When the pen takes control.

In shimmering skies

sharp edges soften and melt

bright like Summer sun

I knocked on the door and there was no answer, as I expected for my friend seldom answered, preferring to leave the door unlocked and for his rare unscheduled visitors to enter unannounced thus not interrupting his long periods of deep thought, almost in meditation. “Batson!’ he exclaimed, lovely to see you my friend,” I heard him call. He could not have seen me for he was in the next room and I smiled for I knew it was almost impossible to outsmart Mr. Hemlock Soames, probably the most famous private detective alive in Victorian England.

Though not anxious

sweaty palms caress damp brow

reaching for the fan

mosquitoes drone in warning

slaps resound throughout the night

I am not a frequent better

but decided I’d have a flutter

chose four horses from the paper

I placed an accumulator

two lost and two won

after all it was just for fun

“Bridge ops!,” the metallic voice rang out from the corner of the bridge. Grabbing the microphone the officer of the watch prepared to reply but calmly Commander Stone took the microphone from him and gave the unexpected reply, “Ops room this is the Captain, make your report,” In the darkened operations room the radar operator, in deferential tones, with a nod from his supervisor, “I think we have the contact at a range of forty miles, our good friend the renegade.”