I'm Thinking
The pen is gripped between my fingers.
The tension grows, an idea lingers,
And yet somehow it’s stuck.
I’m thinking, ‘just my luck’!
The pen is starting to want to play,
Upon the paper, and have its say.
And yet there’s no feedback.
I’m thinking, ‘I’m off track’!
The pen is tapping away frustrated,
The owner’s now infuriated.
And yet one shall still strive.
I’m thinking, ‘it must arrive’!
The pen is gyrating all about,
There’s something definite coming out.
And yet, a nervous time.
I’m thinking, ‘will it rhyme? ’,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Kettledrum's Arena
There is gorse, of course, and furze growing across the moor.
The oak and ash are there in grouped confusion.
Tousled roaming horses, search for sources of grass, mature,
And the hawthorn and elm, remain standing in seclusion.
Brilliant sunshine burns, and turns the heather, distinctly bronze.
And tumbling brooks sparkle exceedingly, in its glow.
Misty mornings descend, and they befriend the drying fronds,
While natural springs freely bubble and gently flow.
Birds invade this space, and race each other o’er the fells,
Crying and squawking in the fresh clear air.
The scene becomes, a kettledrum’s arena, where music dwells,
And swift and sprightly ventures out the hare.
With ears alert to danger, he’s a ranger on this earth,
But a fine and nimble creature in his guise.
Here one can measure, nature’s treasure, beauty of such worth,
And then again, there is the owl who’s always wise.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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In A Classy Cafe
They are two smart ladies, in a cafe, drinking tea,
Both chattering away so fast, and so very merrily,
They have obviously, to my mind, been friends for many years,
One of them is talking, the other one, she hears,
Then they change around, so it works the other way,
The talker listens hard, to what the other has to say.
One lady wears such a fashionable, stylish coat of red,
The second one has no coat at all, but what she wears instead
Is a very neat designer dress of a gentle pastel blue,
With a string of pearls around her neck, and pearl earrings too.
Such clear sophistication, they both elegantly display,
One with brown hair, shoulder length, one with short hair, grey,
A Mother and her Daughter, of that I have no doubt,
Just meeting here together, I know not what about,
But they seem to be very happy, and don't even notice us,
Watching so attentively. Oh! , Heck, now we've missed our bus!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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My Sage Green Robe
I sit on my bed, and look across at my sage green towelling robe,
hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
Does he still 'fancy' me,
when I'm wearing it,
probably not,
it's not 'sexy', rather 'frumpy' really,
not at all an 'exciting' piece of clothing.
A dowdy bird,
dowdy and unheard!
I think that's me!
A 'new' me, must emerge from that robe.
A butterfly from a chrysalis,
A rose from a bud.
I think I need an overhaul, and a new 'robe',
like you see the 'famous' wearing,
in their 'penthouses'.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Heavenly Force
Summer's warmth floats in the air,
Here, there and everywhere.
Sunshine escaping between the cloud,
Waking our minds from brooding bowed.
So let it therefore persevere,
By entering, without impediment, the atmosphere,
Where we sojourn in silent contemplation,
Just pondering, there is no loud oration.
A kind of gentle tranquil bliss,
Where in, we tend to reminisce,
On all those summers gone before,
Such pleasant memories we've kept in store.
We bring them forth once the season's right,
When sunbeams shine so brilliantly bright.
Lifting our hearts with joyful things,
As if our spirits had been given wings.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Classy Voyagers
A Thames barge bobbed about on a choppy sea,
Its brown canvas sails welcoming the winds strength.
One sturdy craft, well built with good width and length,
Making its way towards the wooden jetty.
Plying across the water’s rolling white crest,
Not hurrying, moving with a peaceful glide.
Ruled each time by the turning of the tide,
Sailing to and fro upon its patient quest.
Such a solid proven structure their design,
These working vessels were always on the go,
Relying on the strong squally gales that blow,
A beautiful sight when seen from the shoreline.
Grace is written all over each ample frame,
A boat that famous artists loved to paint.
Their style is what you might call rather quaint,
And yet its odd shape has its own claim to fame.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Keep Compiling
Do you think, we two, just you and me,
having reached the age of sixty-three,
could find fame by writing poetry.
Or should we continue to compose,
some assorted mild prose,
which then is lost in indistinct obscurity.
Whatever be out hope and our desire,
we always try so hard to thus aspire,
to create a poem that's so exemplary.
And a dream can still persist,
inside our mind's wish-list,
but fades so fast from it, eventually.
Yet never stopping, we just keep compiling,
verse after verse, each one becomes beguiling,
creating our own spoken tapestry,
So on reaching sixty-four,
will we be writing even more,
from our intellect, an untapped treasury.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Our Favourite Subject
Let us discuss our weather,
For it's what we English do,
Sometimes it pours, hell for leather,
And sometimes the sky is blue.
It is forever changing,
The forecast can be dire,
And temperatures can be ranging,
From cold to hot as fire.
We moan, when it is sizzling,
We moan, when it's cold and raw,
We moan, when it is drizzling,
And when it's snowing, even more.
It is our favourite subject,
Talked of from morn till night,
We never know what to expect,
Whether Centigrade or Fahrenheit.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Toxophilite
The target ranged at 100 yards,
The bow, strung ready to yield,
The power entrusted in its pull,
Sends the arrows down the field.
Each one with red coloured feathers,
Each alloy shaft balanced for speed,
The string is drawn, then with tension held,
It shall surely the 'bulls eye' feed.
Like a bullet sprung from a barrel,
The arrow flies out of sight,
And then a 'thud' as it hits the butt,
It's a game that can't help but excite.
A steady stance, and strong muscled arms,
Are needed to perfect the aim,
With a quiver and bow sight, you can become,
Archer, Toxophilite, Bowman, the same.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Severance
She passed him walking down the lane,
She looked his way, but all in vain,
He paid no heed, no turn of his head,
She was once his love, her heart now bled.
Why was he cold, and so aloof,
This indifference, she supposed was proof,
Love no longer existed, it was gone forever,
No more would they find love together.
They now, could not be even friends,
How could she start to make amends,
She had not wanted this affair,
She'd apologised, her heart laid bare.
But no words of forgiveness came her way,
There were no words that she could say,
To ease the pain she had inflicted,
Upon this man, now so afflicted.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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