Sunday, June 10, 2012

After the Death of Sherlock Holmes/Friends Series Poetry

After The Death of Sherlock Holmes -

Stirring after midnight,
vivid colors and bright,
banners of war or Trojan mules,
of myths, and creatures sundry,
dragons in my estimation,
no question, Daddy,
make towards us-
if we dare to,
if we choose to venture here,

Daddy, would we, dare to,
in a great, kingly adventure,
after midnight,
entering the core of your,
godly sleep.

Here you dream of,
those treacherous,
the fun, and,
strange diversions,
is yours to be sure, is yours.
There could be some surprise,
when we seek to meet,
our Daddy though,
after midnight ~

Such an enchanter,
midnight treks might be, see,
for yours turns into-
a deep, hemlock drink!
This which,
spirals into your gut and stops,
after reaching your bowels.

It led to the hemlock door,
we might never come to,
Sherlock Holmes,
the prodigal, marvelous sleuth of yours,
whose cut into your mind with a pair of large scissors,
thereupon reaching,
the open wound in your head.

Hemlock the poison,
has by Holmes been brought,
to this,
hole in your head.
Poison, which killed,
Shakespeare's figures.

A massive congealing,
sickly vermin poison,
which should not,
be used for humans.


Holmes, however,
cackles loudly in your dream,
saying to you,
and your dreams, forcing,
you to drink poison.

The poison is vile stuff,
for creatures,
for all the dragons, knights,
in armor and breaths of fire you see,
usurping, these Satanic dreams,
is drinking . . .
 the hemlock of Sherlock Holmes.

Truly we must be crazy . . .
Sherlock Holmes is not evil, no.

But the Daddy After Midnight,
has been placed well beneath,
a spell.

Whoever else,
may but crowd into your brain, upon midnight,
heed whatev' might revolve,
spinning and churning,
beneath your quiet lids,
when enchanted.

You see, Daddy Dearest,
Sherlock Holmes is,
a fantastic piece . . .
honing skill unparalleled,
as, you know, for you remind,
constantly your family of his excellent traits.

Thus, even in death he's fantastic,
without question,
and now, unbeknownst to the Earth,
men here,
innocent in their sleep,
are placed beneath this spell,
after the stroke, of midnight ticking,
within a happy illusion.

Men who are over fifty,
dream of boyhood fantasies,
Well would we not be enticed,
my dear daddy,
to see the tip of such fantasies! Yes.

Who you were, once,
those games in worlds,
only surely a boy like you once knew.

But, when Sherlock Holmes,
takes those shining scissors,
from within his thick, cloak,
riddled with various pockets,
that becomes such a great magic being . . .
we would but scurry from your dreams!

Ahhh. No one knows why,
he turned evil.
Poor soul.
But, Daddy, you did need,
the knowledge,
of Sherlock Holmes after death.
Here you have it!

Dedicated to my father, the greatest of Sherlock Holme's fans

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