Poem: Book Stain: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Book Stain
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: POV Mary. This is for last month's poetry page. It seemed a bit long to put in the comments section. Specifically for this line: ...but here is his bookseller’s guise from when he returned three years later! And still with the blood stains from the doctor thumping him in the face with his own copy of “British Birds”! Yes…
That bloody stain upon the battered front,
I wonder that its shape’s escaped your note.
Keen observation, such as is your wont,
might make a something of that maverick mote.
That bloody stain that’s fading on the tome,
ask John to gaze upon it like a cloud,
ask him to let his flightful fancies roam,
and see if he can spot the profile proud.
That bloody stain on Book of British Birds,
a volume much discarded, much perused,
was born of head-stone union, startled words,
a crash of bodies, pavement much abused.
A gawker and a bookseller collide,
the seller and his wares to suffer pains.
A head will bleed. Red ink spills dark and wide
and, guided by my phantom hand, it stains.
A chance encounter? Don’t you bet your life!
Two years of dream-toil, whispering on wind.
It’s something, being a widower’s wife,
covertly coaxing stubborn paths to bend.
From mad Swiss falls, I welcomed home my half.
I loved him raw through sorrow, bitterness,
until sad fate revealed its cruel last laugh,
our own goodbye, our tearful farewell kiss.
My body shed, I hovered round my love
to try to ease his overwhelming pain.
But then, with time, I slipped away, above,
to search the world along the astral plane.
And would you know, to my abject surprise?
No Sherlock Holmes was found among us ghosts.
I reeled! Your death, a pack of grievous lies,
a tale the likes of which a poor Strand boasts.
And thus, my aims were clear, objectives set,
to keep my John alive despite his grief,
to not let him succumb to wild regret,
to offer succor, comfort, and relief.
And then to guide, you, rogue detective, back,
to steer your footsteps home to Baker Street,
to prod and threaten, entice, lure and attack,
use every means to hasten your retreat.
Exhausting, flitting back and forth ‘twixt you,
employing all the knacks and knocks, tricks and skills
a spirit caught between two worlds can do.
I led. I nudged. I tempted tempered wills.
A never-ending spectral game of chess,
with me at play on both sides of the board.
At last! There was a certain doomed address
to which each of my pawns was heading toward.
By the home of the late Ronald Adair,
Respite and joy! I had to crack your heads
together and upon the chessboard square,
the blessed re-tying of once-severed threads.
Like an artist, I yielded to the urge
to mark my canvas, and so, in wet flood
from bookseller’s crown to book’s outer verge,
I dipped my ghostly finger, signed in blood.
Good-bye, my loves, I’m off to stretch my wings.
My work is done. I’m due a holiday.
I’d say ‘behave’ but knowing you and things,
it’d be an awful silly thing to say.
That bloody stain upon the tattered book,
my dears, says all that I cannot with words.
A true disguise, just take a second look,
at me, the very best of British birds!
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: POV Mary. This is for last month's poetry page. It seemed a bit long to put in the comments section. Specifically for this line: ...but here is his bookseller’s guise from when he returned three years later! And still with the blood stains from the doctor thumping him in the face with his own copy of “British Birds”! Yes…
That bloody stain upon the battered front,
I wonder that its shape’s escaped your note.
Keen observation, such as is your wont,
might make a something of that maverick mote.
That bloody stain that’s fading on the tome,
ask John to gaze upon it like a cloud,
ask him to let his flightful fancies roam,
and see if he can spot the profile proud.
That bloody stain on Book of British Birds,
a volume much discarded, much perused,
was born of head-stone union, startled words,
a crash of bodies, pavement much abused.
A gawker and a bookseller collide,
the seller and his wares to suffer pains.
A head will bleed. Red ink spills dark and wide
and, guided by my phantom hand, it stains.
A chance encounter? Don’t you bet your life!
Two years of dream-toil, whispering on wind.
It’s something, being a widower’s wife,
covertly coaxing stubborn paths to bend.
From mad Swiss falls, I welcomed home my half.
I loved him raw through sorrow, bitterness,
until sad fate revealed its cruel last laugh,
our own goodbye, our tearful farewell kiss.
My body shed, I hovered round my love
to try to ease his overwhelming pain.
But then, with time, I slipped away, above,
to search the world along the astral plane.
And would you know, to my abject surprise?
No Sherlock Holmes was found among us ghosts.
I reeled! Your death, a pack of grievous lies,
a tale the likes of which a poor Strand boasts.
And thus, my aims were clear, objectives set,
to keep my John alive despite his grief,
to not let him succumb to wild regret,
to offer succor, comfort, and relief.
And then to guide, you, rogue detective, back,
to steer your footsteps home to Baker Street,
to prod and threaten, entice, lure and attack,
use every means to hasten your retreat.
Exhausting, flitting back and forth ‘twixt you,
employing all the knacks and knocks, tricks and skills
a spirit caught between two worlds can do.
I led. I nudged. I tempted tempered wills.
A never-ending spectral game of chess,
with me at play on both sides of the board.
At last! There was a certain doomed address
to which each of my pawns was heading toward.
By the home of the late Ronald Adair,
Respite and joy! I had to crack your heads
together and upon the chessboard square,
the blessed re-tying of once-severed threads.
Like an artist, I yielded to the urge
to mark my canvas, and so, in wet flood
from bookseller’s crown to book’s outer verge,
I dipped my ghostly finger, signed in blood.
Good-bye, my loves, I’m off to stretch my wings.
My work is done. I’m due a holiday.
I’d say ‘behave’ but knowing you and things,
it’d be an awful silly thing to say.
That bloody stain upon the tattered book,
my dears, says all that I cannot with words.
A true disguise, just take a second look,
at me, the very best of British birds!
no subject
Date: 2020-12-06 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-06 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-07 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-07 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-13 06:33 pm (UTC)Some favourite bits:
It’s something, being a widower’s wife,
From mad Swiss falls, I welcomed home my half./ I loved him raw through sorrow, bitterness,/ until sad fate revealed its cruel last laugh,/ our own goodbye, our tearful farewell kiss.
Exhausting, flitting back and forth ‘twixt you,/employing all the knacks and knocks, tricks and skills/ a spirit caught between two worlds can do./ I led. I nudged. I tempted tempered wills.
A never-ending spectral game of chess,/ with me at play on both sides of the board.
A true disguise, just take a second look,/ at me, the very best of British birds!
no subject
Date: 2020-12-14 12:53 am (UTC)