Rising With The Morning

Colour me bright yellow, so I reflect the sun,
Let me sink down gently when the day is done,
Rising with the morning, summer's warmth inbue,
Shining with the happiness of always loving you.

Colour me bright amber, like the autumn's glow,
Let me sink down gently, onto falling leaves below,
Rising with the morning, misty with the dew,
Enveloped with the happiness of truly loving you.

Colour me bright silver, as in the sparkling snow,
Let me sink down gently when the cold winds blow,
Rising with the morning, winter's ice to strew,
Trembling with the happiness of warmly loving you.

Colour me bright emerald, now spring's on the way,
Let me sink down gently on our soft duvet,
Rising with the morning, seeing things brand new,
Sighing with the happiness of me just loving you.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Walls

Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.

Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.

Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.

Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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An Eerie Game

Why is it that one's mind can be all confusion,
With senses reeling in a blurred illusion,
One's thinking, cotton wool,
They're thinking, 'what a fool',
Perhaps it's all a paranoid delusion.

Bewildered thoughts shoot off in all directions,
Goodness knows who's still in one's affections,
With forgetting just one name,
It's like playing an eerie game,
So hard to try and work out the connections.

So where can one find answers to this jumble,
This feeling that one's head's about to crumble,
One needs a fast solution,
To get rid of such pollution,
And save one from a very nasty tumble.

Maybe a good night's sleep might do the trick,
Then one could wake up feeling fantastic,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Sharing Our Last Pistachios

We all need a place to call our own.
A space where we can be alone.
To let our thoughts be sorted out,
seeking what life is all about,
and our lives to finer hone.

We all need a friend to hear our woes.
Someone who our frail weakness knows.
To chat with, joke, laugh, dream and cry,
letting our problems heavenwards fly,
and sharing our last pistachios.

We all need a love to warm our days.
One that leads us down shared walkways.
Two in unison, perfect pair,
both cherishing and showing care,
hoping for skies of blues, not greys.

We all need a place to call our own.
A niche that is our private zone.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Mr Snowman

All alone, a snowman stands, staring out at the world.
What a life!
Short, cold, freezing really,
rigidly waiting for the 'melting' feeling to arrive.

The children have made him as comfortable as they can.
A nice bright red check scarf, a carrot nose, which he can nibble on, if he gets a bit peckish!
Nice black velvet hat, which he feels is worth having, cos it makes him feel important, and keeps his head warm!

They usually build him a friend, someone he can chat to, but not this year.
Apart from a robin who sings, way up above his head, in the holly bush, he's alone,
and time hangs heavily upon him, especially when the long nights descend.

But, he's just a snowman, a no-man,
yet he gives the children such pleasure, which cheers his chilly heart
and makes his 'life' worthwhile.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Those Creams

Clotted and sour, whipped and double,
All delicious when laid on the tongue,
One could find oneself in deep trouble,
It's hard, keeping the figure young.

They melt with so much pleasure,
When you deem to taste their charm,
And if you're sampling them at leisure,
They can do you a lot of harm.

Inches creep onto your waistline,
And without warning, before very long,
Your poor body becomes less divine,
And your willpower, becomes less strong.

The flavoured ones, they are so yummy,
Nutty mixtures, with chocolate and fudge,
But they're no good at all for your tummy,
And will not help those inches to budge.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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One Kite

I watched a paper kite in colours dressed,
go climbing high into the clear warm air.

It soared way up, and as it so progressed,
my whole mind very soon became aware,
of feelings, so downhearted and depressed,
that suddenly I started to compare,
my staid and stagnant life, which had compressed
into a nonentity,
with that of my quite perfect love affair,
now gone forever.

My spirit was possessed
with such a lightness,
that I felt no more despair,
for life was opened wide to me, and blessed,
by a confidence, that was so extraordinaire.

One kite had lifted up my soul and had impressed
on me, to stand four-square,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Intriguing Creations

Canvas sails of the windmill, secured to their whips,
Circle around on slow orbital trips.
No hurrying to speed the day’s hours away,
The winds hold them captive, they have to obey.

The blades catch the currents that travel along,
Turning continuously, powerful and strong.
Moving the mechanism of sprockets rotating,
Crushing the corn and then flour creating.

What a joy when you see one, they stand proud and tall.
A relic of times when the miller would haul
Jute sacks full of wheat, which he would then kibble,
In that dusty old place, where the mice came to nibble.

The Smock Mill, the Post Mill and the Tower Mill well knew,
The procedure of grinding the grain fine and true.
But these intriguing creations are now hard to find,
As the old time traditions are now left far behind.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Sweetest Song

Sweet song of youth that wishes to escape,
and shape this world, with wings unfurled.

Such energies abound, and how very
sound, seem all the theories.

But maybe they are illusions, or forgone conclusions.

We all, when young think we are among the
famous-to-be and the strong, but time can prove wrong.

For very few will battle it through, to carve their name
in the hall of fame.

Sad but true, I'm afraid, it's really hard to make the grade.

If luck does come your way, you'll be distinguee.
But don't aim too high, unless you can fly, for to drop
from any elevated place, is to fall from grace, and no one
likes to tumble from the top, and be a flop.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Nowhere To Hide

I drove through each dancing, tumbling leaf,
that rolled with great speed across the street.
And as the wind blew, each did retreat
to their final destiny, too brief.

With such gaiety they twirled and spun,
partying with unleashed energy.
Perhaps they were up to devilry,
enjoying themselves when day was done.

Their colours were of the richest kind,
gold, orange, yellow, red, beige and brown.
With gentle ease they had fluttered down,
copper richness on the ground combined.

With this spectacle each year to view,
it warms our hearts before winter-tide.
When trees become bare, nowhere to hide,
grey starkness against the blue sky’s hue.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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