A game of hide and seek breaks out
In the living room I duck behind the couch
Like a ninja on vacation
My dog trots by
Sniffing
Chuffing
Absolutely unconvinced
Until I pop out with a peekaboo
She jumps
Like she just met a ghost wearing my face
She sprints around the house
In victory laps of pure joy
Tail wagging so hard
It could power a small village
I pretend I meant to hide better
But she’s already celebrating her win
Like she solved the world’s greatest mystery
Round two begins
I “stealthily” slide behind a door
My dog staring straight at me
Because I’m terrible at this
Yet she still plays along
Bless her goofy heart
When I leap out again
She wiggles with delight
As if hide and seek was the greatest game on earth
Some never find wrongdoing
in one of their own
no matter the proof shown
or how many whistles are blown
they circle the wagons close ranks
deny any and all culpability
then compound the issue
by defending duplicity with verbal hostility
but Detective Inspector Quasimodo
could solve a crime before lunch
he'd secure the scene collect clues examine the evidence
and would bust the culprit just on a hunch
seasoned hacksaw
looking for clues
building a story
victims only hope
fearful of outcome
When Holmes ejaculated,
'It doesn't take a brilliant detective
to identify many of the people
on this planet are damaged or defective,'
Dr. Watson was heard to observe,
'Never a truer word spoken.
Most we meet, at 221B Baker street,
are utterly, if not completely, broken.
Psychologists reason, 'Conditioning's the cause
for them to follow such absurd routines,'
but it's my considered and confirmed belief,
insanity really and truly runs in the genes.'
'pon reflection, in the blink of an eye,
quoth Sherlock in reply,
'All the King's horses and all the King's men,
couldn't put Humpty together again,
and the same goes for those we know.
But if I'm wrong on that, I'll eat your bowler hat,
or my deerstalker chapeau.'
On the tv show Perry Mason
The guilty admit their wrongdoing right away
By the end of the show at least
They apologize and show remorse
This show was popular in the fifties
A time when people expected others to do the right thing
On today’s detective or murder shows
The accused person who is caught by DNA denies it
Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies
Shows no remorse
Does not apologize
Takes no responsibility
I liked the guilty on Perry Mason much better.
busybodies might help catch criminals
if they write down every type of car and license plate
parked on their block and the blocks around their blocks
it would be helpful too if they jotted down the drivers descriptions
they could then be elevated from arm chair detectives….
to real detectives.
I would be the first in line
if I had any neighbors
which I do not.
None close anyway
in the 1940 detective movies
leading men were called gumshoes
women were referred to as molls, dames, chicks or dolls.
it was acceptable for the men to swat a woman’s bottom.
She giggled and acted like she enjoyed it.
it was so normal some of us little ones did not know how wrong it was.
just solved another murder
and put a gold star on my chart
it sits next to my wet-dog-smell-recliner
this is where Beau and I watch crime shows
Solving murders one at a time
gloating when we are right
ignoring my near misses
I have spent years here, waiting for my honorary detective badge.
these unconventional cats who are dicks
forties detectives to you out of comic strips
make others nervous anyway me
go by their last names, like Marlo or Spade
interrogate usual suspects under spotlights
look to save a damsel or two
offices are dirty
in a sordid side of town
I run from these dicks
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing.
How happy she felt now that it was spring.
She smelled the bouquet of fragrant roses
She would marry him; offer her posies.
Up she climbed the stairs to their hiding place,
Her face shining, lovely so full of grace.
The sleuth would ruin such a lovely face,
He knew well, her divorce was fine as lace.
From here the city churches pierced the mist.
Viewing the scene; anger he couldn't resist.
He had done his job; got all evidence,
She had money; a place of residence.
It was time to get paid and enjoy life
He had no thought of making her his wife.
Took his fee, opened the door, and watched her stare.
He closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square.
He'd disappear, went to another town
Found other women, but avoid renown.
10 syllables per line, hopefully.
In the land of produce there lives a carrot detective, I swear
When rabbits come during the night to steal carrots, she is there.
She watches but says nothing until the police stop the next day.
For a sixpence, she uses her foot to point to where they ran away.
Police are always appreciative, and sometimes buy her celery or such.
A sargent thanked her, and she said, “I appreciate this very much.”
She stays in garden from May until October’s pumpkins come around.
Rabbits don’t steal these bad boys, is what she says she has found.
shriek pierces the night
where are the damned batteries ~
just let the place burn
“Give me the phone Effie.
I have to make a call.”
She handed it over to me
and walked into the hall.
The inspector had no clues.
He asked for my two cents,
asked me to give him my views.
I didn’t; the call was intense.
The dame had come in
asking for my advice
two days ago and then
was arrested by Vice.
I had seen the smallish
puncture, blood pooling,
and I wanted to abolish
the coroner’s ruling.
The wound was there,
but he missed the needle
lying next to the chair.
He tried to wheedle.
If I couldn’t get the cops
to do their job, I’d need
to pull out all stops
to find a hard lead.
For Gershon...with smiles
Inspired by, but not entered in, Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
I was a self-admitted misanthrope
unwilling to lose or drop a case.
I often threw a rope-a-dope
just to win; I never lose face.
I worked the dark streets
for dark, and even darker, clients
while the cops walked their beats,
shadows showing giants.
As far as I was concerned,
they were all a bunch of losers.
They were bad; they’d get burned.
The lot were boozers or bruisers.
I had caught a difficult case
The man was stabbed and shot.
He deserved it; he was debase,
but the perp would be caught.
The lawyer was my client,
he was dirty; the worst he could get.
Damn, he was mighty defiant!
Still, I didn’t think he did it.
He had no motive, but also no alibi.
So why were the cops after him?
He was a jerk, but had no reason to lie.
But for him the outlook was grim.
I might have to pummel every john
on the streets to get to the truth.
It wasn’t unpleasing to use my brawn
and I was a hellava good sleuth.
I’d search every city block.
I’d find the filthy little perp.
I’d find the lowlife and knock
the truth out of the twisted twerp!
26 August 2022
Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
https://www.rhymezone.com
He was alone and lonely.
Sadness swept his eyes
before he jabbed at me
with his cynical sarcasm.
He slowly lit his Camel.
It was a simple act of murder
and he was a scholar of sorts –
a player of chess, a fan of poetry.
I knew I was under his scrutiny.
I agree it looked rather suspicious.
After all, the body was there
and I was found holding the knife.
I squirmed under his hard eye
but leaned back into the chair
in front of his desk knowing
he had a soft spot for women.
A hard drinker, he took a bottle
from his cabinet and offered
a glass to me. I didn’t accept
as I knew I should stay alert.
“It was a man, a squabby man,
with a glimmer of glee in his eye,”
I said. “He looked at me, then
threw down the knife and ran.”
Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it.
There was no blood on your clothes.
Your shoes would have soaked
in the blood and crusted.”
I relaxed a little and offered a smile.
I knew I was home free.
I was glad I had changed my shoes.
“I’ll take that drink now.”
She took the bait…
Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
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