Our Unique Imagination
It was just simply made from curtain rings,
rubber bands, sticky tape and silver springs.
Paper clips, coat hangers and old door knobs,
shelving brackets, plywood and bits and bobs.
Bicycle wheels, chipboard and plastic pipes,
material in rainbow coloured stripes.
A wooden high chair, nuts, bolts, nails and screws,
anything at all that easily glues.
Old exhaust, cords, cogs, and a rusted pan,
an empty squashed, washed out Heinz baked beans can.
One waste paper basket and rickety stool,
heavy roll of wire on cardboard spool.
Ball of strong string and pieces of leather,
most of great use when welded together.
Joined in one huge magical creation,
formed from our unique imagination.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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My Beau
I sat, my back resting against a tree trunk,
The sun shining full on my face,
I felt as if my whole being had shrunk,
As I looked out, at this huge open space.
This tree was enormous, such girth must have been
Created by vast centuries of time,
I was but a speck, when from such distance seen,
Yet it stood strong, as if just in its prime.
The views were stupendous, and over the lake,
Four herons were skimming in pairs,
So elegant were they, as each circle they'd take,
No, rushing with time, and no cares.
And as I sat pondering, the lake sparkled on,
The tree trunk, at my back, my support,
Then all of a sudden the sunshine had gone,
And a shadow across me was wrought.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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This Grim Place
The alleyway was starved of sun,
no golden beams through it, did run.
In this dank murk sat cats on bins,
and drunkards sleeping off their sins.
Winds whistled down it, tossing trash,
large rats would make a sudden dash.
Famished felines would jump and pounce,
sending galvanized lids to bounce,
onto the ground. Silence broken,
swearing now from tenants woken.
then all’s quiet, except the snoring,
and rodents with strong jaws, gnawing.
Living here is sheer survival.
Poverty’s made its arrival.
But somehow, in all this squalor,
where there’s not one cent or dollar,
here people and creatures exist,
taking issue with claw and fist.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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In Profusion
In bloom, the Rose of Sharon, with its honey yellow hue,
Along with the graceful Jasmine, Clematis and Lilac too.
Followed by the Buddleia, that the butterflies so love,
Sedum, Quince and Penstemon, and the tall Foxglove.
With Crocosmia of orange and lime green Hosta bright,
London Pride, Pansy, Primula, what joy they all invite.
Geraniums in profusion, charm the glancing eye,
And standing proud, as if on guard, the grand gladioli.
Lily of the Valley with dainty bell shapes, white,
Japanese Anemones that close their heads at night.
Lavender and Fuchsia plus Hydrangea pink and blue,
All these lovely flowers grow in my backyard venue.
Pleasure is in the looking and seeing such a show,
A palate of such beauty, like the sweep of a rainbow,
Nature in all its excellence, dresses this vibrant scene.
In one small English garden these genre thus convene.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Their Day's Begun
Footsteps echo down a narrow alley,
black cat on watch, stretches, expanding his claws.
Far away an owl hoots out a warning,
then silence returns, no banging of doors.
An eerie time reigns when darkness descends,
each noise seems louder, shattering the night.
And one’s hearing’s sharper, alert to sounds,
for anything strange can give way to fright.
Everywhere are shadows, lights are dim,
who would be brave, to venture out late.
Behind every bush is a spooky ghoul,
ready to scare you, and their niche vacate.
Footsteps echo down a narrow alley,
Dogs roam, searching for morsels to eat.
Dustbins rattle, hunting gains momentum,
inquisitive muzzles, scouring the street.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Races
The turf flies,
The fillies run,
My bet applies,
I did it for fun,
The thunderous sound,
They passed so fast,
The rumbling ground,
Is still at last,
The silence has come,
My ears adjust,
The voices hum,
My throat is trussed,
Did ours come first? ,
I hope she did,
Gosh, such a thirst,
Need to be rid,
How about a whisky.
Well done my pet,
She's a little frisky,
Now pet, don't fret,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Can You Not See
Can you not see the sorrow, in someone's tearful eyes,
Or see the dread, in someone's weary frown.
Can you not see the fear, when someone's telling lies,
Or feel the sadness, in the laughter of a clown.
Can you not see disappointment, in someone's shoulder stoop,
Or the hand of doubt, when someone drags their feet.
Their whole being, giving signs, with a sagging body droop,
That their life, in this world, isn't quite complete.
Can you not see that each poor soul, has a heavy cross to bear,
One which we hope, will never come our way,
Perhaps the onus, is on us, to show them that we care,
And lift their spirits, and take away dismay.
Then we could see the smile, in someone's brightening eyes,
And the serenity, in someone's lifting frown.
The openness, when someone speaks, they'll have no need for lies,
And there will be a healing, in the laughter of a clown.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Apple Orchard
A sunny afternoon, with blanket spread,
Beneath some apple trees, with ample shade,
We'd sit with tray of tea and gingerbread,
Scones with cream, and these were freshly homemade.
Apples hung above us, each ripe and red,
So colourful, they somehow set the scene.
Sampling strawberry jam on thin sliced shortbread,
We'd lay and watch the leaves, with sun between.
Peaceful lazy days were these, and so free,
Whiling away hours, with paint and book,
Our orchard, where under a favoured tree,
We'd relish Peter Pan and Captain Hook.
Those rosy apples, that we'd all consume,
And savour juicy flesh so soft and sweet,
Eating them until we had no more room,
Those halcyon days were to us a treat.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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If You Would, Please
Pass the salt dear, if you would, please,
I need to put some on these peas.
But not the pepper, now don’t tease,
you know it always makes me sneeze.
The horseradish sauce, is so nice,
it gives the meal a touch of spice.
But too much and you’ll pay the price,
it’ll burn your tongue in just a trice.
The tartare sauce is worth a try,
this is so true, I do not lie.
With luscious fish baked in a pie,
then served with a piquant stir fry.
What about chocolate dessert,
some extra calories won’t hurt.
then more cream, just maybe a squirt,
and watch it doesn’t stain your shirt.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Knots That Bind
I've loved as I will never love again,
A precious lovely gift, my life with you.
Although I know I search for you in vain,
I'll look back to a love that was so true.
If I could only hold your hand once more,
And speak with words that say how much I care,
Then my lonely heart would really start to soar,
And I would find a sweetness, Oh, so rare.
I feel your presence still, you are so near,
And if I cry a tear, then that's okay,
For when with me, you were so very dear,
A piercing pain struck deep, on your leaving day.
Cherished are the thoughts I have within,
No separation can cut the knots that bind,
You were the greatest, how can I begin,
There's no communication. I'm left behind.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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