Good books are my friends
Good friends are my books

Rain drumming on car's roof,
Its millions of fingers
Poking at the eyes of busy windshield-
Wipers.
I love driving with you.
Radio classic rock.
Shopping bags releasing their
Contents to dance around in
The back of my van

As I leave the roundabout in
Third gear; its back wheels
Slipping on the wet asphalt.
As always.
I love driving with you.
You hold on and giggle.
I know these rural roads like
The back of your hand.

I clown driving, you shotgun
Laugh at my silliness
As I slow down at my
Exit.
I love driving with you.
People speak better in cars.
Might be, that one part keeping
Eyes on the road lightens the
Conversation.

I've never been lied to
With a steering wheel in my hands.

I paradox questions, ask
me, to what I wish for
what i want, Or, is the word I search for,
desire?
  whim is soft, whispery
would never fit, poetically,
my emphasis I seek.
I require a design of permanence,
Or do I?
Need requires, want desires,
whim is sudden
specific to now,
nit pick,
I do
what I meant.

She watched the water slip and slop
As flurried flames climbed up to heat
And bubble boil the cooking ***
Emitting steam to rise and sweep

In splendid arcs and cloudy wisps
Of candy cotton colored plumes
That filled the cavern air with sips
Of fragrant tones and sweet perfumes

And withered bony fingers bent
To loosely grip a ladle shaft
And scooping water, swiftly went
To pour a steaming cloudy draught

Into a pretty painted cup
Upon a dais of sorcery
And gulping down a mighty sup
She gasped,
                    *"A lovely cup of tea!"

a was b cause c ause he d id e arned f irst g ave h is I d
j ust K arl L oved m any n ot o ne p er q uite r s ane t o
u ndo v ery w ell X poses Y z?

The most uncommonly heroic
goes by the name

common man.

If you enjoy something creative,
set out to do it.
Don't just live vicariously,
gain some skills.

If you fear failure,
you fear opportunity.
If you embrace imperfection,
nothing can stop you.

Do what you love.
Love what you do.
Anything shy of that
isn't worth your while.

what the ****
how did this work out
you're like a survivor
outside of a terrible fire

so you walk
there is no name as you look back
you had nothing to say
better stick with that

you're the hero
in the plot unsung
I'd like to tell everyone
but I too

am a plot undone

Spoiler alert.  The original poem is followed by the solution.


"Why Mr Holmes! Come quick! The vicar's dead!"
"Dearest Lestrade! Another killer lost?"
"The Reverend Green alas was killed in bed,
The frightened Mrs White mirrors a ghost!

Mrs Peacock is in quite a shock,
The Colonel Mustard is attending her;
Motive remains unclear, although the clock
Was stopped at six, when Mr Black was here

He burned the mail, perhaps it held a clue,
The man then ran, and no weapon was found;
Miss Scarlet who was sleeping, slept right through;
Such a tough case, so care to stake a pound?"

"Lestrade! To take your cash would be a crime!
One wonders why the clock stopped at that time!"

Who murdered poor Reverend Green, why and how?

CLUE: the solution contains 15 words.

CLUE:
    “I say old chap, those kids in Baker Street
    They’re running and a skipping: SHOO AWAY!”
    “Dear Dr. Watson, rest your weary feet!
    Perhaps you’ll learn something from childish play!”



SOLUTION

"Why Mr Holmes! Come quick! THE vicar's dead!"
"Dearest Lestrade! Another KILLER lost?"
"The Reverend Green alas WAS killed in bed,
The frightened MRS White mirrors a ghost!

Mrs PEACOCK is in quite a shock,
THE Colonel Mustard is attending her;
MOTIVE remains unclear, although the clock
WAS stopped at six, when Mr BLACK was here

He burned the MAIL, perhaps it held a clue,
THE man then ran, and no WEAPON was found;
Miss Scarlet who WAS sleeping, slept right through;
Such A tough case, so care to STAKE a pound?"

"Lestrade! To take your cash would be a crime!
One wonders why the clock stopped at that time!"


The solution is a simple skip sequence (hinted in clue 2), every sixth word is taken to obtain the solution.

*THE-KILLER-WAS-MRS-PEACOCK
THE-MOTIVE-WAS-BLACK-MAIL
­THE-WEAPON-WAS-A-STAKE

~

i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?
did the drawer have a brother?
or perhaps a sister too?
what did it fit inside,
what was it meant to hold?
a little boy’s toys
or a girl’s shiny shoes,
a box full of crayons
or an artists tools,
a father’s colorful ties
or a mother’s sachet,
did it hold the silken threads
of her childhood ballet?
did it hold a sister’s hopes
or a brother’s pride,
a woman's negligee
for a very special night?
did it even hold a key,
and was it to her lover’s heart;
or maybe like the broken drawer
those too were shattered dreams?

maybe we are all
just discarded drawers!
the trinkets we hold,
things we need to let go;
the words we can’t forget,
the whispers that grow old.
we paint by numbers,
we color with words,
a canvas full of thoughts,
tumbles out from our heads;
words we’d like to recall,
lines we’d like to forget,
the words never said,
ones we later regret;
perhaps at the time
to us did not occur,
one day we’d hope to be forgiven
for offending with our words!

don’t let me feel useless
without the rest of the frame;
don’t cast me aside
or leave me in the rain.
take this broken old drawer
some nails and some glue,
help me find the answers;
i know i fit when i’m with you.
slide me in a work bench,
i can hold the tools;
slip me in a bureau,
i will not feel used.
place me in a vanity,
or kitchen cabinet,
in a chest so full of hope,
dreams not come true... just yet.
just don’t leave me here
where I've been thrown,
where i’ll grow cold and die.
i’m not designed to be alone,
left here on the side;
what good can come within my frame
if i’m not made a part,
for a drawer without a purpose
is a man without a heart.

i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?

~

*postscript.

truly...
i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?

my wife breathes life into old wood furniture.  with each bureau, hope chest or buffet brought into her workshop i wonder what it held... because everything and everyone has a story to tell. what would these old pieces tell us if they could speak?  and what do they tell us about ourselves?