Bonfire Night
How eager are the children as they look up into the sky,
Reacting to a theatre of sound, colour and light,
A euphoria of expectation, the holding of breath,
The lighting of the bonfire, on top sits the awesome guy,
The igniting in the centre, then the flames that glow so bright,
And in all this heat the guy will meet his death.
The sudden whoosh as the bonfire now takes front stage,
The roaring flames devouring the stack with energy so strong,
Heat growing with each lick from those great feasting tongues,
Crackling, spitting, shooting sparks, turning violent with rage,
A deep orange glow reflected in the faces of the staring throng,
Smoke rising into the hair, the eyes, the nose and then the lungs.
With the fireworks carefully set up, the show can now begin,
With noise from all the pyrotechnics, assailing the ears,
What brilliant hues flash before illuminated lively eyes,
The cheering becomes louder, quickly rising to a din,
Then the cold night enfolds your body as midnight nears,
And the mighty fire, mighty no longer, crumbles and dies.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Me
Me - I could be a Movie Star,
Keep all my facelifts in a jar,
And use them when 'things'
Start to droop
In my soup.
Me - I could be a Fashion Model,
Showing off would be a doddle,
On the catwalk,
Moving my hips with a sway,
What do you say.
Me - I could be a Beauty Queen,
On the famous 'Miss World' scene,
Posing with a gorgeous smile,
Being feted,
I'd be elated.
Me - I could be a Ballet Dancer,
Yeah, a really high class prancer,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Childhood - The 21st Century
How advanced they are, these children of the future,
Like small adults, within their tiny frames,
They grow up in a fast 'speed driven' culture,
Where 'learning pressures' change their kind of games,
Where is their childhood, in all this hurly burly,
Where is their pure untainted view of things,
Why do they have to grow so old, so early,
And lose the joy that only childhood brings.
Our childhood was filled with thoughts of joy and gladness,
We lived our lives, oblivious to the world
And all the hardships, wars, the grief and sadness,
We stood, waiting for our lives to be unfurled.
We had time to grow, and gain an understanding,
Of each new phase, each change along the way,
As we grew slowly, our senses all expanding,
So with clarity, we slowly changed our play.
We had a framework on which to build and flourish,
Slow and steady, this was no rushed affair,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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On The Rails
Phew! This department if so unbearably stifling,
The whole populace is frantically rifling,
Through loads of clothes, hanging up for inspection,
Either for your acceptance, or for your rejection,
On the rails,
At the Sales!
The available sizes left, are eight's and eighteen's,
In shirts, blouses, jumpers and denim blue jeans,
Bra cups in E's and F's and G's.
Skirts so short, they ride way above the knees,
What sort of 'shapes' are these stores expecting,
What choice, have we, when it comes to selecting,
From the rails,
At the Sales!
It's a manic crush, and there's really no mistaking,
Fighting over, items' that aren't worth the taking,
Like that half price dress, that was less than you thought,
But that someone else has just grabbed and has bought,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Star Is Born
The leading man walked onto the stage,
the house lights dimmed, a hush descended,
the play was about to begin.
A drama, powerful and dramatic.
Breaths were held, not one body moved.
Suddenly, he spoke.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm afraid to have to inform you,
that our leading lady has been struck down by laryngitis,
therefore, the show is cancelled'.
Mumblings, rumblings, getting louder and louder.
'Not good enough' shouted someone.
'Sit down and shut up', shouted another.
Uproar! Pandemonium!
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Bath Bliss
Having a bath is so relaxing,
When a day at the office has been so taxing,
We need to ease away our tensions,
Otherwise we may never collect our pensions,
To keep forever on the go,
Rushing to and rushing fro,
Is really just not good for us,
We really must learn to adjust.
Instead of working oneself into a lather,
What are the things that you would rather
Do, that is, if you had the choice,
Be able to get out of that office, and just rejoice?
Look at all the things to do at your leasure,
Lots of things to give you pleasure,
And a hot bath is number one on the list,
One that I don't think you can resist,
It will soothe your worries, soothe your dismay,
Soothe all your aches and pains away,
For the water will do just what it should,
And you know you'll be feeling really good,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Forgotten Accommodation
We climbed the narrow attic stair,
And entered rooms established there.
Thick grey dust lay across the gloom,
Many years spent without a broom.
Cobwebs hung in every place,
New occupants had filled the space.
On a shelf sat an old birdcage,
Tenanted in another age.
Chills swept in from a broken pane,
Small window letting in the rain.
A rickety stained brocade chair,
Seat and back were now threadbare.
Curtains frayed along their edges,
Hanging crooked. Also ledges
Nailed up on the damp crumbling walls,
Odour of abandoned mothballs.
Wallpaper, once with roses pink,
Now gave off a horrendous stink.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Politicians
Politicians, what are you about,
You are supposed to sort things out,
In Parliament, the seat of power,
Well, lets face it, you're a real shower,
For do you govern the country right
On our behalf, I don't think so, quite,
We really do not have a chance,
Listening to you, there's no advance.
It seems the simplest things we need
If left to you, all go to seed,
We wait, we wonder, we can't see why
It takes so long - Oh, how we sigh,
When all your talking comes to now't,
If left to us, we'd well sort out
These problems of our country's ills,
Without resorting to Westminster's pills.
Members of Parliament, what's your game,
Come along now, take the blame,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Trees
Green with spendour when Summer's here,
Brown contender in Autumn's sphere,
Bare the branches in Winter's embrace,
New growth created, when Spring shows her face.
Stalwart trunks, with many years standing,
Leaves when over, steadily landing,
Branches swaying in the breeze,
How I love all kinds of trees.
Forests of green, where they all meet,
Swaying together as they all greet,
Each morning, when the light appears,
Each growing slowly over the years.
Sentinels of the land they survey,
Strong and upstanding in every way,
Graceful, mighty, powerful and fine,
Tall and sleek just like the Pine.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Over the Hill
What is over the hill,
I've always wondered and I wonder still.
Are there fields of meadows sweet,
Or forests for the eye to greet,
Are there cottages and farms,
All so quaint with country charms.
Or are there seas and sandy coves,
Lofty cliffs and sheep in droves,
Lakes with water gleaming bright,
Willows weeping at the sight.
Could there be a river wide,
With boats all moored along each side,
Or a canal which peacefully meanders,
Past boathouses with their verandas.
Perhaps there is a town of people,
A large stone church with bell and steeple,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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