[Jayne Osborn]

John’s already up and Running with this one on another thread…
I haven’t run for a bus for several decades, making me one of those who’s ''glad they don’t need to’’.

Jayne

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Oldie Competition
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxby Tessa Castro

Competition no 183

Some people have always disapproved of it, others still optimistically try; some cannot manage it any more, and others are glad they don’t need to. The subject is Running for the Bus, and you are invited to write a poem by that title, maximum 16 lines.
Entries, by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), fax (020 7436 8804) or email ( comps@theoldie.co.uk ) to ‘Competition no 183’ by 14th November.
Don’t forget to include your postal address.

[John Whitworth]

Ah, thank you, Jayne. I'm sorry I jumped the gun a bit. I've had time for another solution, which I give the world now. And it will be noted I don't have capital letters at the beginnings of the lines.


Running for a Bus

The fuss and the hiss
of the bus in the mist,
the kiss of your breaths
on the frost of the glass,
the chill on your fingers and faces,
the plight of the feller
with scarf and umbrella,
unfortunate chap
falling slap on his face,
with a yell and a cuss
going arse over tip,
as he slips on the ice as he chases
the bus in the mist and ...

he misses it.

[Siham Karami]

I love it, John. Like Jayne, I'm one of those who's glad they don't have to. But still remember when I used to. This is untested territory for me, so I'll present my attempt and see what happens, with much trepidation... It's probably too long but I missed the part about length limits. Please let me know.


Running for the Bus

My ancient car is bickering with its wheels,
Fuming from the mufflers. All appeals
Meet the same unmitigated burn —
Despite the clock's example, they won't turn.

Spare us, tires, this useless argument.
Not time to pound my shoes on the cement.
Or is it? My buried history revives...
Catch the bus! Fresh hope my job survives...

No clue how long it takes this patient bus
to get there, stopping all the time, unless
I run! My only hope! I change my shoes
And take off. God knows how much I could lose:

Heartbeats thunder, hooves soon feel the pain,
It seems forever, legs outdoing strain,
Oh rigor mortis could set in, keep going
Going gone, muscle-cramping, flowing,

It's there! The great green hope! A dash away,
I pull out all the stops and start to bray
To deaf ears. With a faceful of exhaust,
This donkey watches paradise— get lost.



It sort of turned out this way. Don't blame me. I let the poem do this to me.

[John Whitworth]

Knock off a stanza, and you'll be fine.

[Douglas G. Brown]

When I was just a kid, ’twas great
To ride in father’s Buick Eight;
And though it was a bit uncool,
I always rode the bus to school.
On days I dawdled having fun;
To catch that bus, I had to run.

All that was many years ago;
Today, by Ford’s the way I go.
But soon, I will become unwell;
My eyesight will be shot to hell.
I’ll suffer too much from the shakes
To steer my car or work its brakes.

So when I am that older man
I’ll run to catch a bus again;
And ultimately, things get worse
The day I’m loaded in a hearse.

[Ann Drysdale]

(Voice of a pensioner, telling the truth.)

Running for the Bus

Bus-pass in hand, O Lord, I humbly wait
for one to come which may be gone or late.
I wait in faith, because I am unable
to understand the vandalised timetable.

Hunched in the doorway of the betting shop,
I wait for bus to come or rain to stop.
Between two possibilities I stand,
ready to dash for either on command.

I watch the top of Church Street where one’s due
but on the High Street one’s expected, too.
My eyes flick, tennis-wise, torn between these
points of my notional isosceles.

Lord, when the moment comes that I must choose,
add Thy bright wings to orthopaedic shoes,
shrinking the distances that stretch between
Thy servant and E3 – or X15.

[John Whitworth]

How nice to have attracted you here, Ann, and with such a fine poem too. You are indeed a sprightly pensioner if you can manage even a fast hobble without tripping over the massed walking sticks (one of them mine), and zimmer frames. The answer is to bring a book, but that assumes the bus stop has a seat. What a life!

Psst! Warms or scents?

[Brian Allgar]

Running for the Bus

I’ve waited for the bus for half-an-hour.
No sign of one; perhaps they’re all on strike?
It’s icy cold, I shiver, cringe and cower,
Regretting that I didn’t take my bike.
If I stay here, they’ll find me frozen, dead
Of buslessness in this benighted spot.
Well, there’s another bus-stop up ahead;
I’ll walk there briskly – better still, I’ll trot.

But when I’m only half-way there, I glance
Around, and see a horrifying sight:
A monstrous red flotilla seems to prance
And gibber as it trundles through the night.
Three empty buses pass me by – yes, three!
I give a V-sign. They give one to me.

[Peter Goulding]

Some seriously good poems on this thread, not to mention John's on the Metric forum.

The Council’s axed the bus route and that’s really got our goat
but we will not submit without a fuss.
We’ve come up with a sponsored run to keep the scheme afloat –
there’s thousands of us running for the bus.

We’re walking and we’re jogging and we’re getting into trim.
Our aching muscles make us groan and cuss.
There’s been a sudden upsurge of enquiries to the gym,
now everybody’s running for the bus.

Each local politician has been branded as inept –
at best a fool, at worst a total wuss.
Election time is nearly here, they’ll all be gone except
the local guy that’s running for the bus.

But now we’re getting into shape, it’s really rather weird
the cause is somehow not so seri-ous.
We’re all much fitter now and so the problem’s disappeared –
we’d rather run than take the goddam bus.

[Ann Drysdale]

Nice one, Peter. Try substituting "total" for "complete" in stanza 3 and see if it sounds better.