Read Me!
Life is full of coloured posters,
You'll find them pasted everywhere,
On walls, on doors, on hoardings,
Triangular, round and square.
On vans, lorries and buses,
Wherever there's a space,
You're, bombarded by them constantly,
They are right there in your face.
On anything, they'll stick them,
No matter where that may be,
They leave your brain in tatters,
As they shout at you, READ ME!
We've become an 'Advert' nation,
And the future's looking black,
You never know, you might even find,
That they've stuck one, on your back!
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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My Angel
An angel floated overhead,
With such soft gentle eyes,
I lay entranced upon my bed,
'Is this like when one dies? ',
The notion flashed quick through my mind,
How was it he was here,
Why was he hovering, I was inclined,
To ask, but I in fear
Did not have courage to move or speak,
I seemed completely dumb,
There was no way that I could seek
An answer, I felt too numb.
He spread his wings and flew away,
The mists rolled in above,
And I sensed that I just had to pray,
My heart was filled with love.
I raised my head and looked around,
And then suddenly I knew
It was a dream and with awareness, found
My angel had been you!
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Perfectly Displayed
A dusting of white, like icing sugar, coats the dry cold ground.
Such crisp, sharp layers of frost, which as yet the sun’s not found.
So fresh and clean, an early sparkling welcome to the day,
Along with bracing breezes that bring shivers into play.
Whistling through stripped branches, of all the autumn’s trees,
Standing so tall and motionless, to greet the coming freeze.
One fairytale sketched landscape, a feast to meet the eyes,
As dawn’s inhabitants creep forth, with their enchanting cries,
Something stirs within one’s core, so beautiful this scene,
Perfectly displayed each morning, with the winter’s evergreen.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Strange Extremes
I end up dreaming every night,
Of such mixed up funny views,
They're all in vivid colours bright,
I never know what I'll peruse.
Each dream won't have an ending,
Or beginning, so it seems,
All are bizarre in the blending,
Showing very strange extremes.
I'm glad they're only creations
Within my unconcious mind,
Swirling in weird locations,
And everything undefined.
My dream only lasts just barely
Four seconds, in its time,
But it seems to me to be fairly
Long, a bit like a pantomime.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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There Lies A Stain
The continuous noise of a rock being struck,
Multiplying hundreds of times.
The pick on stone, like the hammer that strikes,
on a clock that forever chimes.
The well muscled arms, and the sweating backs,
toiled onwards with not a thirst slaked.
These stolen men, harshly chained to a line,
Oh, how their shattered bodies ached.
White dust seeped into each eye and dry mouth,
beneath that cruel blistering heat.
From sunrise they‘d work until past sunset,
with barely a moment to eat.
For wealth they were seized, captive they’d remain,
No status within our country.
And in history books, lies a huge stain,
of the evil of slavery.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Perfections Highway
Do you feel the tapping of your feet.
Do you sense a quickening of the beat.
Rhythm in colour, rhythm in design,
Rhythm in your ear, rhythm in mine.
Hear the music liven up your soul.
Hear the notes as vibrating sounds control.
Let the pulsation give a serene touch,
Let the tempo mean to you, so much.
Sweet melody, weaving pleasant dreams.
Sweet melody, is always what it seems.
In accord, let intricate songs entwine,
In accord, they mingle, all so fine.
Come now, let the volume swell and strain.
Come now, let it be your best loved refrain.
For you, great symphonies will start to play.
For you, cloud nine’s perfections highway.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Togetherness
The years roll by from girl to woman,
The years roll by from boy to man,
Then one of them will find the other,
A 'fusion' part of God's great plan.
For this Bride and Groom are on an adventure,
Which will sometimes give a bumpy ride,
But they will travel well the journey,
As long as they stay, side by side.
There's love, joy, smiles and laughter,
There's happiness along life's way,
We wish them a path that is calm and peaceful,
As they proclaim their vows today.
We wish them health along life's highway,
We wish them blessings from above,
We wish them God's own hand to guide them,
That their life together be filled with love.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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You May Believe
Four elements, fire, earth, air and water,
Each on the calendar takes a quarter.
Fire and water together do not mix,
Fire always needs air, for that is its fix.
Earth, air and water that is a trio.
In what section would we find our Leo.
Horoscopes are some peoples obsession,
All the forecasts would give one depression.
You may believe them or you may not,
But quite frankly, I do not care a jot.
I’m an Aries and I’m a fiery one.
A Ram, well Ewe, when all is said and done.
Whatever prediction, for good or ill,
Will on a few occasions fit the bill.
Astrology will continue to lure,
All who feel readings can foretell ‘Amour’.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Reflection
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why do I look in you, at all,
For all I see is the same old me,
And not how I so want to be.
Mirror, mirror on the stairs,
Why do you show me many years,
A face with wrinkles everywhere,
Would anybody like my share.
Mirror, mirror near my bed,
In you I look with certain dread,
For creams and potions just don't work,
Behind them still the wrinkles lurk.
Mirror, mirror in the hall,
Seeing you makes me recall,
That I am now of senior age,
Well stuck into the wrinkles stage.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Blossoming
Tight new buds are bursting forth,
to dress the nude lands around.
Shrubs and trees are awakened,
above the now warming ground.
Each growing gently stronger,
as the spring days slip on by.
Blossoming with such merit,
whilst they’re smiling at the sky.
Their colours have great richness,
they glow in the strong sunshine.
And hearts are so uplifted,
when all the lush hues combine.
Truly glorious visions,
as fresh shoots race to achieve.
They welcome in the summer,
for sheer beauty they do weave.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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