Introducing…2023
Hi this is Santosha in Seattle and this is one of the best holidays all year…world wide🌎 This may be my 6th go round the sun🌅
The readings of the metal file (hour 5)
the welder’s tool was all we found:
this file could read a lot about the dead.
her lips looked like the taste of black oxide coating
could that be the reason why it was found,
in the mouth of Regina where she bled?
the welder’s tool was all we found:
the doctor guessed her teeth were sold
but I think her resistance suited better teeth.
Isn’t that why in her mouth the teeth of the metal was found,
in place of the biting tales Regina body holds?
Hour five
Turning Cartwheels (For MF)
You are
Turning cartwheels on the seafront,
Where time and tide wait for no girl.
You are
Sprouting tall and strong,
Blooming before our very eyes.
You are
Kindness and compassion,
Imagination and fun,
The world in your hands
As the tide tracks your feet,
Your cartwheels spinning like clock hands.
You are
Ten,
Years gone by in a flash,
Eager for the next adventure,
Twirling cartwheel after cartwheel
Step by step into your
Bright, blue future.
Crime Scene
Victims wash up against the shore
from upturned boats
making summer passage
on quieter tides.
The dead are blamed,
perpetrators of their own demise,
whilst the reasons for their leaving
lie unquestioned, uninvestigated.
Who would leave their home and family?
No-one’s asking.
Author: Jane Eckford
2nd September 2023
Hour Five
A gray morning tangled in an unfathomable mist
with a speculative breeze filled with
hummingbirds slicing the fog
leaving wild streaks of color.
An ever so faint hint of perfume,
vanilla.
My heart has been stolen
but never my soul.
Hints of perfume
a clue
vanilla.
A Crime of Passion (or Not) – Hour Five
A Crime of Passion (or Not)
Shards of glass, strewn everywhere, scattered beneath the moonlit sky
Brown footprints appear to dot the windowsill – a clear sign of forced entry perhaps
Inside, chaos ensues
Tossed memories, loose leaf dreams, lots of questions
The glass appears to have been broken from the inside… and out…
That’s odd
The papers strewn everywhere seem like there was a struggle of some sort, but it could have been internal
It could have been self made
And yet, no one is home, just a frightened cat, maybe the source of the paw prints
Where’s the homeowner?
A canvass of the area shows footprints leading into the woods
Inside, more clues… crumpled up paper in the trash, the pages filled with illegible writing and scribbles
Maybe harm, maybe harmless – scene and source unknown
A walk into the woods follows the footprints to a clearing in the trees where there is a road to nowhere
Could the suspect have fetched a ride and better yet, again, where is the homeowner
A walk into the woods follows the footprints to a clearing in the trees where there is a road to nowhere important
Could the suspect have hitched a ride and better yet, the homeowner. Location unknown
A jogger passing by confirms she saw one lone mad man jump into a Taurus and head East, yelling something about a coffee shop
We head East for answers
The coffee shop is filled with early Saturday, pre-dawn, revelers, busy for the hour at hand
We must interview them all
When we finish our discussions, we have but one customer left. A balding man in his 40s, leaving a restroom and looking flustered
Upon questioning, we learn he’s a writer and on a deadline. Suffering a days long writers’ block, the commotion ensued at home
And there we have it, no break-in, just no sense of break through
The cat…. he was the source of the footprints on the sill. He spilled coffee on the only idea the man had had in days.
Case closed.
Doesn’t Matter Whodunnit
He was bent over her body
I couldn’t quite see from
my vantage point
looking out the window
He held – I’m not sure what –
in his hand
stooping down I saw
him reach toward her head
she bristled
pulled back
then slumped forward
he stood watching over her
I knew I could make the call
and I know this sounds bad
but there’s only so many times
I want to get involved
still, he looked so concerned
I sighed, slowly stood
made the call
then went to go find a box
[Prompt Five: Write a mystery poem. The crime could be real or imagined. The poem could be clue based or narrative.]
A Life Sentence
The door opens on its own, she strides out, and turns her head to see him.
I think we got everything, she reports. Perfect, he thinks.
He loads the groceries into the trunk while she gets into the car.
On the way home, she imagines him in the kitchen giving her a kiss as they unpack.
He imagines plopping the bags on the counter, getting a beer,and watching football.
Listen to the Neighbors/Hour 5
The neighbors complained
Complained about the smells
the malodorous odor of rotting flesh
The neighbors tried to help
The neighbors called the police
their warnings falling on deaf ears
No one listened, Excuses were made,
“Well she’s a drug addict, she can be anywhere” or
“He is an army vet, harmless and polite” or
“He is a politician, he would do no such thing” or
“he is a good-looking white man, why would he lie?”
No one listened and the smells
the smells permeated through plastered walls,
emitted from beneath living room floorboards and backyard soil
men missing, teenaged boys missing, black females missing
No one listened
Yellow crime scene tape surrounds
An apartment building and two houses
Forensic folks in their Tyvek Michelin man suits
loading boxes into awaiting vans and pick-up trucks
removing a deep freezer, 55 gallon barrels,
remains being collected and placed in black body bags
33 teenaged boys, 17 men of color, 11 black women
Cleveland, Chicago and Milwaukee
three men, 60 victims
The neighbors complained
Complained about the smells
the malodorous odor of rotting flesh
The neighbors tried to help
The neighbors called the police
No one listened, no one
Listen to the neighbors
Listen
Hour 5
Another doll torn to rags, naked and
Disheveled, marked with strands of red and black.
The last had marker upon her face,
The one before that with head bent around.
The boys see another boy playing too rough,
It is always the boys who wreck the dolls,
Toss them across the room, twist them where they shouldn’t,
Burn them to see how the plastic melts.
The boys lie in wait for the mean boy,
Hope he screams or leaves something behind that
Will show his house where he has
Sleepovers with other mean boys.
The boys hope he has no more dolls,
Hope to stop the games he plays,
Put him in a playground where the teachers
Keep an eye on him.