Love At First Sight
Shy monster closed his only eye,
and let a tear run down his nose.
He didn’t really like to cry,
but such sadness in him arose.
No one would love him, he was sad,
and dropped his head in deep despair.
Why was he made to look so bad,
it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.
He fought hard not to think like this,
he’d smile and put on a brave face.
All he had wanted was just a kiss,
and someone to perhaps, embrace.
Nobody else looked quite like him,
he was the only ugly one.
Now all his hopes were looking dim,
would he find his own ‘honeybun’.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Bargains Galore!
The erudite auctioneer, with a voice loud and clear,
Is selling off bizarre stuff, some of it is quite duff,
Things that other folk hate, which is then called top rate,
Yes, people will buy, but goodness knows why!
His gavel descends, then somebody spends.
They produce ready cash, for these goods we call 'trash'.
There are bargains galore, to go out through the door,
Though auctions require fees, which brings some to their knees.
All things can be viewed, with the right attitude,
By a true connoisseur, who is no amateur,
And we did make the grade, when we sold the 'teasmade',
Yep! the saleroom's real great, if you investigate.
Take some effects you don't like, perhaps the Van Dyke,
It should raise a high price, it's pretty fine merchandise.
With the bidding intense, you are kept in suspense,
'Til the very last bid, when you make a few quid.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Boat I Sail
I'm looking into a picture of a turbulent stormy sea,
And imagining I am battling against its wild fury.
The winds are whipping cruelly around the boat I sail,
Lashing it with salt spray, hurricane and gale.
The waves are rising skywards, fifty feet or more,
And I can hardly see at all, in this violent downpour,
Clouds are dark and heavy, rumblings can be heard,
But in the midst of this cacophony, I spy no living bird.
It's as if the world is angry, stirring up a fearful fight,
I try to hold the craft on course, struggling in my plight,
The ocean is never static, it is restess all the while,
Forever in perpetual motion, and constantly hostile.
I stand back now from the image, of power uncontrolled,
The painter creates a vision that's forceful, strong and bold,
He has captured all the terror, the brutality of the deep,
In just a few deft brush strokes, this drama begins to seep.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Saturday Night Dance
Looked forward to the Saturday Night dance
We did, all dressed up to 'shine',
With winkle picker shoes, and layers of net
In our petticoats. We felt divine.
The 'hair do' backcombed to perfection,
The lipstick a bright Roman Pink,
The 10 denier stockings, were totally great,
And, that handsome Teddy Boy's wink!
Rock and roll, The Twist, The Locomotion,
Were the favourites of the day,
And then there was the 'smoochy' waltz,
When cheek to cheek, we could 'swoon' away.
You sat, until some bold young fella,
Would have the courage to ask you up,
To do 'The Jive' or the 'Cha Cha Cha',
Or to fetch you some wine to sup.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The 6.15 from Paddington - Steam Days
The 6.15 from Paddinton goes chugging down the track,
The Guard blows on his whistle, and the engine whistles back.
The carriages are following, swaying as they go,
The passengers are also swaying to and fro.
Through Maidenhead, Reading and Newbury in Berks,
The monster travels onwards, with steam, grey smoke and sparks.
Past Swindon down in Wiltshire and then Chipping Sodbury,
Through tunnels, over bridges, always in a 'big' hurry.
The countryside goes whooshing by, as we travel on,
With fields, lanes and cottages, one moment seen, then gone.
Villages, farms and valleys, tree clad hills and downs,
Flashing past the windows, with 'swishy swooshy' sounds.
It now approaches Bristol, the driver applies the brakes,
With screeching and with creaking, what a hullabaloo it makes.
It's reached it's destination where the Porter and the Clerk,
Will check on all the passengers, before they disembark.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Proud Scarecrow
An old scarecrow stood with his arms akimbo,
Thinking his dull life was now in limbo,
He somehow, never seemed to scare the crows,
He had tried hard enough, heaven knows.
His coat was torn and there were many more
Holes, where the crows had searched for straw.
His hat was looking limp and out of shape,
His shirt in the front, had begun to gape.
A fieldmouse had nested inside his sleeve,
Even though he had asked it nicely, to leave.
Then sadly the whole family had all moved in,
And created each night, such an awful din.
That poor old scarecrow could get no sleep,
It made him sad, and it made him weep,
He considered it constantly, in his turnip head,
Actually that old scarecrow, was quite well read.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Teddy Bear Freak
I admit, I'm a teddy bear freak,
Some solace I'm trying to seek,
It's become an obsession,
So having done my confession,
I must still have a big childish streak.
There's something about them for sure,
That make's one collect even more,
Each one's so appealing,
Their characters revealing,
You really can't help but adore.
They come in a variety of sizes,
All dressed in their seperate guises,
From faces endearing,
To faces so cheering,
No wonder they win all the prizes.
There are some stuffed with kapok or straw,
With pellets to give them a core,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Lookers, Lickers and Stickers
A big round bright red postbox,
Is such a splendid sight, to me,
And the way we try posting our letters,
Is, moreover, a 'fun' sight to see.
People often put their hand in the wide slot,
Holding onto their letters, real tight,
And somehow, they just can't seem to let go,
They are struggling, like mad, in their plight.
To stand, and to pluck up the courage,
And to make a decision to take
Their hand away from inside the slot,
Is a judgement they can't deem to make.
Very gradually, they then start departing,
But have to go back, just for luck,
To check in the slot, and make really sure,
That their letters, have not become stuck.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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View Your Town
If you're lucky to live in a street in town,
Then stand quite still, glance up and down,
And you will find there, a storybook,
Lines of words wherever you look.
And in this story are characters, who
Are from real life, like me and you.
The young Assistant at the library.
The Chiropodist who dwells at No 3
Bert the Butcher, with his cheery grin,
And Derek, the lad who empties your bin.
The Postman with his trolley full of mail,
Miss Watson, who always creeps like a snail,
The Pattersons who inhabit No 5,
You certainly know that they're alive.
Ralph the Builder's at No 10,
Works quite hard with his son Ben,
And at No 12, Maggie dyes your hair,
Any colour you like, that's if you dare.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Boats A Bobbing
I’m sitting on the jetty, feet dangling o’er the sea,
A view that’s so breathtaking, that it’s enveloped me.
The sunlight on the water, with facets shining bright.
I could sit forever absorbing this wondrous sight.
The little boats a bobbing out on the restless brine,
Their sails of rainbow colours are beautiful and fine.
Wind is gently blowing as they navigate to shore,
At one with the ocean, such adventuring in store.
I’m standing on the headland watching seagulls streak by,
There’s squawking and diving as they pulsate through the sky.
Always so hungry, forever searching for their meal,
No matter who’s food tempts them, they are ready to steal.
I’m resting on a boulder on the top of the cliffs.
Two rowing boats are proceeding I think they are skiffs.
Chasing to beat each other with their single man crew,
There is so much to observe, Ah! here comes a canoe.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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