once upon a time
there happened to be
a desert oasis with a population of three-
Mr A, Mr B and Mr C
no one really knows why
but they were all enemies
and then one day Mr A and Mr B
decided-quite separately
that Mr C should die -
he shouldn’t be allowed to stay alive
and so they executed their plans dastardly
Mr A poisoned C’s water with evil glee
knowing that when C drank eagerly
he would drop dead quite suddenly
but unknown to him Mr B
poked little holes in C’s canteen
knowing that without water to drink
C would soon be on life’s brink
so all the poison dripped away
with all the water , one would say
that with the double treachery
Mr C would be a dead man anyday
and so it did happen
that with no water in his canteen
and none to refill
Mr C did drop dead of thirst
But that did beg the question-
who did him in?
A and B play the blame game
A says C never drank  any of the poison
So how is he to blame?
but as B points out that his puncturing the canteen is irrelevant
for C would have drunk the water
and still met the same end
so it really is a contest of means versus the end
the end is the same and the question remains-
whodunnit?

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
  05.10.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

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


"Why, Mr. Holmes! You've got my telegram!"
Lestrade stepped forth and offered out his hand
"My dear Lestrade, I've come from Evesham
I trust your case is anything but bland!"

"It's ****** Mr Holmes, a Chinese urn
Was used to bash Lord Edgeware here tonight
I'm interviewing everyone to learn
Their whereabouts from six o clock till eight!"

"Indeed Lestrade, your methods are replete
With great technique, so I'll bid you good day!"
"But Holmes! The case we have is incomplete
Please won't you stay and help without delay?"

"My dear Lestrade, your killer's still inside
I'm sure you'd know whodunnit if you tried!"

Who killed Lord Edgeware?



SOLUTION


"Why, Mr. Holmes! You've got my Telegram!"
Lestrade stepped forth and offered out his Hand
"My dear Lestrade, I've come from Evesham
I trust your case is anything but Bland!"

"It's ****** Mr Holmes, a Chinese Urn
Was used to bash Lord Edgeware here Tonight
I'm interviewing everyone to Learn
Their whereabouts from six o clock till Eight!"

"Indeed Lestrade, your methods are Replete
With great technique, so I'll bid you good Day!"
"But Holmes! The case we have is Incomplete
Please won't you stay and help without Delay?"

"My dear Lestrade, your killer's still Inside
I'm sure you'd know whodunnit if you Tried!"

The first letter of the last word on each line spells out:

THE-BUTLER-DID-IT

*(Can't believe no one guessed at the butler!)

I can’t help thinking
that almost every girl I meet
could possibly, potentially be,
yes, a screamer in the sack,
or better, a soul mate in the sack,
or even a confidant in a coffee shop, or anywhere.
And then they could jointly rule my kingdom
imperiously, like the Queen of Babylon,
or maybe Bathsheba, who was having a bath
when David espied her and then jumped her in his boudoir.
I suppose an exhibitionist needs a ******.
Gee. But it wasn't kosher for David, the King of Judea,
to then have murdered Bathsheba's husband, Uriah,
so he could afterwards marry her.
What? Yeah, this is all in that whodunnit,
the first tabloid, the Old Testament.
But look, I'm getting away from the path here.
What I'm talking about is girls that I innocently meet
without trying to get them in closer.
I don't spy on girls in the bath or the shower
and I don't have anyone murdered for *** or for power.
Or for anything! I'm a writer, see?
I simply imagine, inside my head,
that we all fall fabulously in love,
and blow our minds instead.

Mike T Minehan

The finger pointing at the moon,the steeple reaching to the skies;
Logic ,love and wisdom tries to pierce the gloom, to open eyes.
'Look up!' They say, 'Look over there!'
No! Look within now if you dare
To find the truth that's lying there.
The dons, the poets, the dance and the myths clear some of the way, but sadly miss
The heart of the thing
- just get the gist..........

First the moon, then the man full of awe, then the priest and the sage and the artist to draw
Out the meaning and help us to know what a small speck we are
In this infinite show.

Sing to the moon and dance through the night
Then look to yourself to see if you're right.

The myths are the map, the Dons hold the light, but the moon's ever there , perpetual and bright.
Unpick the poems, dissect the finger, deconstruct the song and analyse the singer,
Love the garden and crown the *****, praise the soil for the flowers he's made.
It's a great 'Whodunnit' a wonderful game, with the usual suspects guessing the name
Of the power behind it; the fame or the blame.

Sing to the moon and dance through the night.
Look to the heavens to see if you're right.
The myths are the maps, the dons hold the light
But the moon will be there
Perpetual and bright.

i have just had the most wonderful
most thrilling idea
for a new book
a new tale
to resonate across the ages,

a vast rambling epic of a novel
w/a new metaphysics calculated to change
the way we
see
think and
feel

it’s gonna shake up this
crazy little world of ours
(once it’s written)

it’s a Chandleresque echo
of great noir thrillers
w/ just enough Eco
for my intellectual friends

pumped pulp prose
interwoven
interspersed
w/ musings philosophical
about the nature of being
(once it’s written)

i will call it Black Cats
In Darken’d Rooms
a reference to a joke i once knew
and w/in my whodunnit frame
my ****** mystery narrative
i shall lead
the exploration
the excavation
of all the big questions still unanswered
in this crazy world

(once it’s written)

it will be a book to change lives
(most importantly, mine)
and lead us
blinking
into a dawn of new Reason

we will enter a new age
a world w/out confusion
blessed by the Truth the book shall hold
(once it’s written)

all the other stories i have started
those tales half-told, those unended dreams,
i will put away
- for now

this is the one story
must be written
must be finished
those old ones just aren’t as important
somehow.

"Why, Mr. Holmes! You've got my telegram!"
Lestrade stepped forth and offered out his hand
"My dear Lestrade, I've come from Evesham
I trust your case is anything but bland!"

"It's ****** Mr Holmes, a Chinese urn
Was used to bash Lord Edgeware here tonight
I'm interviewing everyone to learn
Their whereabouts from six o clock till eight!"

"Indeed Lestrade, your methods are replete
With great technique, so I'll bid you good day!"
"But Holmes! The case we have is incomplete
Please won't you stay and help without delay?"

"My dear Lestrade, your killer's still inside
I'm sure you'd know whodunnit if you tried!"

The greatest assassination in history but
whodunnit?
who killed all the dreams
remains a mystery.

In the boarded up closed down council cemetery where the bones lay of all of my ancestry,
there's a place kept and it's still there awaiting me, but
who killed the dreams is a mystery.

I have blank screens where once there were hot dreams and the nightmares have rode off, no more night screams, it's one hell of a ******* calamity, but who killed all the dreams stays a mystery.

I changed the reaction time,


how a neutral makert, how a window breaks when nobody cares

how a flower market stays in business for ten to fifteen years

how'd why and whodunnit
here’s your rose


and the evening blends with the morning,

did you take that purity from me, bird who sings when I sing?  coincidence?

or did you take it from me, as I sang it…as you would steal my string cheese I had for breakfast


I paint the town with my poison, with my jacket, with my eyes, invisible

snap chat vanishment taken from the lyric of a turnover rap song,

I flip the krabby patty and it does…sizzle

so did you find your dignity?


Changed the reaction time, neo was struggling to work with trinity,

and of course, he was defenseless when it came to good noodles


the agents, well, they couldn’t stand the smell of gasoline and cigarettes

I knew it
saw through it
she's
an algorithm of a blue
whodunnit
in the library
with the
rainbow book,

I took a look
and
read pages
lasted ages
sorted out the
tigers from their cages
in the library
with the rainbow book.

She bet me
and wouldn't let me
get closer to her than,
do you get me?
in the library
with the rainbow book.

I could cry
somewhere in Mumbai
and would she care or
even wonder why
in the library
with the rainbow book.

Bonafide catatonic doggedness,
nevertheless this stubborn stoic poet writ
afore and another feeble effort courtesy
exhaustive mental effort
he brewed den - brought about divine visit
analogously to solve mystery pinpointing
within suspense unveiling whodunnit.

Whereat your true
plane vanilla author's creativity
admittedly drastically did decline
bawling and crying
caterwauling putting any feline,
to shame, hence abandoned grandiose design,
cuz he suddenly contracted

(think fabricates)... what else
flesh eating bacteria unfavorable sign
finding me body stone cold supine
(courtesy brainstorm that went awry)
inducing purgatory nauseating
sensation to *****,
nope not at all feeling fine,

hence literary dream subsequently mine
ambition tanking (think
kamikaze nose diving
minus parachute life line),
sought spiritual guidance ministered
severe existential nihilist crisis
(an understatement)... zip,

absolute zero, and nein
never to witness, nor
restored vigor and vitality,
(sob... sob... sob) ha how asinine,
hence garden variety germane pine
wood coffin evidenced
resembling somber funereal yahrzeit

(/ˈyärˌtsīt,ˈyôr-/) recollecting late mother
helped beget kith and kin of mine,
than as now buzzfeeding appetites decline
possibly courtesy bloodily splattered
white laboratory coated
donned Victor Frankenstein
mister monster master's

repurposed cadaver delivers kosher eats
fancy feast grubhub groaning
outsize maître d' makes beeline,
nsync with anonymous canine,
corps speedier than any airline,
unbeknownst to yours truly posthumous
fame will inevitably yield moonshine.

Fast forward approximately
twelve hours later recuperated -
aide de camp resolved impasse with
partial writer's block slayed
attempting to continue quasi theme
i.e. avoid typing with fingers delayed,
albeit no matter unconscious

editing automatically peremptorily made
suppressing crude, fiery, ignominious tamed
loathsome offal rot earning F grade
securely unceremoniously waylaid
lurid outburst blandly diluted into staide
yawningly tedious figurative walled barricade,
when lo and behold atavistic beast erupts

fresh sortie attempts peppering enfilade
anew ideally unadulterated, unedited,
unexpurgated material ought be displayed
to allow, enable, and
provide raw emotional blackest shade
to resonate within mind
of unsuspecting reader,

who might take
objection with primitive grade
communication, and blatant
scathing writer somewhat afraid
to air unrefined sentiments
may cost popularity,
uncontested where cadre of

unseen followers thence evade
once popular rising sallying forth star,
whose emergent fame
(even if only limited edition
to cyberspace) will fade,
yet methinks loosing
stream of consciousness obeyed


fealty on one metrical foot
metaphorically uncorking
deep seated primal angst laid
bare like bleached bones
existential crisis oft times
gussied up to avoid tirade,

whereby woke parlayed
gut wrenching splenetic self degrade
ding soul bearing vile eruption
considerably quieted, stoppered, tamped...
courtesy linkedin, symbiotic maid.

is scrapped; a Lost Boy, messily hand writ,,
can’t resurrect from memory the title or the
subject, or the precise provocation that
made me need a pen worthy provenance in order to exit~express~expel~exhale
my disordered grievances and

an output likely of seeping deepening angst,
of a middle ages man, in a midlife proto-
typical crisis, which now vague recalled with
the sadness of just really longest period of
dark December nights, alone and hopeless

let the origin be mundane, simplistic and plain,
probably trite words of hand sleight, of an
excessive heavy light weight, going ** ** hi,
woe is me, a time of loss and reincarnation of xjoys when stumbling in a new life that coincided and collided and coordinated with a new century’s commencement,
would be my best guess, that,

this version of my whodunnit is acceptable
even if not accurate, ego permits lies of many
colors, but it grants me treasure by believing
that the joy journey subsequent recovered,
that keeps the little engine that could acooking, in a still-quiet mid of night humming productive is:

primal
ever intensifying,
lighting the unburdening of age-ing,
burning of dregs of going away midnight oils,

and oh my,
even why now
a quarter century later
the fingertips continue to tango cross a white
tableau, dotted with alphabets of words unknown,
only uncovering that all the old ones were quite a usefully alive, when succored in new
combative combinations


(happy~sad that it is diminished into the
nether, a far far better fate, than one I would
have likely selected; a lost child, of your own,
will always
always be,
be you eternally)