It Connects
I think your visons are very clear
And panoramic...
In delivery!
I could never tell a visual artist how to hold a brush.
Or a pen
To bring this depthness to surface.
Not like you've done!
In the way you did it to overcome me
With amazement!
I can only enjoy the finished product!
That's the only position I want to take...
And enjoy
What I 'see' and can perceive,
And escape within
This creation that's read,
And felt without touching!
'Yet touching!
I'm 'touched'...
On several levels accessible.'
When I've been 'awed' by a master!
And 'You' are that 'master'...
That captures everything within me.
Something clicks
And I am snapped back
Into a side of me inside
I hadn't seen in so long!
And 'that' is what you do too!
Being able to do that...
Provides such masterful views!
Shared and understanding!
'To do it and suspend me,
In imaginations!
Can not be done...
By just anyone! '
How you do it?
The way you get it done to do...
Lifts my mind to remind me,
The Almighty has created a wonderful family...
To interpret His 'conceptions' of evolving possibilities!
What it IS that you do...
Comes from your heart,
And it connects!
Dedicated to:
Ms Ernestine Northover.
'Ernestine, your creativity is magnificently 'placed'!
It shows that you are clearly not in rehearsals!
You are a student of 'something' DIVINE that has found you
To find a way that you have discovered to help and aid
In our 'awakening' process. you're terrific! '
~lsp~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Touching
Touching are words expressed,
When hearts are filled with such emptiness.
Touching is that lost contact,
We long to hold and feel against our chests.
Touching are the flow of memories,
Coming when someone has left.
So touching we are when those times arrive.
And touching we wish,
To be done when the end comes.
As tears are cried.
And those with touching emotions,
Felt with sighs...
Inside.
Rising to surface...
Are not found to be at their best.
When wept!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hold You In My Smile
Sweet moment, stay with me,
and pray do not flee so soon,
Let me enjoy the bliss of that
first kiss beneath the moon.
I wish to cradle this feeling,
that has only just been found,
A feeling that has unexpectedly
turned my world around.
Do not depart, Oh please remain
within my heart awhile,
So that I can savour you once more,
and hold you in my smile.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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His Artistic Brush
A model sits motionless with diaphanous drape,
The paint in tubes, lies waiting for an escape,
An easel's standing, so central to the room,
On it a canvas. And nearby in the gloom,
An Artist leans casually against an open door,
Been thinking long, but now crosses the floor,
Pulls back the blinds to let the light rush in,
Adjusts his spectacles and prepares to begin,
Then with a flourish of his artistic brush,
Starts slowly to create a picture that's so plush,
A Work of Art maybe, perhaps an important one,
Which might see his name in lights, when it is done.
Needing to observe, he lifts his eyes to peep,
And finds that his model has fallen fast asleep.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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In A Girl's Head
A Poem written by my Great Niece Kitty Cotton aged 12 years.
In it there are ribbons
and bags
for drowning out a voice of an embarrassing Dad.
There are a few
Abacrombie models,
which come first, by far.
There is an entirely new colour,
An entirely new clothing line,
An entirely new sweet.
There is a glass pool
with a party inside.
There is the sea
turned upside down.
There is a fox with no brush.
A pack of cards without an Ace.
A land with no sky.
Somewhere in the corner of a girl’s head lies
a spark of friendship and a glow of love.
© Kitty Cotton
(Ernestine Northover)
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Pleasant Thoughts
A holiday, a holiday,
a real chance to get away.
To catch a plane, a boat, a train,
or cruise on down the inside lane.
With different views and how-do-you-dos,
and many interesting venues.
A holiday, a holiday.
Having found a place to stay,
enjoy the sights that greet the eyes,
sea, sun and sand with clear blue skies.
All of these things can so make your break,
a time to rest and ruminate.
A holiday, a holiday,
well inland, or out in a bay.
Sail a yacht maybe. Play a spot
of golf. Then if it gets too hot,
rest beside a pool. And to cool down,
take a dip, or turn a glowing brown.
A holiday, a holiday.
Book it right now with no delay.
Choose somewhere you would like to be,
locations for serenity,
siestas out under the stars,
or ones for fun and noise in bars.
A holiday, a holiday.
There’s something that I want to say.
Have a really long super spell,
of relaxation. One can dwell
on pleasant thoughts. Troubles to quell.
Revival of body and mind,
rejuvenating humankind.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Poetician
Discipline to listen,
Observe and interpret.
Words selected to depict,
Life...
As one sees it.
Emotions come,
To overflow
With idealistic purpose.
Unknown until the poetician shows...
A creativeness that lifts imaginations.
In prose or to rhyme...
Sometimes without reason.
So it seems.
Yet those hopes and dreams,
Are written to be shared.
To freshen the air...
With the flow of possibilities!
Upon divergent mindscapes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Touch
Thank you
Dont mention it
Im pleased to meet you
Dont think Im very good at this
Let me show
I dont wanna know
I just wanna go (down)
F-f-falling...the world is by your side
Falling...did you find a place to hide
I just wanna know
I just wanna go
T-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
She said, the twenty second floor
But I said, I cant think what its for
I just wanna know
I dont wanna go
T-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
Im t-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
T-t-touching you
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Read Me!
Life is full of coloured posters,
You'll find them pasted everywhere,
On walls, on doors, on hoardings,
Triangular, round and square.
On vans, lorries and buses,
Wherever there's a space,
You're, bombarded by them constantly,
They are right there in your face.
On anything, they'll stick them,
No matter where that may be,
They leave your brain in tatters,
As they shout at you, READ ME!
We've become an 'Advert' nation,
And the future's looking black,
You never know, you might even find,
That they've stuck one, on your back!
This is dedicated to Sally, as it is her words READ ME, that inspired me to write this one.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mirror
Poem by my Great Niece - Kitty Cotton aged 12 years.
I was on the beach the other day,
and I found a mirror.
Not a scratch, did it have.
Not a reflection, was to be seen.
But a picture covered the glass,
a picture of the sea, blue and bare.
What to do with this magical mirror, I thought,
Give it back to the sea?
A gift for a Mother of mine?
Or a ‘Something’ for me?
I will give it back to the sea,
To sit amongst the dancing waters,
this moment will stay with me.
© Kitty Cotton
(Ernestine Northover)
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mirror
Poem by my Great Niece - Kitty Cotton aged 12 years.
I was on the beach the other day,
and I found a mirror.
Not a scratch, did it have.
Not a reflection, was to be seen.
But a picture covered the glass,
a picture of the sea, blue and bare.
What to do with this magical mirror, I thought,
Give it back to the sea?
A gift for a Mother of mine?
Or a ‘Something’ for me?
I will give it back to the sea,
To sit amongst the dancing waters,
this moment will stay with me.
© Kitty Cotton
(Ernestine Northover)
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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.
Then one day he found he was being moved,
Into a very large building, it was proved,
A place where important things can be found,
Where people stand and admire, and look around.
A Museum that's dedicated to our Country Art,
And a scarecrow his age, just had to be part
Of this collection, that was here for all to view,
An exhibit that stated that 'he' was 'New'.
In all his tatters, he stood straight and tall,
Not minding all the stares, no, not at all,
For this new life he felt, just couldn't be beat,
Now he's a proud scarecrow, feeling so complete.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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New Friend
You get overjoyed when find new friend
Like precious jewel from market at the end
Same can happen in your real life too as fine catch
When you find a friend with equal caliber and match
We are brought very close even though stay very far
The time zones push us to see day or with night stars
One such great friend greeted me with big smile
I was happy to receive him with earnest meanwhile
I felt too small before such talented writer
She seemed to me a gifted and talented fighter
As I too belonged to literary world
She must have felt delight to have me in her fold
As customary approach, it was nice exchange and pleasantries
It is all needed and necessary
We need someone to share our world and news
As it may bring us to some understanding with views
“We are all human with so many errors
It can’t be hidden in mirrors
Those reflections may speak very clear”
I was going so near by making it clear
I found her equally amazing with words
They were razor sharp and like edge of sword
Not sharp to kill a person with sharpness
But bravely clearing point on the face
This was drawing us closer
There were many good posers
It was all shared with tremendous respect and joy
I was gifted with very good Sunday to enjoy
This is how once gets to know the world across
It is like lightening force
That may spark around and may be seen
Lovely thing to enjoy and movably seen
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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For Posterity
He fell backwards into quick drying cement.
It was something that he hadn’t meant
to do. For his trousers started setting fast,
and ended up looking like a plaster cast.
A stonemason was found to chip away
at this solid mass of clayey grey.
His legs were feeling not quite his own.
He felt like a statue carved from stone.
Finally his limbs were at last released.
His trousers, surprisingly, were not creased.
Two buttock shapes were in concrete created
Something that made him feel very deflated.
For nobody else with any temerity. could say,
Their posterior was preserved for posterity, this way.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sail Away
He stood on the deck,
the sun, shining on his face.
The sails billowed as they took up the force of the wind,
driving the boat forward.
He felt a lifting of his spirits, a freedom
he hadn't felt for a long, long time.
All this space.
The sea, and the sky.
Unbelievable, in their dimensions.
To sail away, to be reborn,
perhaps in another time, another world.
'What do you think of her, Sir'?
The voice brought him back to reality.
'Oh! Very nice indeed, a beautiful craft'.
'Any thoughts on a purchase, Sir'?
'Thoughts' Yes', he answered,
'But cost wise, she's a little beyond my pocket'.
'Well Sir. Perhaps we could interest you
in something a little smaller'.
'Perhaps', was his reply,
'How about a canoe'!
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Before My Eyes
I see before my eyes the wonderful words,
Speak them around the mouth to sustain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
I saw so many reasons to master and also afterwards,
Seen so many sessions of praise of this book to attain,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
Created and longed for, the books and pages are blizzards,
Looking for times so tight with sin again,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
May we attain longevity when we read books backwards,
Leaning against the wall to hasten the air plane,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
Pleasing us one way is like living a way of life with hazards,
Leading is a disease of words, so frightening for after pain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
Can the heraldry of our country be the same innards,
Liking this sign captures the books’ meanings from the brain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
poem by Naveed Akram
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In An Empty Box
This poem was written by my Great Niece Kitty Cotton aged 12 years.
If there is nothing in an empty box,
what do you do?
You use an amazing thing called
imagination.
In a corner of the empty box was,
A long lasting friendship.
A pattern with no end.
A light that will never go out.
In a corner of the empty box was,
A devil, red as blood.
An ongoing argument.
A heart with no love.
In a corner of the empty box was,
A charming prince waiting for his love.
A shimmering diamond, with an everlasting twinkle.
A sea with dancing waters.
As there are only four corners of a box,
this is the last one, and in that corner there was,
A patch of growing love.
A mind with no thoughts.
A bottle with a secret message inside.
There is always a middle of an empty box,
and in the middle there was,
a smaller box.
Which held every thought anyone could think.
© Kitty Cotton
(Ernestine Northover)
poem by Ernestine Northover
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In An Empty Box
This poem was written by my Great Niece Kitty Cotton aged 12 years.
If there is nothing in an empty box,
what do you do?
You use an amazing thing called
imagination.
In a corner of the empty box was,
A long lasting friendship.
A pattern with no end.
A light that will never go out.
In a corner of the empty box was,
A devil, red as blood.
An ongoing argument.
A heart with no love.
In a corner of the empty box was,
A charming prince waiting for his love.
A shimmering diamond, with an everlasting twinkle.
A sea with dancing waters.
As there are only four corners of a box,
this is the last one, and in that corner there was,
A patch of growing love.
A mind with no thoughts.
A bottle with a secret message inside.
There is always a middle of an empty box,
and in the middle there was,
a smaller box.
Which held every thought anyone could think.
© Kitty Cotton
(Ernestine Northover)
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Be Inspired
Race down the track,
With limbs so sleek,
Start to attack,
Must not be meek.
For you can win,
Do not delay,
Find strength within,
It's your forte.
Sixty meters, go, go, go,
For when the gun is fired,
Pull out all the power you know,
And you will be inspired.
A prize is there for you to grasp,
It's bronze, silver or gold,
A medal for just you to clasp,
And a terrific thrill to hold.
Race down the track,
Your moment's now,
No looking back,
Then take your bow.
So gold it is,
A splendid run,
You've done the biz,
You're second to none.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bring Me Flowers
Bring me flowers when I am living
Don't bring me them when I am dead
Let me enjoy them in the giving
My mother always had said.
Let me hold them in my hands
and smell there fragrant scent
Then I will reminisce of different lands
Before; I am heaven sent.
I will reflect back when I was young
Or I might think back not long ago
When I walked underneath the sun
Or when I felt the wind as it blowed.
Bring me flowers when I am here
Please don't wait until I am gone
So I might reflect to a different year
And my memories will last on.
I might reflect to a different time
With every breadth and scent I breath
And knowing the flowers are mine
Shows how much that you love me.
Let me enjoy the flowers again
Let me feel them on my fingers
Because I just don't know when,
And how long my memory will linger.
Bring me flowers with a smile
Please don't bring them with any sorrow
And I will hold them just like a child
As I held you, and held on till tomorrow.
I want to see them once again
As I place them on my table
And then they will be my friend
And I will greet them when I am able.
They will be a part of me
My mothers always had said
So bring them now to me please
And don't wait until I am dead.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0304 Drawing space
See this whitish sheet - now mellowing to a shade
of precious ivory - gently revealing in the finest lines of silver-point
two lovers whose whole air of innocence
makes them angelic, as if their ardent gaze
joined souls not bodies;
though those bodies, beautiful, transparent,
she all gauze, her dress
moved by the lightest breath of air as if it would
return her to the air; her breasts, to innocence itself;
he, every muscle of proud chest under pleated jerkin
joining his dancing legs to ardent eyes
consumed in adoration for what he barely dares,
her beauty and its innocence
this silver-point might be from Botticelli, or
a well-trained student in the master’s mind
glancing over and across the studio
at what the master, the magician,
conjures out of space and out of mind;
the then white vacant sheet
undifferentiated space as if
it were Creation waiting the command
to be itself;
there’s magic still to come, and space itself
yet to be brought alive. See these lines;
they are not bounding bodies, but the space itself;
on one side of this line, the air alive with happening that’s invisible,
the other side, her space we call her body;
all her life enclosed in what the artist sees –
awakening of love; see in the space
between her outstretched hand and his,
about to join with lightest touch in dance,
- electricity - before mankind knew such a thing or named;
and in this space, there’s love divine.
and see the space between their eyes: why,
in that space, their lives, the present, past, the future;
their minds, their hearts, their souls
hover all expressed and yet invisible;
from emptiness the artist has found space;
from space, from line, drawn as the first time, love.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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