For those who love books, part one

At the Library, New Ross

From my window desk, perched

high above the grey slated gables

I pause for thought, seeing spires

rising above the town, my view

tumbles towards two great rivers,

joined now as one, gliding gently



I came to write peacefully,

to avoid distractions,

the well-known, oft cursed,

enemy of poets and writers.


Yet how can I ignore young birches

as Autumn colours grace their leaves

while they cradle in their golden grove

an amphitheater crying out for a voice

to proclaim aloud sheer joy that I live

near such a scribbler’s sanctuary?


The trees tremble as a soft breeze

flutters leaves, then wafts me back to

work where the very blood of words,

fresh ink, flows.



 Ó   Kevin Connelly 2018

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

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