An Architectural Dream
I delight in the spires of Churches,
Pointing upwards, to the sky.
Stretching towards the heavens,
With our praises rising high.
They dominate the landscape,
Calling everyone to prayer,
Grey lichen covered pinnacles,
Of stone, layer upon layer.
Built back in another era,
They've repelled strong winds and rain,
Standing stalwart in their dignity,
So steadfast they remain.
Some of them, plain and simple,
Others show carvings so fine,
Each turret carved by unknown hands,
Beauty reflected, in these eyes of mine.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Countless Waiting Gems
My fingers move across the empty page.
Its shining smoothness pure and newly felt.
But not one word on it has yet been spelt,
All inspiration hides within a cage.
And sadly there’s no key, to set it free.
Ideas come and then ideas go,
No single letter, up to now’s been writ.
Perhaps one’s trying too hard, just a bit.
I’ll ease up for a while, and take it slow.
Let my tired mind believe that I’ll achieve.
Ink within my pen has suddenly dried,
So has my font of countless waiting gems.
Nothing is left now in my old brainstems.
I think my mind is on a downward slide.
Could this then be my age, my final stage.
No it is just a bleep, all will be well,
My mind will open up and will receive,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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My Fantastic Motif
One small leaf was being rolled down the pavement,
bowled headlong by the wind,
which sent it travelling at such speed,
as if the need was to use this power so vast,
to get to somewhere fast.
Then suddenly it became wrapped against a lamp post,
trapped.
It started flapping as the wind changed direction
and like a sprightly ghost,
was off again from its connection.
I was so sure of what it was,
but the more I looked at it,
I realised that it was only a tiny piece of a black plastic bag,
like a rag,
tumbling along the avenue,
stumbling over obstacles as it flew.
How can one be so deceived,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Foolproof Strategy
What powerful things, are an eagle's wings,
As he soars high on currents of air.
So graceful in flight, when seen at great height,
Oh! How you wish you could be there.
Gliding supreme, in a wonderful dream,
Free as that proud bird of prey.
A beautiful sight, when his sharp eyes alight
On good food, when off on a foray.
In silence he sits, motionless, his wits
Gauging what his next move ought to be.
Such elegance and style, he hunts with such guile,
Endowed with a foolproof strategy.
His skill is top-notch he is always on watch,
For creatures that are travelling with haste.
He swoops with sheer speed, and captures his feed,
Devouring it, and loving the taste.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Harbour Lights
The harbour lights are beckoning,
Our stout boat is riding high,
By the distant view, we're reckoning,
We are nearly home and dry.
We've travelled many an ocean,
And weathered storms so wild,
Of the seas, we have a notion,
By it all, we've been beguiled.
There've been times when we have wavered,
And times when concern was rife,
Many moments we have savoured,
And pondered upon this life.
But seafaring days are our days,
And when all is said and done,
These seas attract, in such special ways,
And conquering them can be fun.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Cheerio!
The hackney carriage has pulled up at the door, what more could one ask for.
Off on a unknown trip, one last zip to do up on the case.
He’ll leave no trace of having been here, not at all.
He hadn’t had a ball, now it was time to move on, soon he would be gone.
Made no real friends, this is where it ends.
Bags stowed away in the taxi, lifts in the Dachsy and then they’ll be off.
One last look at what was home, and across the road at the Hippodrome.
He never went in there, perhaps he was too square.
Meters, logging up the cost.
Feeling kind of lost.
Station please.
Loneliness feels like a disease, at least he’s got the dog,
but with him there is no dialogue, just a one way conversation,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Promise
She watched the flames as they flickered up the coals,
and felt the warmth emanate from them.
Not a real fire, of course,
but one that was commanded by electricity,
effective none the less.
Leaning back in the chair, she thought,
funny how we can be taken in by something ‘fake’
that looks so genuine.
Like his stories, all bogus, burning the heart, slowly.
When they first met, all was dreamy.
He was handsome, charming, debonair,
compatibility seemed to exist between them.
The perfect gent that she had hoped to find.
Then she found out it was all a sham,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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An Alien Place
Our scorched earth erupts into belligerent flames,
Fanned by the wind, they sweep very fast down the plain,
They seem to delight, in their playing of these games,
When blue skies can deliver no deluge of rain.
Burnt down and blackened, all the tree trunks stand stark,
Leaving this wide landscape like an alien place,
Smoke billowing, the harsh flames start licking the bark,
Like huge hungry tongues that fear forfeiting the race.
Hastening onwards, with a strong wild winning urge,
With impetus, flora and fauna devouring,
Stripping the land bare, as it starts on its mad surge,
This fire, that has come to be so overpowering.
These flames ever feeding, engulf at such a speed,
Everything in their wake, is now changed into dust,
But from this devastation, each tiny new seed,
Will shoot new once again from this earth's ravaged crust.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Emptiness Descends
I've lost him in the clouds
gone from my view,
And however deep I seek
I can't pursue,
This man who was my love
someone so true,
So very much my refuge
my rendezvous.
Such emptiness descends
my world is blue!
If I could fly up high
would he be there,
Looking down with eyes
that show his care,
Remembering the times
we used to share,
There isn't anyone
who can compare,
Such emptiness descends
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Earth Rolls On
Who is the young man, who stands at the dawn of the day,
And views the world with a frivolous outlook, and with ease,
He dreams, new dreams, his life years from decay,
As if the earth were his, and he had only himself to please.
Who is the middle aged man, who stands at the dawn of the day,
And views the world, with an eye of someone so unbelieving,
With stress and pressures, which weigh him down like clay,
He finds the earth to be a place that's so unforgiving.
Who is the old man, who stands at the dawn of the day,
And views the world, with a subdued and despondent air,
He's seen life come and go, and from him now, it's speeding away,
And the earth that he remembers, is no longer fair, no longer there.
But the earth rolls on,
And our lifespan, too, will soon be gone.
The young, the middle aged and the old.
Their stories told.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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