Long Sleuthing Poems
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HERCULE’S LAST CASE?
My name is Captain Hastings,
Well, ex-Captain to be precise.
And I sometimes give Hercule Poirot
Some help and sage advice.
We’ve been to another house party
And guess what? There’s been a crime.
A man’s been killed in the library
With a knife from the kitchen this time.
They’ve called for Inspector Japp, of course
But he’s useless to tell the truth.
So he turns in desperation
To the famous Belgian sleuth.
Now Hercule’s in his element,
Employing his little grey cells.
But we fall for a lot of red herrings,
Before he finally tells.
He somehow finds a motive
For everyone attending.
So there’s a hundred and fifty pages
Before we know the ending.
He listens to conversations
He’s not supposed to hear.
Then puts two and two together
Until the answer’s clear.
He gathers us all together
And explains his workings out,
Before exposing the culprit,
Leaving us all in no doubt.
But of course he doesn’t fool me
With his convoluted tale.
Though many innocent people
Have ended up in jail.
At all these weekend parties
Where murders have been done,
Just one man has been present
At every single one.
So I’ll tell you my conclusion ,
Although it gives me sorrow.
I believe all the murders
Were committed by Hercule Poirot
22nd July 2022
Start Sleuthing poetry contest
Sponsor - Natasha L Scragg
My love for fiction started, as I recall,
when Mother read to me in happy times
of fairy tale enchantment and nursery rhymes.
Seeds of fancy blossomed fast when I was small.
Another door opened when I learned to read,
and then through many books I wormed my way.
In libraries for hours I could stay
searching for great stories on which to feed.
From fourth grade on, I used to put my mind
in shoes of young detective Nancy Drew.
Who was the killer? What would Nancy do?
To follow her sleuthing was a thrilling ride.
I lived vicariously the romances
of “Little Women” or protagonists
of other tales, jeering antagonists
who put them in awful circumstances.
Escapism is magical and fun.
From the fantasy of “Lord of the Rings”
to the witty satire of “The Song of the Kings,”
getting to the ending is like a home run!
Laura Ingalls’ “Little House on the Prairie”
instilled great lessons in my pre-teen mind,
while things profound I would later find
from Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury.
“A Tale of Two Cities” and “A Handmaid’s Tale”
displayed for me that best that fiction gives:
strong feelings where deep thinking also lives.
With novels like those, to the skies I’d sail!
With a fresh cup of coffee, I stepped outside to have a peek.
It was another peaceful morning, in the valley around Soup Creek.
I caught the glint of a Winchester, a model ninety-four.
It was across the lap of Jenna, just outside the saloon door.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jan sneaking to the loo.
I could hear her spurs were jingling as she went to take a poo.
In the saloon I heard some laughter, it was Milt just having fun.
At a table dealing stud, a gamblers game is never done.
At the other end of the street, there stood Tania with watchful eyes.
With a pistol on each hip, she was ready for any surprise.
Down by the livery stable was a Texas ranger by the name of Dave.
He was looking for our mayor, who he thought was digging a grave.
There was a rumor of riders coming, and the Creek might be in a bind.
He searched both high and low, but sir Tom he could not find.
Ten miles south of town, with graves dug all around.
Tom had stopped these riders and saved our hallowed ground.
Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
8/21/22
Two sisters have enlisted me
to solve for them a mystery.
Sounds and music they can sometimes hear,
and from their manor things then disappear.
What’s happening? Is there a ghost?
Who takes the things they value most?
I stay with them and notice strange things too.
Like one day when canaries flew right through!
The eeriness and creaking in the night
makes me know that things are just not right.
I notice something rather strange one day.
There is a manor just like theirs across the way.
Its owner is a man named Nathan Gombet.
Inside his house I really need to get.
This Gombet has some dealings with my dad.
And we both know that he is someone bad.
I sneak into his house by light of moon
and then get locked inside an upstairs room.
Aha! I come across a hidden staircase.
It leads to tunnels and the sisters’ place!
My dad, meanwhile, has missing gone.
I get the sheriff there by dawn.
My dad was hid by Gombet in a cell
but from ME not hidden well.
For I am Nancy Drew, a sleuth self-made.
Just call on me whenever you need aid!
Aug. 6, 2022
For Natasha L. Scragg's Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
This poem is somewhat the plot of Carolyn Keaton's personal favorite of all her many Nancy Drew novels. It was book 2 of a series that ended in 1979 with a total of 56 books about the teenage sleuth. I believe I read every one of those books. I was crazy for Nancy Drew books!
I strolled into the room, real casual you see
I took a look around, one of them was guilty
*Bang* an authoritative door slam sounds in my wake
Dramatic sunglasses removal, in their boots, they will shake
A murder committed, someone has to pay the price
Time to get down to business, time to roll the dice
At first I suspected Mr. Green with the dagger
Suspicious in the lounge with a cool, cocky swagger
No one could be trusted on this ill-fated night
Least of all the deceptive charms of one, Mrs. White
In the study I says, “PUT DOWN THAT WRENCH”
Oh yes, she wreaked of a foul, guilty stench
But we can’t forget Miss. Scarlet’s wicked wiles
Think she’s got you fooled with sultry, saucy smiles
Then I find Mr. Mustard with a knife in the kitchen
I got a hunch see, this inkling’s got me itchin’
Is that Professor Plum hiding in the conservatory?
He says the pipe’s for plumbing, Yeah. A real likely story
I search the billiard room and the library
What I find next is out of the ordinary
A revolver in the books, I take it to the dining room
Where sits Mrs. Peacock, shrouded in feather boa plume
She sits by glowing flame, provided by a candlestick
She licks her fingers coyly and snuffs out the wick
The lights come on, she’s gone! I find her in the cellar
Not to brag here, but my detective skills are stellar
It’s there I lay out all the evidence to accuse
If this was a game, I tell ya, it’s here you would lose
If you want the identity of this crafty sleuth
To really know who seeks the truth
The one following each mysterious Clue
Since it’s 1949 release, it’s every one of you
July 21, 2022
Start Sleuthing Poetry contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
Featured Famous Sleuth: Clue board game participants young and old :)
i am still at times, in shadows
watching you in the world
stealing glances
when the world has drawn you away
there is a beauty i can clearly see
when the picture is devoid of me
meeting for lunch
i step back from the canvas
pause in the servers' din
shelter behind the flora
drink in your essence
holding that moment
my life with you has been as such
like a glass of fine wine
the aging intensifies the allure
oh i know well why
you never let the magic perish
one of my greatest joys
i never had a clue
so i sit back and watch
as her magic unfolds before me
and for all of my sleuthing amidst shadows
i have been bested by a master
that silly smirk she wears so well
adore fails to grasp the fullness
my eyes behold a path
the bewitchment therein
where dwells the beautiful soul she is
poets know these things
OKC 5/22
The phrases “the eyes are the window to the soul” and “I can see it in your eyes” certainly sound poetic. Many singers, songwriters and writers have capitalized on it. But it turns out that the eyes really might be the windows to the soul.
Google the above and you will discover the Science poets knew millennials ago.
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.
Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart pet sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.
Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.
SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.
Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.
At the time of the incident, I lived in an old mansion,
that was undergoing renovations and expansion.
Outside the night was dark and a storm was raging,
but, I was cozy in the library with hundreds of books aging.
I was reading and petting my big old cat Fred,
until a flash of lightning lit the night and Fred quickly fled.
At first, I did not worry but after hours I went searching,
I expected to find Fred on a shelve perching.
I could hear him meowing and it seemed very far away,
sometimes, he is hard to find because he is dark gray.
For hours I searched the house and I was getting worried,
so, to call my friend, Detective Nancy Drew I hurried.
Come fast Nancy, my beloved cat has gone missing,
suddenly, I heard Fred growling loudly and hissing.
Nancy and her team arrived through a deluge of rain,
by this time, I was weeping and my heart was in pain.
The team searched all night the house from room to room,
but could find nothing and I was feeling a sense of doom.
The odd thing was no one else but me could hear him,
they came back day after day but finding him looked dim.
After months and months I could no longer live in the house,
so leaving it behind I sadly moved to a farmhouse.
The mansion was empty for awhile until someone bought it,
there was a problem though- the cat meowing that would not quit.
_____________________
August 25, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/The Case Of The Missing Cat
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1483-308-25
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Start Sleuthing
sponsor, Natasha L Scragg, Judged 08/02/2022
Fourth Place
How dare goddamn Laura divorce him
After thirty years arduous pre dawn sacrifice
Menopause made her dismiss marriage on a whim
Told Rod he'd not have true love twice
Victim adamant to prove prowess
To construct his dazzling platform
Marina tower apartment, salesman finesse
Enamour for strawberry blonde, he'd perform
Abattoir visits supply excess meat
Too good to discard, soon crows found
Raw morsels upon sunny balcony heat
Slowly rotting, sixty metres above ground
Pleased frequenting feathered friends
Swoop hungry, hot tiles smeared in grease
While his platonic blonde sidestepping pretends
She's not ready to consummate their needs
Shimmer photoshoot illusion windswept strands
Whip her dazzled face in gold to behold
Pristine boat grid below, his meaty hands
Suddenly clamp her jugular, slowed blood cold
Duck egg irises fear increases, dance shoes slip
Held up by Rod's determination to murder
Strangled finally to submission in his sausage grip
Remote controlled bird saw and heard her
Floating microphone, struggled inhale caught
Quad propellers wing nimble, zoom eye snaps
Amor of flaxen haired dancer he sought
Filmed before her fatty floor collapse
Cocky Rod knows how to remove her corpse
Platonic blonde diced by cow carcass blade
Churns through her chaste, chest flesh warps
Chuck steak beak struck, friends caw unafraid
20th July 2022
Written for Contest: Start Sleuthing
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
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