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Best Poems Written by Bob Kimmerling

Below are the all-time best Bob Kimmerling poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Uncle Michael

His ramrod back, his brill-creamed hair 
and waxed moustache gave him a certain air, 
a certain dash, and a military bearing. 
His speech was clipped. He walked his stick 
with sergeant major's flick.
His corduroys  were always neatly creased 
and Liberty cravat was tucked and teased 
just so within pressed collar. 

When I was six, when I was nine, he smelled
of oils and turpentine. His painter's smock, 
his donned beret, the memory of finest days 
spent long in summer holidays while drawing
boats upon the beach and teaching me to 
see each shape, to look at nook and  
shadow, and learning  how to place the 
paint from palate onto canvas.

I adored him. He was a father friend to me,
and I was like the son he never had, 
nor could he ever have. 
Our time was always fun, like that between
beloved father and a much loved son.
We watched Jaques Tati films in matinees
and laughed until I cried on happy days
spent with my mother's only brother, 
my upright uncle Michael.

When I was sixteen I saw him less.  We lived
quite far apart and I spent not much time in
Kent and he hardly ever came to Cambridge. 
It was not for me to know the diseasing rot 
beneath his skin, or colostomy bag not quite
concealed and hanging by his thigh, 
revealed in darker privacy of Kentish cottage bedroom.

And then one Sunday afternoon while sitting
on the sofa, watching something on the box,
mother suddenly began to swoon.  
She came quite unwell all over, no longer
strong and feeling faint soon made to
go upstairs and said, 'Something's very wrong.'

Her mind seemed gripped with fear and 
dread, and climbing each unhappy stair, 
she slowly made her way to bed.

Then father took an evening call.
A shotgun in the shed. My aunt was out she'd
left the house. When she came back she found him.

He'd shot himself. He'd shut shed door and
shot himself, both barrels through the head. 
'Son, your uncle Michael's gone, your uncle Michael's dead.'

And no one thought to tell me then that he 
was slowly dying. Not wanting wife to bear
that strain and sparing both to share his pain,
the day had come to end his life.

That conspiracy of silence broke me. 
Confusion for that teenage boy, and thoughts 
that raced right through his mind with sweaty
sleepless nights, began to grind away all 
remnant of his sanity.

Days were brought up short at school, and 
then he didn't go at all, but wandered room to
room at home, and banged his head upon the wall.

And how much kinder would it have been 
if someone thoughtful simply said the reason
for  that shotgun shed, had seen the reason
for my mother's dread, which I learned so much later.

And now, once in a while, I draw and paint.
I've not seen Tati's funny films again.
I'd like to think that if I saw them, 
I'd like to think I'd laugh out loud, 
those memories of that grieving boy, 
spared by the laughter we once shared. 
I'd hope that final memory would not spoil 
and taint the joy, that joy with Mon Oncle Michael.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Centurio Romanus Sum

Centurio Romanus sum,
et nolite flere non commovebitur.

I am a Roman Centurion.I do not weep or tremble.
But I have wept some bitter tears before this end of week.
Yes, I have wept some bitter tears hot rolling down my cheek
that wet my bed and wet my beard as I was losing sleep.
 
My Soldiers aren’t well bread,
uncouth brutes who spat and struck his head
and thorns were stuck until he bled
and blood, blood soaked his plucked beard red
and on his scarlet robe dark stains of blood appeared. 
 
It was my job, just a job to carry out my orders,
to execute, to crucify.
I was immune to pain, to any anguished cry,
to pleadings from the worthless lives
of those about to die.
It was my job, to put a man to death,
to take his clothes, to take his breath,
to cast his broken body by. 
 
But as my soldiers cast their lots,
And gambled for his seamless smock
and mocked him with sour wine,
just at the time of sixth hour watch,
as he was near his final breath
and was not long before his death,
the sky turned black, the sun had gone.
 
Two rogues hung there beside him,
at first all full of insult,
‘til one, who recognised his wrong
then turned and made a plea.
"Kurios!", he said with great respect,
"Lord, please remember me
when you come to your kingdom."
 
And then his words surprised me,
with great compassion in his eyes,
“Today you will be with me,"
He said, "Today in Paradise.”
  
 
Centurio Romanus sum,
et nolite flere non commovebitur
 
I am a Roman centurion.
I do not weep or tremble.
I was right there in front of him,
his eyes looked up to heaven,
He spoke something to his father,
asked that I should be forgiven,
and then he soon gave up his ghost,
and surely, was he not the most
unusual man I ever put to death,
not one curse or pleading breath,
save once he said I thirst.
 
I've stood in front of many,
but surely he was the first
to chill me to my soul,
to make me ask just why
this righteous man must suffer,
must suffer and must die, 
 
But then sky drew dark,
and terrified my heart
and as I looked and sat
at ninth hour of the watch,
and rocks began to shake,
so also I began to quake,
as darkened sky, and splitting rock,
made portent for his death,
with earth's each trembled shock.
 
And when his head had dropped,
and all his writhing
and his breathing stopped,
I cried out; 'surely this was the Son of God.'
And then my soldier came,
intent to break his legs
but seeing him already dead,
he took his spear instead 
to thrust and prod
into his side where blood
and water flowed,
flowed right down to the ground
and those around him beat their breasts
and slowly disappeared,
save only for the sound
of wailing women,
kneeling, quite near here.
 
Centurio Romanus sum,
et nolite flere non commovebitur.

I am a Roman centurion.
I do not weep or tremble.
My chest has kept a calloused heart
more years than I remember.
But now my shield is stripped apart,
my tears are freely flowing.
A sword is thrust,
and makes its start
on all that is worth knowing.
That life I pinned to wood and bark,
in me is surely growing.
 
Romanus sum centurione.
Ego plorantibus in consolatione,
et tremitis ad verbum tuum.

I am a Roman Centurion,
I weep, and at His word I tremble.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Eliza Rose

Wind-gathered winter leaves hide the worn 
Inscription; the birth, the death the epitaph 
On show for all who take this path 
To know Sir John is buried here 
Beneath his coat of arms.

This baronet, the eigth in line,
Esteemed to serve his king or queen, 
A gentleman of East India's refined 
Who sojourned and often richly dined 
At home in Berkley Square

Now companion to the chafer, the cadys, 
And the countless creeping crawling things,
While passers by have come and gone 
Without admiring glances 
Since eighteen thirty one.

To line the row beside sir John 
Writ great and good in Portland stone 
The largest slabs bear names long gone: 
A Thomas and a William, an Elizabeth 
And a James.

The births, the deaths and all the 
Dear belovedness, now mossed 
And mildewed, chafed by morning frost, 
And slimed by creeping slugs across 
Each cold grave table top. 

But there by winter's Flowering Cherry
Near Purple Hazel and Norway's Maple 
Beside the yew with scarlet berry, 
Stands a smaller upright stone,
Beloved daughter to John and Mary.

Eliza Rose, just fourteen years of age:
'Early bright and transient, 
Chaste as morning dew, she sparkled, 
Was exhal'd and went her way to heaven', 
To the saviour that she knew.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Blackbird

Blackbird sings shrill at night, before day's dawn, 
not now drowned by traffic's rumble sound, 
nor returning early morning flight from Costa's Benidorm 
to Heathrow's duller, grayer ground. 

Now all is empty beach, and quieter lock-down street. 
This strange unearthly morning still has only just begun, 
has only just begun its start, is nowhere near complete.
And blackbird sits on hedge row top, or higher branch, 
dark shadowed shape to rising glow. 

And does he notice those below no longer make their way to work,
or turn the key where car is parked beside suburban curb? 
Has he found this finer voice now humankind has lost its choice
to mask this far sublimer task of glory choral sound? 

So sweetly sung, so sweetly hung between each silent pause.    
It gains Creator's ear, soft ringing His applause, 
while many sit in fear, shut still behind closed doors, 
first hearing clear for many years this greater sound composed.
First hearing clear for many years: Creator's sound composed.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

My Shadow

This shadow that I see with my back turned to the sun. 
He represents me without fault and does not show my thinning hair 
or blemish on my skin that's there, or any hidden thing,
or any other secret thing that's hiding deep within.
My shadow is the perfect mimic, knowing what it means to show the one who'd rather not be seen, who knows the look of squeaky clean, 
and how to represent his Christ in just the way his Christ would like.


A disguising life, a respected man of God, and wife.

And while my back is turned my back is burned by scorching sun 
'til midday cast will mean my shadow's fast retreat, 
until my shadow's last deceit, until my shadow's full defeat, 
and I and it are one.  

And so I turn my face, I turn to face the Son,  
a work of grace that won't relent 'til darkest shadow fades 
and softens in that light of grace, that grace now long begun, 
revealing not the dark within, 
but beloved all along.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

No Reason

The rec was where we dug sandy tunnel dens 
in danger of collapse.There I fired my catapult 
on a group of three children some distance away 
as I hid behind a willow tree 
not far from the passage leading in. 

The straightness and speed of the stone 
surprised me. It struck a young girl 
on her spine, someone unknown,
and as she swung her left hand back 
to clutch at her pain I ducked to hide 
and slunk aside in the shadow of the trees. 

They did not see me as they turned. 

I think of it now with shame.

There was no reason.

Much older, as I walked alone across a parking lot 
in upstate New York someone took a shot 
at me from a window of nearby apartments. 
The bullet pinged the lamp post near my head 
and I turned to scan the windows from where it must have come, but saw no one.

There was no reason.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Autumn Chill

Seventeen skiffs and boats tethered 
In twos and threes on the river Thames 
With their canvas winter shrouds 
And rows of seagulls perched on each,
Almost perfectly aligned,
Heads towards honeysuckle skies 
Where low winter's sun declines,
Reflected in cold silver flow.
Close by them a solitary heron stands 
Stationed on a gunwale,
Some feathers ruffled by a river breeze.
This beholder sees the autumn beauty 
And foreboding of a winter's shiver 
With its wretched frost and freeze.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Queen Elizabeth

The orb and sceptre, ring and crown
each with its cross adorned,
displayed the rule of Christ alone
to mark your fealty sworn. 
But stripped to simple linen gown
and hidden from this globe, 
for power to serve your earthly throne
the oil of heaven flowed. 

You sought to serve Him set apart
not bound by duty on your own,
but strengthened firm and from His heart
to bear your heavy crown. 

We shall not see your like again
defender of the faith,
who served your God through every strain
and subjects here beneath.
God helped you keep your solemn vow,
God saved our gracious queen.
God keep you in our hearts as now,
and after you have been.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

Magpie Murder

Six magpies brought their mourning squawk,
soon joined by several others,
disturbing all their neighbour's talk 
and waking sleepy lovers.

Some hopped and did their swaggered strut 
between a felted flat roof top 
and a guttered water but. 
Some preferred a higher perch 
and troubled nearby taller tops of green leylandii.
 
All the while their squawk increased
and shattered suburb's morning peace.

Two black crows flew overhead and settled, 
one on gable top, the other found his place to stop 
and watch from nearby psychamore.
Upright, silent, silhouettes, 
not bearers of the magpie pall 
but undertaking nonetheless 
to show crow's dignified respects. 

They joined this congregation 
to recognise corvid's connect.
They joined this chorused agitation
while magpies mourned their murdered son, 
crumpled feathers low on grassy ground,
til course of squawk and strut had run,
and one by one they flew, without a sound, 
and all was done, and all was done.

Details | Bob Kimmerling Poem

The Innkeeper

(A dramatised imagination from the Bethlehem Inn - https://vimeo.com/657939760 )


OY! ! 

Who is this, 
will not let me lie and have my rest? 
Must I rouse and don again my robe, 
arrange myself, 
and comb my beard 
to show myself at best. 

Just to tell another traveller - 
‘continue on your road. 
No room, no room, 
for you or any guest.' 


Let me peak, 
and sneak about a little longer. 
Perhaps they will be on their way.
Perhaps they will no longer linger. 
And in my bed again I’ll lay. 
No need to lift a weary finger.

 Let’s see. 
 It’s dark across the fields. 
The night’s no longer mild.
 A man, a maid, 
 she turns, reveals -
this girl is full with child ! - 
Night’s cloak cannot conceal. 

"Shalom Aleichem!" 
The inn is full, we have no bed. 
How long before the child?  
Dear Lord! So soon! She must be fed. 

Please wait, just wait, a little while. 
Let’s see what we can do. 

"Brukhim ha-ba’im.
Dear children, rest your feet. 
Please, please do come in.
The town is full – there, take a seat. 
Perhaps - a bed of straw?” 
I know that we have nothing - 
truly, nothing more.

I shame to greet a stranger 
in such a lowly way.
Perhaps - this cattle manger? 
Should her child arrive this day.
Safe, at least, and warm, 
if placed upon the hay. 

But now, my bed still beckons. 
The wife can do the rest. 
Besides its women’s business - 
The women know what’s best 

Dear wife! 
Bring her here some swaddle,
and clean water from the well -  
(It could be any moment, 
as far as I can tell.) 

Oy!! 
So soon the morning watch? 
The cock has not yet crowed 
Yet, - light shines through the shutter latch -
Far fields are all aglow. 
Is that singing sounding to my ears? 
And shadows moving on the road? 

Some shepherds seem to head this way, 
who else is out at night?
No morning rays announce the day.
My eyes adjust to light. 

Wife!, - awake! 
Pray tell now, am I right? 
I know I am not dreaming, 
I hear an infant’s mewl.

Wife! Go find what is the meaning 
of these sounds within the stall. 
Go! and go now quickly, 
then come and tell me all. 

Oy! ! 
Oh, wife, you made me start. 
Has Bethlehem now been disturbed? 
Do tell me, 
my dear heart. 

Shepherds! Do say, 
what is it they have heard?
A saviour? In our manger? 
But this is quite absurd. 

Is this the coming of the Lord, 
the promise of the Christ? 
Can Judah play this precious part? 
Are all the prophets’ foretold words - 
long pondered in my heart -
revealed this night at last? 

Immanuel, God with us now -
and never to depart. 
Was there ever such a King,
laid in such a lowly state? 
Or a Royal Prince of Peace 
shown to shepherds as they wait.

Or a keeper of this inn
more blessed to welcome in
to home,
and heart’s estate - 

The Forgiver of our sin.