The Poetry Marathon

She Stabbed Him With Her Hat Pin #5

To the police he told
a rambling story of having
been out drinking with a
woman and
how, in putting
on her hat, she 
accidentally jabbed him
with the pin.

At the post mortem examination
at the hospital yesterday after
noon it was found that
the broken point of the
hat pin was
imbedded four and three-
quarters inches in the man's 
heart, thus precluding all
possibility of the stabbing  having been
accidental.

Thomas Woods, the husband of the 
woman who was accused 
of being intimate with the dead
man, knew very little about the affair. He said
that Mrs. Montgomery had told
him of her suspicious and
when he asked his
wife, she admitted that Montgomery
had made some advances, but
that
she had done
nothing wrong and he intended going to the 
Montgomery home to have an understanding, 
on the 
night of the 
trouble, but did not.
He said he
visited the 
hospital in Detroit and found
Montgomery there. The latter asked
Woods not to tell his
relatives where he was.

Every member of the Montgomery family
is very
reticent in discussing the case
and they all absolutely refuse to say anything
that might
incriminate the wife of
Fred Montgomery. They profess
to be in ignorance of her present 
whereabouts.

Mrs. Watkins, who lives next
door to Montgomery home,
informed detectives that suspected 
woman told her she jabbed
him with a
hat pin and that it
broke off.

None of the witnesses felt
disposed to give Mrs. Montgomery
undue blame, and
from testimony it was clearly
shown that Montgomery was quarreling with
his wife and that he
administered
a severe whipping, as she was bruised about
the face and
body after her husband had left
the house.

Mrs. William Watkins was the star
witness of the 
evening and she told her story
in a placid, self-satisfied way that greatly
impressed every person
in the town hall. She
said that on the night of the
row, she heard a woman's screams and
going to the door of her own home she
discovered the dead
man and his wife scuffling on the lawn.
She
called and asked what
they were doing. Montgomery left his wife
and jumping over the fence,
started down the
road, calling back
as he went.  "Good-bye, I'm going to
jump in the river." Mrs.
Montgomery followed
hera
husband.

The two women had a conversion about
the fight, and when asked if 
she was hurt Mrs.
Montgomery is alleged to have 
said: "Yes, but he is hurt too."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Watkins.
"Why I stabbed him with a hat pin and 
broke it
off in 
him." was the cool rejoinder.

The verdict of the coroner's jury
last night was
to the effect that Mrs. Josephine
Montgomery stabbed her husband with a 
hat pin from the effect of which he died.
But she is fully exonerated from
any criminal charge as the jury believed that
she aced merely in self defense.

This poem was compiled from various news stories in the Windsor Star, July 1905

5 Crumble

Wedding rings easily rotate around

Old fingers on wrinkled hands

Mornings they are knuckle trapped

By dusk slip and slide right off

 

White hairs are found flown about

Gathering in corners squared

Under quilt with patches mended

Growing longer as each day passes

 

Skin still soft but flakes appear

Now getting closer to the source

She is aging from the outside in

Preferred to the other way round

The Mysterious Mr. Knox

The first rule of Detection Club: play fair
Rather, the zeroth rule because rule one
Is introduce the criminal early on
And keep their thoughts off-air

The next three rules restrain the gothic trend
No ghosts, no made-up drugs, no high-tech tools
No more than one mysterious hidden room
To get you to “the end”

The fifth rule reads as racist in our day,
Though written to confront it at the time.
Let’s say: Do not use “foreign” to mean “crime”
Or “danger” in that way.

Rule six rules out the lucky guess to win
Rules seven, eight and nine forbid the ruse
Of ever purposefully withholding clues.
And ten: no secret twins.

So if you swear detection tales to tell,
Shall Knox, GK, and Christie wish you well.

The Dog Did It

The Indian takeout intended for lunch is missing from the fridge.

The son, reclining satiated on the sofa with fingers stained red,
says he didn’t eat it. He owes his satisfaction to Doritos.
Tell him that you know that it was him even if you’re not sure.
Lingering disgrace builds character.

 

The youngest daughter, lips the color of paan, storms by smelling of spices and states that
Though she didn’t eat it, she wishes she had
because you are a horrible mother
and deserve every calamity that befalls you.
Trip her for her insolence.

The eldest daughter, washing an oily bowl, is a known nibbler.
Her recent conversion to veganism means your chicken vindaloo should have been safe, but she’s a backslider by nature.
Smell her breath. Suspiciously minty.

The husband is chewing something quietly in the corner.
He would admit taking it if he had because he’s brazen and reckless.
Simply roll your eyes at this formidable opponent.
Let him know that if it was him, Hell itself will open her mouth to rain fire on his head.

Make a beautiful turkey sandwich instead.
Make sure that it’s envy inducing.
Use the last of the spicy salsalito turkey (everyone’s favorite), but withhold one slice from your masterpiece.
Place the meat on sweet Hawaiian bread.
Blanket it in provolone, artistically arrange the avocado, make money green lettuce and tangy garden tomato slices rain on that thing, and smear the aioli like you’re Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
And as you saunter outside to eat on the porch
Passing the drooling ingrates that you call family,
share a piece of the meat with the dog, the only friend
you have in this den of thieves.

1:00 PM – Open the Lid (Hour 5)

When we suffer

alone

our cries

fueled by our own

misery

are the only

balm

for out pains

and this limits

its ability to

dissipate

to healimg

 

we bound our moans

encapsulating them in

silos of consciousness

feeding each bounce the

energy necessary to

sustain proper

inertia

 

we must crack

and prop open our lids

and allow the fresh air

of others

to inject

life giving

progress

Prompt for Hour Five “Mystery”

Where did I go?

What did I see?

there’s no name for this place

no way to return

the road just dead ends in a cul de sac

of regret and now who is that

approaching and leaving by the same door?

a lost glove, a misplaced hat

clues to nowhere and nothing

what lies under the decay is something only time will tell

in a voice of wind and rain and erosion.

Is anyone missing this hat?

somewhere, gloveless?

Cinnamon girl

You never could not be lovely.

It’s just your nature.

Whether holding up the globe or

or ensuring the kids are all right,

you’ve always been a force of nature.

 

That’s why I’ll love you the best I can

& deservedly so.

It’s a way of life;

anything else would just be unthinkable.

& long after the sun burns out, it’ll be irrelevant

because you light up the world.

That’s just your nature

& you never could not be lovely.

Life in year 72

Life has been mostly good
berries growing wild
and free to all
who took the time to pick them.

My childhood home had them
at the end of our dead-end street,
just a short bike ride
or childish adventure away.

The first home of married life
in the nearest town to the
Military base. No berries there.
Not that I ever looked for any.

The next home, where children
became abundant and grew strong
with love and a garden, but no easy to find berries.
The parents grew in different directions.

More years of not finding berries
except at the roadside stands;
children grew into young adults.
Divorce did not hurt too much.

A first grandchild, and a teaching degree,
and a budding compulsion to write.
Sons and daughters became busier and wiser.
Life flowed in good directions.

A fellow writer became more than a friend,
as I learned how many similarities existed
in my Catholicism and his Buddhism.
Writing and teaching filled the half-empty nest.

Twenty years with a philosopher
who seeks my opinion on many topics.
Flying through time till his health told us to slow down.
There are berries to pick at the back of the lot.

“Plastic Flowers Do Not Grow When Planted”

Hour Five: A Mystery Poem: Utilizing both text and photograph prompts.

She, almost, wished for springtime again.

So, she bought flowers and planted them, reminding her of the season.

Now that the boughs are bare, they starkly remind of stripping bare.

The stripping bare as the police strip bare her wooden door with their knocking, knocking as she tries to escape. Tries to escape within the bare trees echoing the baring of her soul. She knows they saw her.

The flowers dormant now will bloom her naivete as they were evident witnesses to what she did.

The police now have their witnesses.

Nature bared her as they grew evidence, as squirrels found the evidence, as fake flowers add to the evidence. There is nowhere to hide.

Just ask the birds that remained to chirp and follow her, not south, but her and reveal through their conversations about what she buried in the Spring. DMW

Poem #5 | Meet me in the Grave

 

Like the sin of humans,

One could be right to say,

”it has been caused from the onset!.”

Without the knowledge of the “WHOs.” involved.

 

The Sherif had asked “has anyone entered since he arrived today?.” with all  professional smiles on leaving the room,

The room, now marked, crime scene.

The room, where Mr Locke my Boss, had used as office for almost a decade now.

Shaking my head this way and that, I said, NO.

The firmed locked from the inside window said same thing, same way do the calmed environment/making it a puzzle how its occupant made the journey to the great beyond on the lift of a supposed murderer without a runway of hassle.

Autopsy said he was strangled to death, the camera sees nothing of such, nor does the bodyguard of the vicinity, I.

After weeks of futile investigation, he was buried alongside all hopes to finding the killer and I lived to worry no more about a bossy Boss with eyes for their subordinates’ wives.

NB: Meet me in my grave to share how the murder happened, for I had sworn to take the secret to my grave if God will help me keep the mind of the Dectatives from checking the gloves in the Waste bin at the office.