The past tense of dig is dug, surely jig and jug follow the same rule. The basis of the English language is far more complex.
The verse below is extreme frippery. Reflections of musings of three letter words ending in ‘ig’ that have a corresponding ‘ug’ ending word.
Big bug in the fug did not dig the fig He dug the Mig on A rig.
Pig the pug plays tig On a rug and does Jig in a jug on A tug
The first draft was constrained by four single syllable words per line, the first letter of the three letter words, alphabetically, dictated the order of the lines, and ug after ig.
A big bug did Dig and dug not A fig in the fug Nor jig in a jug
Mig on a mug Pig the pug goes To rig a rug For tig and tug
There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense; Next to land, ringed by a solid fence. Embedded in the trunk very deep, Black metal cashbox, safely to keep.
Behind a bench, a slight figure forms, Drawn face, cold grey eyes begin to warm. ‘The grip, scrumpox, burns, warts, sores, or chills? I’ve tonics, lotions, pills for all ills!’
‘Cure’s on hand for aches, pains, blisters, gout. Best int’all land,’ voice raises to shout. ‘Tinctures, potions, ointments, aplenty. Discount to you when buying twenty.’
On emaciated frame hangs down, A tattered and faded teal plaid gown. ‘Hark my words, come on over’, she sings. Meanwhile, an unseen bell faintly rings.
A visual echo of eons ago Of wise woman’s travelling, healing show. Demise foretold at birth by a seer, Jealous fakes will spake lies about here.
She’ll die unwed, two score years and ten. Deed to be done by ignorant men, Committed to burn without a trial. People to watch come many a mile.
The solemn gloom filled day came to pass. Remains interred below the scorched grass. Mage’s cashbox lay in restless sleep. ‘Til life from death, a tree grew to keep.
Townsfolk give the woman, widest berth. ‘No place for phantoms on this green earth!’ Together, moon, sun shine; Winter sky. Apparition fades at death knell’s lie.
There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense; Next to land, ringed by a solid fence. Embedded in the trunk very deep, Black metal cashbox, mem’ries to keep.
The above is the second and final draft of last week’s post Black metal cashbox poem.
There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense; Next to land ringed by a solid fence. Embedded in the trunk very deep, Black metal cashbox, safely to keep.
Behind a bench, a slight figure forms, Drawn face, cold grey eyes begin to warm. ‘The grip, scrumpox, burns, warts, sores, or chills? I’ve tonics, lotions, pills for all ills!’
‘Cure’s on hand for aches, pains, blisters, gout. Best int’all land,’ voice raises to shout. ‘Tinctures, potions, ointments, aplenty. Discount to you when buying twenty.’
On emaciated frame hangs down, A tattered and faded teal plaid gown. ‘Hark my words, come on over’, she sings. Meanwhile, an unseen bell faintly rings.
Townsfolk give the woman, widest berth. ‘No place for phantoms on this green earth’. Together, Moon, Sun shine; Winter sky. Apparition fades at death knell’s sound.
There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense; Next to land ringed by a solid fence. Embedded in the trunk very deep, Black metal cashbox, safely to keep.
Spanning decades, fear’s icy ectoplasm shocks my heart. Destination scene’s known as lucid dream materialises, only the route varies.
Deep within a dwelling, an unobtrusive timber shuttered room. A postern door opens to an unremarkable tree crammed yard. Overgrown spiky, entangled stems, ramble. Daylight barely penetrates the gloom. A sodden carpet of mildewed leaves, twigs and decay smother the ground.
Heady damp earth scent permeates my being as unseen hands claw, scrape, shovel, revealing a petrified hatch.
Dark downward sloping subterranean passage snakes forks, twists. Roughly hewn stone echoes footsteps, breath, rustle of clothing. Stepfather’s flaccid luminescent presence lumbers alongside.
Ever further trudging through the sordid depths. Always aware of being followed, no sight nor sound. At last, cavernous space reveals an ovoid mound. Knowing it’s secret, I turn to leave the cadaver, never will she make thirteen.
If I am not guilty of wrongdoing, why the anxiety of being found out?
Reflecting while writing; perhaps this is the resting place of my innocence and suppressed femininity.
Bored dismissive scrolling. Seditious libel pollutes. Venomous assumptions flash. Searing discontent morphs into Dank depression to distort reality.
Ego aimlessly destructing self In malicious derision. Rank regret rots, Withering to hopelessness. Despair pervades, to numbness.
Listless countenance portrays Unreadable amassed barriers. A carcass weighed down with Stubborn contrition, shame, guilt, Misguided pride; inner derision. Short lived thoughts of rebellion Come to naught.
Imagine the sweetest smelling honey. The fragrance tantalises. A memory of blossom from childhood; abuzz with innumerable bees.
Now imagine a multitude of waxy cream loops, erupting around spikes. Together, forming a cascade of frothy spears, swaying in the Summer breeze. A scent of heavenly honey with an indeterminable flower aroma engulfs.
Wishing my readers a safe, healthy, and prosperous 2021.
theINFP 