When the music stops – a poem

He called a genius, Beethoven the great.
Of course he had to struggle to get to the top.
But at the highest of his summit,
digestive problems turned him deaf.
He couldn’t hear the music anymore,
but it played in his head.
His symphonies grew louder,
spelling impending doom.
But his final work,
was an ode to joy.
Heavenly to her,
uplifting
senses shifting.
The song and the tune,
merged into one divine combination.
He was a great musician and composer,
we need more people like that in our time.

Bubble plastic – a poem

Wrapped in a protective cocoon,
she aged not soon.
To gullible for the world,
a crucible to unfold.
In her teens she fell with a bad crowd,
the drugs designed, the music loud.
She ended up with a needle in her arm,
in the gutter.
Her parents were in grief,
her daughter had been soft as butter.
She caused a lot of mischief later on,
being a common thief.
It was a sense of relief,
her suffering had ended.
Nobody could really recollect when the end begun.
Everyone she had offended,
she was the black sheep.
But sometimes she would still creep in mother’s bed,
and weep.
Whatever her mother recommended,
she forgot taking her next shot.
The girl everyone rather forgot.

Johnny Appletree – a poem

They all called him Johnny Appletree,
he used to drive with old McGee to the orchard.
He always knew how to play his card,
climbed faster than a squirrel,
the boy was gifted.
He picked the red pearl,
balance carefully shifted.
He watched the wasps defending their grub,
he did it all with one hand, his other was a stub.
He father had crushed it with a club.
Johnny ran way from home and slept under the clouds,
he has to go to school the principal shouts.
But after many bouts,
he was expelled.
In apple picking he really excelled.
One day, McGee couldn’t find him.
He decided to go to the hayloft on a whim.
He caught Johnny making love with his granddaughter.
Johnny apologized and said he loved her,
McGee broke out in laughter.
‘Buy her a nice fur, boy,’ he said ‘and don’t forget my granddaughter is not a toy.’
They were married in June,
under the auspice of Neptune.

Futile – a poem

He decided to count all the grain of sands on the beach,
his sanity was beyond his reach.
Suffering abuse,
made him awkward and abstruse.
He always was alone,
like a dog without a bone
he frowned,
always downed.
Life seemed to be passing him by.
He didn’t know why,
it was all in the past.
How long this trauma would last?
He tried to get a grip of himself finally,
but to switch of emotions is something ideally,
meant for fiction.
He felt a lot of friction,
and decided he hated mankind.
His compassion turned blind.

On praying – about life

I never considered me to be a religious man since I reached puberty. I went to a Catholic school so Christianity wasn’t new to me. But I committed plenty of sins. I thought it all was a made up tale, the Bible. Written by some crazy loons.

But now my life isn’t going to great. And I started praying again. I feel somebody is listening and genuinely interested in what I have to say. Being isolated I don’t feel so alone anymore. If I can’t go to my parents with my questions I ask God.

I started reading the Bible and I must say the Old Testament and the New one are almost opposite parts. My favorite is the New Testament. It teaches us humility and forgiveness.

It’s a fact Jesus died at the cross. We will never know the circumstances, but that he suffered is clear.

I am not ready to go to church again. I have anxiety attacks and don’t do well among strangers. But to have a line to a being greater than oneself is a comfort to have.

Keep Faith!

Trip to Luxembourg – a short story

Read the previous part over here: https://daily-poetry.com/2022/06/29/assassin-on-board-a-short-story/

Holmes had boarded a plane with Watson. They would have to board another one to make the trip. Sherlock dreaded it, he had a fear of flying. Watson just ordered one drink after another. He had to confiscate his gun with all those terrorist attacks. He would get it back in Luxembourg.
‘Let’s analyse this situation with pure deduction,’ Sherlock said.
‘Shoot away,’ Watson said half drunk.
‘Moriarty will ship the money to Belgium so we can presume he lives there in the vicinity. Until the transaction is completed he is going nowhere. He has to fulfill the formalities at the bank. In person with his ID-card to create a dummy account for himself.’
‘And what as he already has an account?’
‘It’s possible but very unlikely. He will want to stay close to the source of the money. Papers need filling out. Of course he could use a fake ID.’
‘And what are we going to do? Stake out the bank?’
‘Do you have a better idea?’
‘As a matter a fact I do. We could inform the local authorities.’
‘They will be reluctant to act without a direct appeal from the US. Illegal banking is their core business.’
‘So, you are going to rent a car?’
‘Yes, and you’ll be driving, I don’t have a license.’
‘The great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know how to drive?’ Watson laughed.
‘My mind isn’t fitted for medial tasks, Watson, you should know that.’

They drove in an inconspicuous Toyota to the bank. It looked nothing sinister. A professional business. A bit modest actually tucked away between several bigger buildings.
‘Watson, go grab you some food and drinks. This could take a while.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I like to keep my mind sharp by not digesting food.’
‘Alright, but you can’t have any of mine,’ Watson mumbled.
The stake out took an infinity. They slept in shifts. At the second evening they saw a limousine park in front of the bank. The door was opened by the chauffeur. A man with a beard and a cane stepped out.
‘Moriarty! It’s him.’ Sherlock exclaimed.
They got out. Watson found it abhorrent the authorities refused to give him back his gun. He could have need of it now.
Two heavy-built men left a dingy car behind the limousine. They were wearing glasses despite the late hour.
They blocked the entrance.
‘Moriarty has backup,’ Holmes muttered ‘this could get ugly.’
‘I take the left bald one, you take the hippie,’ Watson said.
They lunged at the bodyguards. Watson fared well. He kicked the man in the balls and connected his fist with his jaw. Then he took him in a choke hold. He had said he was a physician once but Holmes suspected military training as well.
Sherlock didn’t do well with the man with the long hair wrapped in a ponytail. He had taken out a knife and was stabbing and slashing at him. Remembering a single move his martial arts instructor had thought him he grabbed hold of the hand and broke it with a swift motion, the knife dropped to the ground and the assailant screamed in pain. At that moment they saw Moriarty leaving the bank in a hurry. He took the limousine and tried to move it out of the parking place.
‘Oh, you don’t!’ Holmes shouted.
He ran to the vehicle and pulled the door open. Giving Moriarty a blow to the face, smashing his head against the steering wheel he pulled his unconscious arch nemesis out of the car and cuffed him.

The police was first very suspicious of the detective. They didn’t like fights in their peaceful country. But at Holmes request they phoned the Keytrade bank in the US where the money was stolen from. Moriarty was put in jail after his identity was confirmed. He was to be extradited to the US soon.

‘Now, we deserved a drink, Holmes,’ Watson said.
‘Of course, I think I’ll have a glass too this time,’ Sherlock answered cheerful.

The end