board as in shipments
Reflections |02.05.2023| humour
Summer, my bugbear,
Swarms of bugs hum there,
Bare in bed twosome to dare,
One said to its mate,
Ah they seem on date,
And all ready to do that,
Why not we play that?
But it pays still to beware,
And please, none of your old spat!
__________________________
Tanka |20.08.2021| humour
A Buggy Tanka Poetry Contest
Sponsored by M. L. Kiser
Oh! That Dear Old Bugbear
That nasty old Hobgoblin of English 16th century
lore replete with its ugly, mischievous behavior.
At once, frightful and always exciting one’s fears,
whilst creating a true sense of dread and macabre.
Even for those who are dismissive of the Bugbear,
knoweth that this Hobgoblin’s existence is spectral.
As one sleeps so deeply in the darkness of the night,
Beware! This is when the Bugbear initiates its fright!
And so, when you hear a creaking of your bedroom
door at night, face your fear now, turn on that light!
And what you may see may be nothing at all . . . yet,
that Bugbear of dread might be lying under your bed!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
November 22, 2020 (Couplet)
I've heard a very nasty tale
I'm told it's likely true
that if you are a naughty child
The Bugbear might eat you!
The Bugbear- what is that? you say
it sounds harmless enough...
But names can be deceiving and
they say this goblin's tough.
He's been around for years and years
this ghastly, gruesome beast
with saw-like claws and wicked teeth
all ready for a feast.
He lies in wait to hear a lie
or see an evil deed-
he loves to catch them in an act
of malice, pride or greed.
He never bothers with the good
the sweet or well-behaved
he loves the taste of naughtiness
I tell you, he's depraved!
They say this awful creep is just
a-lurking 'round the bend
and if you're bad- he'll find you out
and get you in the end...
When I am gone, and from this world have flown,
I would admonish you to not forget
That I have loved and cherished you, my own,
And even after death shall love you yet.
But I’ve no wish to burden you with pain—
Not for one month, one day, one second’s time—
Insisting you remember would be vain,
And causing you such grief, a selfish crime.
While memory can help one to endure,
Distressing recollection can be worse;
Remembering, in some, effects a cure--
In others it’s essentially a curse.
Thus knowing this, my love, I won’t resent
Forgetting me, so long as you’re content.
October 2, 2019
Please note: though the second line includes what appears to be that old grammatical bugbear, a split infinitive, I could argue that the word "not" is not a modifier, but part of a compound verb "to not forget", ie. to remember; also, its position makes it not only a stressed syllable but also much more emphatic.
veiled gravy
on one’s journey
bugbear
08.26.17