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.'
The charming Lady Adler Irene;
Was strangely nowhere to be seen;
As revealed by this clear blanked out scene;
Where those who knew her said she'd been,
Where oft she did appear.
That splendid genius Sherlock Holmes;
For whom no mystery stayed unsolved;
Took up the case within a beat;
As it transpired this curious feat,
Involved his very own sweet dear.
Now Holmes used every trick he knew;
He studied every minute clue;
Searched high and low to no avail;
There simply was no sign or trail,
To indicate what foul did play or who.
But dear Irene had not been taken;
She had in fact just been forsaken;
Her jealous Holmes would have decried;
Her talent, should she ever have tried,
To solve a case or two.
One assumed she changed her name to Ira;
Bought tickets to the Riviera;
With an Italian beau in tow;
To crack the case of how Italians row,
To show her Holmes!
But Irene's path led not to Rome;
Her beauty lost on Sherlock Holmes;
Jamaica had seduced her mind;
She lost herself in Caribbean rhyme,
A rum filled hut now home.
distant wolves sniff at the winds,
sense what you do not.
your death hums in the air!
pings run through your heart
to raise a berm of hair!
Baskerville hounds now shift
from lope to lunge.
their thirst for blood has come!
rapacious tongues make clear
your death is in their mouths!
John Holmes is dead, but I have heard it said,
He used to walk the nude beach getting tanned,
He'd shoot the crowd a moon,
Then amble 'cross each dune,
Behind him leaving three tracks in the sand.
Poor John is dead, a casket for his bed,
But rigor mortis settled in his hose,
In the lid we'll bore a hole,
And through it thread his pole,
Or else we'll never get the danged thing closed.
Sherlock and Watson looked at the woman with blank expressions
What they had were some totally unique impressions
Watson was looking at her, thinking what a poor little thing
Sherlock was wishing the 221 Baker Street bell still did not ring
Her story was not sound in any sort of way to Sherlock who was not fooled.
Watson was ready to slay a dragon and help the woman, he needed to be schooled.
They heard about the dead body but there was no evidence in the least.
The forged papers were blurry, smeared and quite creased.
Her eyesight was not terrific, so Sherlock proved that she did not see what she said.
Watson was the one who figured out that without blood or a body no one was dead.
She was bipolar, and confused, a woman who simply needed her med.
So they sent her to a doctor who prescribed lithium and put her to bed.
I wept today, longing surfaced beneath my breath
deepened movement surreptitiously crept forward
until it could no more be ignored or feign sleep
suppressed light seeking harmony dared to tread
my existence worries me at times for I no not
knowing pretends at pretension, a precisely folded
hat makes believe the world is sane, is it now?
Fear tramples right paths, heart renders useless
everything is something not ever nothing
armonicas evoking spirits of the dead as if to say
sheer walls of wishful thinking, insert pause
at a loss for words, she leaves behind her hand
pressed for something, taken for remembrance
fragrance lead me here, deduction and reason
allies in my war of safety, surety, aloneness
foraging for memories, both lucid and ambiguous
pin lights allowing just enough to believe
dipping into the ocean of life, I stand on the shore
of all that was of me and all that will become
of me in all ways, in all days, resting in peace
forever more.
If Sherlock was sleuthing today,
the baddies would groan in dismay,
to prison they'd go,
remorseful, they'd know
that (fictional) crime doesn't pay...
for Joseph's Sherlock Holmes limerick contest, written 29th January
the great detective sherlock holmes
he will never leave you alone
if you do the crime
you will do the time
as through the evidence he combs
Limerick 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
1/28/19
sherlock holmes thinking
was not sheer luck on his part
it was a program
written to deduce
to rule out all possibles
then what's left is truth
what if nothings left
an algorithm won't help
enter the author's
imagination
and holmes ignorance is named
moriarity
stan sand
Sherlock Holmes once said to Watson,
“This murder was done by a dachshund!
It’s quite elementary;
He’s short and he’s hairy
And walks with two pairs of socks on.”
Opening the fridge,
All of the chocolate gone-
Shivers down my spine.
Dear Doyle,
Why have you not incorporated me further into your work?
When I found out I appeared briefly, in just three stories, I was hurt.
You made me smarter than Sherlock himself,
but, alas, you did not find me worth the ink.
And no, my dear friend, no simple explanation will suffice.
We are both men Arthur, let's not beat around the bush like mice
You'll meet me tonight, eight o'clock sharp at the Reigate Squires.
Do not send a wire or put it off a moment further. This business is dire!
Sincerely,
The Other Holmes
NOTE: For those who aren't familiar with the stories, Sherlock Holmes actually has a brother. His name is Mycroft Holmes (and Doyle actually made him much smarter than Sherlock... though Mycroft was too lazy to put his talents to good use). He was a very interesting character and I was sad to see him in so few stories...
Sherlock Holmes and Watson made
A duo fighting crime
The wise detective and his friend
The greatest in their time!
It all began with 'Gloria Scott'
When old man Trevor died
Sherlock then, to help his friend
His hobby theories tried
Whether Naval Treaties lost
Or strange Red-headed League
Holmes and trusty Watson solved
Conundrums and intrigue
Whether 'twas the Second Stain
Or swan at Abbey Grange
Those dearest fellows smoked their pipes
On matters grave and strange
If Watson never understood
'Till matters did conclude
It sometimes seems 'twas Holmes's fault
That things were misconstrued
Then there came the felons' dread
The sudden shout, "Halloa!"
And Watson, sometimes young Lestrade
Would run to see below
I think, perhaps, that Watson's mind
Was sharper yet than ours
For putting up with Holmes's quirks
Could be like counting stars
Fictional detective Sherlock Holmes
Worthy subject for my poem.
His sleuthing skills may be tested
But the criminals are always arrested.
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