The Hairdresser

I think his name was Carlo, or was it maybe Marlow,
He was as handsome, as he could possibly be,
I offered him my 'head' and mentally my 'bed',
I imagined perhaps he'd really fancy me.

His fingers, long and slender, caressed my hair with tender
Manipulation, as he curled each strand,
His work was so artistic, my nerves were going ballistic,
My thoughts of 'frenzied passion' were being fanned.

His body was too near, and I hoped he couldn't hear
These thoughts that now, were whirling through my mind,
His hands were making quivers go down my spine, and shivers
Were finding places of another kind.

He asked if I was elated, by the 'hair do' he had created,
And hoped I would come back again real soon,
I stood up in a trance, and without a second glance,
Turned from him, feeling like a proper 'goon'.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Fair Sized Elevation

The Stadium was ready for a thrilling floodlit game,
All the Fans were there, eager to give acclaim.
Out ran the teams, rearing to play their part,
Along with the Referee, who was anxious to start.

When all were prepared, the exciting scene was set,
Each side were hoping for goals inside their net.
At half-time though, not one single man had scored,
Something that to both sides couldn’t be ignored.

Then a silence fell, and eyebrows began to twitch,
What was that mound there, in the centre of the pitch.
A heap of earth was growing at a very rapid rate,
And a fair sized elevation was seen to accumulate.

A black nose peeped out from the heart of the soil,
Sniffing the air after a lot of sweat and toil.
For Mr Mole had chosen a very prestigious patch,
‘Right bang’ in the middle of a football match,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Scenes One Sees

I sat upon a dry stone wall,
And looked towards the distant hills,
The ferns around my feet grew tall,
Convolvulus too, with its long tendrils.

Down in the valley a church I spied,
With a weathervane atop its tower,
A solitary place, now unoccupied,
Whose clock did chime on every hour.

On the horizon sat a misty haze,
A softening blue, so cool a look,
And down the lane, the sheep did graze,
Alongside a rippling, and singing brook.

I stood and stretched my weary form,
And started down a rutted track,
The air was sultry and so warm,
Pleasant too, as I started back.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Encounter

Well, how nice to see you,
My, what a surprise,
Gosh, it's definitely ages,
How the time flies,
How are you fairing?
Oh, I'm certainly glad,
Me, well as things go,
There's been some good, some bad,
What brings you back here then,
Is it for a long stay,
Where have you come from,
Goodness, that's quite a way,
You must love the sunshine,
You've a lovely deep tan,
Yes, my other half's okay,
How's yours, was it Dan,
It; s Pete, you've remarried,
Taken on a new name,
Well it seems all the rage,
Got friends, doing the same,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Rejection

I met him on a summer's day,
Lights sparkled in his eyes,
I felt that love had come my way,
I never once thought that he'd betray
My love, I had no thought of 'goodbyes'.

He turned my world so upside down,
He mesmerised me then,
He praised me on my choice of gown,
I felt as if he wore a crown,
For he towered above other men.

I thought that true love, I had found,
A love that was so sublime,
But I was wrong, he was not bound
To me, yet my heart can still resound
With sweet rung bells, that chime

How can one suddenly forget a face,
So dear, so deeply held

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Such Unspoken Awe

On the shore our footprints are engulfed by the rippling tide,
Their marks defined, then visible no more.
Nothing at all to show that we have ever passed this way,
Along a lonely shale strewn windy shore.

Here the mighty elements converge and grow in strength,
Each one in turn will use its special guile.
A clever tenacious game played continually day and night,
Never planned, for it'll always be freestyle.

These forces, are always changing as they turn about and form,
Increasing with a vigour unsurpassed.
With potency, all hell with venom fierce, is then unleashed,
Assaulting everything with anger vast.

Our pounding hearts that beat so uninvited, loud and clear,
Join with eagerness, the raging storm.
A crescendo of passion rises up and starts to fill the mind,
As two enraptured souls, wholly transform.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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So Much That I Could Learn

If only the aged trees could speak,
What tales they might have to recite.
This giant oak has stood for years,
Having grown to a massive height.

And as the decades have done their time,
So many things they must have seen,
As the centuries of human life,
Have passed across this Village Green.

Smart gentry and also tired labourers,
Staunch farmers and shy parlourmaids.
Coy lovers in their starry-eyed loitering,
Sly poachers intent on their trades.

Nannies with their precious charges
Out for a long summer stroll.
Travellers trudging through the snow
To reach their eventual goal.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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I'm The Real Santa Claus

An old man in a red suit, appeared out of the blue,
And said 'My young friend, I've been searching for you,
Next Christmas will come and what I want you to be,
Is good, kind and thoughtful on a year's guarantee.

With his white bushy beard and his bright sparkling eyes,
He looked very jolly and also so wise,
Smiles lit up his face, each a merry wide grin,
And a radiance spread around him, from somewhere within.

He said 'Christmas is here and I'm the real Santa Claus,
I travel so fast, there is hardly a pause,
Delivering great presents to cheer and to please,
And down many unswept chimneys I struggle to squeeze'.

'What would you like for Christmas' he asked speaking low,
'Perhaps happiness, some joy, a warm heart aglow,
Family and friends to laugh with and to share,
The turkey and trimmings, traditional festive fare'.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Poppies

Poppies they say adieu, goodbye,
men fought, yet did not want to die,
Poppies were tossing, waving free,
as war took lives so poignantly.

Poppies upstanding, boldly grow,
youth enlisted but did not know,
Poppieswould represent such pain,
that they would never forget the slain.

Poppies beautiful, fresh and new,
All one bright colour, flawless hue,
Poppies petals see where they land,
upon a face, an arm or a hand.

Poppies vibrant, stunningly red,
softly surround each silent head,
Poppies fragile, dainty and neat,
guard the space around their feet.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Mona Lisa's Smile

What can I paint, what's in my mind,
I've joined this Club to fathom out Art.
Creating my own Masterpiece,
a vision that comes straight from the heart.

I‘ve loads of tubes with colours filled,
and brushes that can produce the style,
A canvas large enough to start,
to achieve the Mona Lisa's smile.

Sketching an outline could be great,
if some inspiration I expel.
I'll sit and contemplate a while,
something might suddenly ring a bell.

Others seem to be doing well,
they are all intent on mixing shades,
With fine honed skills their brushstrokes sweep,
and my pint-sized confidence just fades.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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