|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
She grabbed at the quarter full pop bottle neck,
cream soda from Marsh’s,
and held like a truncheon, in the harshest
of voices
produced an otherworldly sound, GETOUT!!
“Give me a chance” and he stepped forward.
Stood aside her I moved towards
“****ing try it”
I’d never seen those eyes.
GETOUT!!
He turned and left.
He never normally got angry,
or swore.
I’d only heard him twice before.
Once as a just unwrapped Dunlop 65, badly hooked, hit the Irish Sea and brought blasphemy and profanity,
“Jesus ****ing Christ”
and as he handed me his driver an inappropriate hidden smirk from me,
his Sunday morning caddy,
for a couple of shots and 20p
The second at Elland road,
stood on the Gelderd End Kop,
Clarke swivelling before side footing in from twelve yards with me sat atop
a stanchion,
him stood behind,
“Get the f*** in” and he shook me as I cheered,
right arm aloft,
scarf tied on the wrist,
mimicking Sniffers celebration.
Sharing in the mass elation.
The best birthday treat.
It wasn’t our fight.
The adults crumbled.
We were let down on all sides.
Pre safeguarding times.
No support, no care.
Only the adults got choices,
not the era to listen
to five scared tyke voices.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
She had a masters degree,
from Trinity Cambridge,
was brokering deals in the city,
with overheard talk re. financial leverage.
Whilst I’d a diploma
from a,
“technical” college.
A photographic memory,
from heart she could recite,
the Shakespeare plays and
the complete periodic table,
and her port and whisky bottles had their own silver labels.
A no mortgage flat, Persian cat and a cleaner,
a holiday retreat on some remote Welsh peninsula.
but despite,
the disparity in background and mental capacity,
we clicked and hooked up and for a while,
lived,
quite lustfullly.
To survive, comfortably,
in her social circles,
I needed to eliminate some of the hurdles.
The barriers that doubtless would have stifled,
my chance of becoming,
economically entitled.
A list was produced, and included employment and personal grooming,
but my care free attitude,
Is what attracted her,
I imagined,
what she found appealing.
But lust is short term and knowing,
knowledge is power I began reading her own books and with time on my hands spent hour upon hour.
I read 1984, so not to be a bore,
at her parties.
I read to Kill a Mockingbird, so I would be heard,
at her parties.
I read The Great Gatsby, because I had to be,
at her parties.
I read Death of a Salesman,
to be life and soul,
at her parties.
I read Great Expectations, to get
me out of situations,
at her parties.
I read The Grapes of Wrath, so they wouldn’t laugh,
at her parties.
I read Pride and Prejudice, to stop them extracting the piss,
at her parties.
I read Catcher in the Rye, so I could look people in the eye,
at her parties.
I read The adventures of Huckleberry Finn, just to fit in,
at her parties.
I read book after book,
but no one gave a flying f*** , about me,
at her parties.
Ironically after reading Gullivers travels,
almost as I closed the cover,
she told me to pack my bags.
It was all over.
I went up North,
got a job,
on a three month trial,
as a trainee librarian,
at a private school,
near Carlisle.
The acceptance photograph displaying the Chancellor’s handshake,
new wife,village life
and my f*** you smile,
and a perfectly groomed new hair style.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
Today I made the cake,
cradling the bowl.
Arm aching,
pulling at the fruit.
Her recipe in front, spidery and sherry stained.
And she was here.
I could feel her, smell her Christmas fragrance and
as my bicep burned she held the spoon and through it went
and she was gone.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
Grasping her ticket, she's had since Christmas, in delicate hand.
"Will it still be on Dad?"
and with a forced smile I reply,
"Yes my love"
They can't murder song or fun
with nail bomb or gun
They'll only make the lyrics stronger,
the encores longer,
the clapping louder,
the cheering prouder.
But as I pull her near to hide the tears in her father's eyes that she has never encountered,
when the night arrives will I flounder?
Will I let the bastards win,
and give in to doubt that my beliefs put my child in danger?
Then what message does this send her,
that cowardice is stronger than love and peace and freedom?
We must go on.
Keep playing the songs.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
Lost
I’ve lost her again.
It isn’t the first time.
Previously though her preference was not to be found.
Hiding. Obscuring.
Not to be exposed, camouflaged from the truth.
But it’s different now, inevitability, vulnerability, has smothered belligerence, stubbornness, meanness.
The untruths revealed, opened, unshackled.
The mask has slipped from its skeletal face revealing a past of explanation, excuse, error.
But still as I hold her hand, support, escort, her resistance remains.
Aware I know but unaware who I am, or was, or will be.
Secrets revealed but forever concealed.
Pushing the weight of guilt uphill to the end.
Clear of the pain of lost love.
Free from the choices.
Silent.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
Unlike the Famous Five,
with capers, japes and adventures,
boats and well stocked picnics, we lived
a back street life. With a sock and masking tape ball
and mucky fat sarnies.
The Family Allowance Five.
Each one of us an extra pound.
With facsimile school photos,
in hand me down jumpers and carving knife tread pumps,
floorboard cricket bat and under the bed air rifle.
Crab apple scrumping and tresspassing for mushrooms,
rabbitting before school,
paper round before school,
milk round before school.
Everything came before school.
Sunburnt scoundrels but "never any bother"
Corrugated asbestos roof walkers.
Cinema ticket hawkers.
Unseen, inconsequential, together but apart.
No roots or football boots.
Hot pot bollocks.
One foot here one foot there.
Immigrants finding their way,
but without the ginger beer.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2022
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
To the flour and eggs and sugar add
the night sky, the breeze, laughter and music,
family, respect, hope and love.
Combine them with the care she exudes to others
and create the cake she truly deserves.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
If your even vaguely religious and
think God is the creator.
Kneel, clasp your hands together and pray
because I need the answer,
why the hell is there Cancer?
It has no regard for age,colour or creed.
What is the thinking behind this indiscriminate disease?
If you get a response please tell me please.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
Papers super Doc
Cared out, by the system
Clockless but stand proud.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Timothy Kendall Poem
Our eyes met in the supermarket queue,
She sent my heart a flutter,
But then all thoughts of love ebbed away,
In her basket, margarine not butter.
Copyright © Timothy Kendall | Year Posted 2022
|
|