Long Sherlock Poems
Long Sherlock Poems. Below are the most popular long Sherlock by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sherlock poems by poem length and keyword.
The key, for me, must be those onion domes.
Concentric skins, like Russian dolls, contain:
they don’t obtrude. Defensive rings explain
the posture. Let’s not bother Sherlock Holmes
with this one. Save Bill Bailey’s fine-tooth combs.
They feared for Minsk, like others fear for Maine.
The Wall was there, so brains would cease to drain
towards those tail-fins, all decked out in chrome.
They tried to build a comely comfort-zone,
a space to place a hundred home-grown flowers.
We couldn’t wait to see it overthrown
(Archangel, Wayne, Polaris, Gary Powers,
Capone, Stallone, Cohns, drones and Sharon Stone).
They wanted only to be left alone.
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.
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.'
Attraction free verse
I see you there, across the aisle, in the second carriage on the train.
Perched on the edge of your seat, as if in eager anticipation, crushingly not for me.
Your eyes, like emeralds, a stark contrast to your jettison orange hair that melts a sunset.
Though our eyes don't meet and you sift through pages of a book with boundless charisma, I deeply urge you to look so intently, so warmly, into my face with the same zeal.
Your brow is creased but with intrigue not doubt.
Your ears pricked sharply as though you can hear my very breath, so I find myself gasping in and slowing breathing out through pursed lips.
How quaint or how ackward if he were to glance at me now.
But no, he is intent from his defined jawline to his broad forehead solely indebted to one thing, and that is not me.
His cheeks are dabbed in red as though the cold had kissed them.
Maybe he's a country boy with the hills in his veins.
But the way he dresses may hold some conclusions.
A tweed jacket and a tartan scarf, Scottish, no he can't be.
His lips are too refined, his stubble too tame.
Maybe he is from the south with a country estate.
Playing polo on an evening and riding horseback into the rolling sunset of the English hills.
Nigh I can not tell, but he is a man wrapped in mystery.
He brings wells of butterflies from the pits of my stomach and traps my voice in the furthest depths of my chest.
He makes my mind limp, overcome with an avalanche of emotion, only capable to think solely of one thing, him.
I am miss marple though ready for the challenge.
But first I need to let his eyes meet mine so that sweet sympthony can begin.
Oh, what am I thinking?
I, with my messy bun drawn to one side and my dress arching up my right leg and bags from a long day's work sunken under my eyes.
But I do have a smile, a friendly gesture to meet this intrigue that is male.
And hope, most likely in vain but still hope, that he looks past my meager appearance and sees a soul as deeply in twined in mystery that he would seek to be my sherlock.
Attraction
13.01.2020
It was a mystery
The death of her twin sister
Helen became jittery
On the manner death had kissed her.
These few words sister could only say
“It was the speckled band”
Before her last breath drifted away
The context Helen couldn’t understand.
To solve her sister’s death mystery
And fearing it could now be her turn
She told the scary story
To Sherlock Holmes with great concern.
The sleuth was confused by the word band
Was the criminal the gypsy roaming around
Committing the crime as planned
Or someone else out of bound?
Holmes searched for the physical clue
Saw the ventilator of stepfather Roylott’s room
Sister’s room it opened to
Through which danger could loom.
In sister’s room Holmes heard hissing sound
Coming from Roylott’s room on one night
He then rushed there and found
Swamp adder snake slithering in dim light.
Holmes attacked the snake with dexterity skilled
Onto Roylott’s head it was thrown
The mastermind behind the crime was killed
By the murder weapon of his own.
______________
August 23, 2022
Contest : Start Sleuthing
Sponsored by : Natasha L Scragg
As a kid, I loved reading “Nancy Drew” and “Trixie Belden” mysteries. As a teen I couldn’t ingest enough mythology; dragons, dwarves, elves, gnomes, centaurs and fairies were pure gold for my cache of thrills. As a young woman, Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie novels and terrors of Stephen King’s nightmares, owned my time and now biographies, philosophy, poetry and history crowd my personal library with one difference…since “Harry Potter” moved in with his friends; I revisit my inner child for respite.
Stories abound in
Nature; each leaf reveals one
As it, rides the wind.
I went to my mailbox and was in shock,
There was a mysterious letter in there.
It was from a person named Sherlock,
My nerves on edge, I fiddled my hair.
Its arrival was from across the pond.
I thought to myself “Why little ole me?”
My inner voice was quick to respond
“ Send it back.” Was her honest plea.”
Although my hands were shaking badly,
I ignored my conscience and opened it up.
What I saw touched my heart gladly.
My friend with whom we shared a pup,
She had moved to England so long ago.
Told her fiancee’s best friend all about me,
I write back, our conversation had a nice flow.
It’s been two years, now Sherlock is my bestie.
It was a dark and stormy night, or so the story goes
Another of those wondrous tales to keep us on our toes
Like looking glass and wonderland, grim witches and their spells
Peter Pan and his lost boys, the lovely Tinkerbell
The days I’ve spent lost to the world, so snug inside a book
The villains who are best of all, Long John and Captain Hook
I’ve sailed away to desert isles and walked the frozen wastes
Swum deep beneath the ocean waves; the Kraken I have faced
Sherlock Holmes to Frankenstein have held me in their thrall
But can I name just one that I have loved the best of all?
On different days I need to find a different place to be
Sitting on my daily train: oh, commuter misery
Today it’s off to Lilliput in the company of Swift
Tomorrow could be opium dens, by Sherlock left adrift
Or possibly to Mordor, to fight those pesky orcs
Or up north to Skallagrigg, to fly among the hawks
If I had a pound or two for every place I’d been
I’d be a millionaire by now, but I really must come clean
The written word to me is worth much more than any cash
A nice new book is just the thing, I’ll add it to my stash
The gadgets that are used today are all right in their place
It’s print and ink in solid form that put a smile upon my face
it's as good an apology
as I'll ever get. Red-handed
is a hard spot to be,
but you deleted it quick.
Although it had been there
since March of '24,
which just means your speed
was relative to matters of impending
consequence, not conscience.
Rest assured as inertia, I think you got it
before anyone could clock the line item
pixelating into oblivion,
the disappearing act of a fraidy-cat magician.
The irony of its genre being in your specialty
wasn't something I had planned,
but I didn't hate it.
Relax.
Your secret's still safe with me,
being as you acted so quickly
putting it all out there for me to see.
In other words, I saw you,
what I already knew, but made me
nauseated to confirm,
it was only when you were scared that someone
you think you've impressed
might go looking for the X, did you scurry.
Sit with that.
A poet looking to publish anywhere
has only their reputation.
And it wouldn't take a Sherlock Holmes
or a forensic metadata scientist
to resurrect your offense;
it feels like this is something to remember.
My greatest wish for you,
because of course you have your hand out,
is that you self-reflect, forever more keeping
my name out of your mouth,
off your fingertips.
Bubba has the flu
I do not know what to do
Since Bubba has the flu
I can not see in front of me
I can not see behind me and Bubba still has the flu
And I do not know what to do
Should I call Sherlock to find out what happen to make Bubba to have the flu
He would know what to do about Bubba having the flu
Sherlock sure did know what to do about having the flu
He gave me a Watson bulb to screw into the situation '
And there was no more reason to burn the wood since we had this position
Once in the socket the bright light look like a rocket
And now I have got it
I can now see in front of me
I can now see behind me
But as for Bubba, he still has the flu
And I still do not know what to do.