Cluedo, a poem, or is it?

A lament for the recently deceased, in most unusual circumstances, Mr. Black

Alas Poor Mr. Black,

were you mister or were you doctor?

We may never know.

Neither may we ever know how it was

that you became a chalky white

outline on the floor by the stairs,

From Mr. Black to dusty, white,

really, such a cruel thing, life.


So many questions, Mr. Black,

did you die where we found you, there,

or is it possible, probable, likely even,

that you were dispatched elsewhere

and placed there to confuse,

not a murder scene then

just another clever ruse?


Miss Scarlett, was it you, down

in the dark of the cellar

desperate for some light,

Scarlett, Scarlett were you quick,

killing him with a heavy candlestick?


Did you, colourful in the conservatory,

Miss Peacock, remove from your handbag,

so demurely, a delicately decorated

pearl handled pert little ladies pistol.

One shot would suffice, from Annie Oakley

back to Miss Peacock in a thrice?


Oh saintly innocent Reverend Green,

is that look of horror you display

because a murdered man you have seen,

or do you recall your reaction with a rope

when the victim went too far in the library

and maliciously maligned the Pope?


You were hungry, Colonel Mustard

foraging in the kitchen for food?

Surrounded by plates, by cups, forks,

and yes, knives!  Were you not once

upon a time, a man who thought so little

of death and of killing

that you would easily order other men

to kill yet more, other men?

Did a lust for death come over you

good Colonel, as you saw the red blood

dribble from the roasting beef,

resting, so red, on the refrigerator shelf?


Finally, how are you, so sweetly smiling,

Mrs. White?  So lady like and languid

you must have been, in the lounge, a

lady beyond reproach.  Alone, unseen, did you

throw into all the works a spanner which wrenched

poor Mr. Black from this world to another?

You look so innocent, not at all shady,

to suspect you would surely be crazy!


Yet there he lies or at least his shadow does

the late lamented Mr. Black.

Is that how fragile life really is,

the roll of a dice and it’s

goodbye to all of this?


man with brolly

Author: connellykevin

Writer, poet and photographer. Lover of all musical genres, from acoustic to zydeco. Born in Ireland of Scottish descent and proud of both. "I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so" WB YEATS Many of the themes here presented and to be presented have taken me a lifetime rather than six weeks. Some have taken mere moments to arrive. All are offered freely and it is my hope that you, dear reader, will gain something by browsing here and that I in turn will gain something by presenting these works to you.

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