The Visiting Aunts

This is a memory from my childhood, when I was about Nine years old.

The visiting Aunts have come through the door,
They haven't been here for six months or more,
Their presence is such an incredible bore,
Well I think so!

The visiting Aunts are so out of date,
I soon noticed that when they came through the gate,
Their dresses date back to nineteen-o-eight,
Well I think so!

The visiting Aunts have kisses that smother,
With whiskery chins as one will discover,
Each one is just as bad as the other,
Well I think so!

The visiting Aunts look all around our place,
Tutting and waving their hands, so the lace
Which encircles their wrists shakes a pace,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Tackling My Computer

Exchanging my days of quill and ink,
To a computer is a must I think,
The favourite of the current age,
Is just the thing I need, I guage.

A modem, printer and scanner will do,
A camera, mouse and speakers too,
With all these marvellous machines,
Life would be effortless, it seems.

Well.....Switching on is bad enough,
One needs to be a computer buff,
It's questions, questions, all the way,
Call 'help' they say, but 'help' won't play.

It takes months to learn all the technical moves,
Ages to slot things within the right grooves,
Once you've accomplished a single great feat,
Remembering how you got there, in the first place, is no treat.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Wedding Shop

A wedding dress is what I would like,
So to a wedding shop then, I must hike,
To choose a dress, that is my aim,
One that will suit my voluptuous frame.

Now how does one begin to acquire,
Such stylish and suitable attire,
The choice is really overpowering,
Where to start is really quite cowering.

There are satins, chiffons, silks and tulles,
Oh my goodness, how my mouth drools.
So what now am I going to buy,
I suppose each one I'll have to try.

Diamonds sparkle, sequins flash,
Diamante to add a bit of a dash,
Frills and flounces, drapes and folds,
Such a variety my eye beholds.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Walk In The Park

A walk in the park is a pleasure to do,
When a visit to one is long overdue,
To take the dogs too, is really great,
For the exercise is just first rate.

The peacefulness can be very strange,
For quietness is such a change
From all the traffic rushing by,
The decibels get really high.

We have to live with constant noise,
That often takes away the joys
And contentment, that a walk can give us.
We've got to count is as a real plus.

There's a lake where you can hire a boat,
And two or more can go afloat,
And meander, with the water calm,
With oars a dipping, what sheer balm.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Trouble and Strife

Hear the shouts from the market stalls,
Where the vendors with their raucous calls,
Cry, 'Roll up, Ladies. here's a bargain,
Said to all in their 'Cockney' jargon.

'Come buy it for your 'Trouble and Strife'.
Meaning, do buy it for the wife.
'Some too, for your 'Skin and Blister',
That has to be your loving Sister.

You just won't 'Adam and Eve' the price,
But do 'believe' it's good merchandise.
Perhaps you could purchase a 'Whistle and Flute',
A very smart, new and 'with it' suit.

Or maybe some'Daisy Roots' for your feet,
Some boots now for your 'Plates of Meat'.
Or how about a 'Weasel and Stoat'.
A very posh warming, winter coat.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Barbecue

When summer evenings are nice and hot,
The thing to do is find a spot,
Where a barbecue can be set up,
So everyone can come and sup,
Relax with a bottle, and sit for a spell,
Which would be really nice and would end the day well,
And enjoy the light hearted, cheerful chatter,
With friends, who to you, truly matter.
Right!
The table's set, the flares are lit,
The music should be a real hit
The friends have arrived, the drink if flowing,
Laughter starts, the barbecue's glowing,
The cooking has started, the aroma's divine,
Everyone is getting along fine,
When!
The barbecue begins to smoke,
The chef, who's coughing begins to choke,
The chops are burnt the spare ribs too,
Everyone's looking very blue,

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Visit To The Seaside

When we pay a visit to the seaside,
We venture out onto the sands,
And wiggle our toes in soft golden grains,
And mould sandcastles with our hands.

We so like to collect lots of seashells,
Different shapes, sizes and hues,
Houses that once belonged to sea creatures,
In soft greys, pale beiges and blues.

We enjoy splashing out in the water,
Which the tide brings fast up the beach,
Catching our feet in the green seaweed strands,
Which are then dragged back out of reach.

It's a pleasure to ride on the donkeys,
All soft looking, sad eyed, but strong,
Each of them needing a love and a pat,
Before they'll carry us along.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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To Frinton-on-Sea by Train - The Annual Pilgrimage,1910

When in the large compartment,
Everyone was seated.
And all the luggage loaded,
The family group completed.

Excitement as the train now
Leaves the local station.
Everyone perceiving
A feeling of elation.

The Servants in the Third Class
All with faces radiant,
The train now fairly straining
Up it's first steep gradient.

Smoke rising from the engine,
Through the countryside it races,
Such a rattling and a clattering,
Rhythmic chugging as it paces.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Pace Of Life

How very nice it is after working all day,
To come back home and quietly wile away,
Your leisure hours in many pleasant ways,
Easing the pressures of your present days.

Life is a round of lots of things to do,
Demands are made, and we must see them through,
Our brains get muddled and we cannot think,
For our minds are forever teetering on the brink!

There's loads of 'remedies' for sale out there,
Said to solve strain and stress, but do beware,
These remedies are not quite what you need,
The 'slowing down' is where you will succeed.

For we go rushing on at such a speed,
Pounding away without the time to 'heed'
Like the methodical clock that's ticking on the wall,
There is no time to stop or even stall.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Oh Sea

Oh Sea, why do you deliberately pound the rocks along the bay,
Sending showers of white foam up, in a cascade of spray,
Can you not cease your travels, churning incessantly,
Surging back and forth, always longing to be free.

Oh Sea, why do you keep hold of such impatience, in your hands,
Forever turning restless, racing for the sands,
Then teetering up the shingle, and rushing back again,
Shifting shells and pebbles, and layers of sandy grain.

Oh Sea, why draw it all towards you, like some almighty tongue,
Devouring it in mouthfuls, then spewing it among
The coves, caves and crevices, which are found along the cliffs,
Dispersing all the creatures, living in the rifts.

Oh Sea, you are gigantic, so powerful and so wild,
And yet at times you're gentle, just like a little child,
You command our admiration, your vastness is immense,
But you are so unpredictable, your energy intense.

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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