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Bradley Lane Poem
I once was a grand and old oak tree,
Wearing my crown with shades of green.
A protector of fields, a watcher of night.
I stood with my pride, till the mornings soft light.
I watched the burrows, and the gentle breeze,
I listened at a soft, and a mellowing wheeze.
I stood my ground, I saw people go by,
Watched small crawling bugs, and birds that could fly.
For years and years, I protected the earth,
I watched my leaves, on wind they’d surf.
The cold dark earth, gripped through my root,
I stood there helpless, as animals would loot.
The fruit I provided the land that I served,
An acorn, smooth, with a cap that curved.
A servant to life, a desire to survive,
Small animals came, on acorns they’d thrive.
That however, was a long time ago,
Nature got me with a cold and strong blow.
For years I had treated my earth with pride,
And protected my land, my whole life I’ve tried.
But earth didn’t seem to be happy with me,
As now it’s only the sky that I see.
A storm had struck, with winds so strong,
My anchoring roots, held on for so long.
I battled and fought, against perilous storm,
Whilst animals battled, to try and stay warm.
The battle of my life, had just begun,
Me against earth, my roots fell numb.
Throughout the night, the winds grew strong,
An ambush occurred, and my branches were long.
They were the first, to fall to my foe,
And it wasn’t the only thing to go.
The wind snatched my crown, it blew it away,
I stood there naked, and ashamed as it lay.
It scattered the floor, and covered the holes,
Where scared animals hid - rabbits, and voles.
My final stand, my crown on the floor,
A true protector, my leaves on their door.
As I shall die, the animals shall live,
As my crown of leaves, I selflessly give.
My roots are broken, are snapped and worn,
I lie on the floor, and I wait for the morn.
The wind had won, and blew me to ground,
To feel earth on my trunk, for there I am bound.
I saw life from a different angle that night,
I saw the birds, as they were in long flight.
I saw the bees, and I saw the stars,
I saw a planet, either Jupiter or Mars.
It was beautiful to see, as I lay on my back,
And saw glittering light, through a sea of black.
The animals came, as the black turned to red,
To comfort me, as I lay on my bed.
They weeped and they cried, as I looked to the sky,
As I saw pinks and blues, a ball of fire so high.
Soft clouds greeted me, and dimmed the light,
As I looked at horizons, to say goodbye to the night.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2021
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Bradley Lane Poem
I’ll take you back, to the old dark times,
To try and paint you a picture.
A tale of a man, just sixteen years old,
Who had a bit too much liquor.
1706, is the year we shall set,
As the young man woke himself up.
He found himself on a sailing ship,
Whilst holding a silver cup.
His clothes were ragged, as was his smell,
As he wearily opened his eyes.
He was lay on some sacks, of wheat and hay,
As he looked up to dark grey skies.
He’d drunk too much rum, the night before,
His head was banging like drums.
He looked down to his feet, then to his hands,
To make sure he had his fingers and toes.
‘Alas, he’s awake!’ He heard someone shout,
As he cradled his banging sore head.
‘Get up my boy, you’ve work to do!’
The voice bellowed as he lay on his bed.
‘Where am I?’ Said the boy, in a shaken whisper,
As he tried to get himself up.
A sailor approached, and grabbed his arm,
In turn, then dropping his cup.
‘Ow! My arm!’ The boy would cry,
As the sailor did drag him along.
‘Captain! He’s here’ the sailor did shout,
As other men started a song.
They bellowed sea shanties, as the ship caught wind,
through a perilous gloomy storm.
“The wind it would cry, with salt in my eye,
As we sailed on till the morn”
‘Get up my lad, you signed for this!’,
The captain grunted his voice.
‘Signed up for what?’ The boy did squeak,
‘Your term of work, You had a choice!’
All of a sudden, the memories came back,
What happened the night before.
The frail young lad, had gone to a pub,
With rum, he kept asking for more.
Sailors were nearby, and saw the boy,
Who was now just lay in the street.
‘Sign this my boy, and we’ll take you home’,
The boy soon signed, on their meet.
The rest was history, as the boy closed his eyes,
to find himself on a ship.
He was now a sailor, a working man,
On his way to an 8 month trip.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2022
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Bradley Lane Poem
It’s okay to talk,
About the way you feel,
Just open up,
The pain is real.
There’s people around,
You aren’t alone,
We are happy to talk,
In person or on phone.
Don’t feel so down,
So gloomy and sad,
The good times will come,
The current time is bad.
It’s okay to feel,
To hurt inside,
Just tell a friend,
They are by your side.
Sadness itself,
Won’t last forever,
Just speak to someone,
It will make you feel better.
Do not be scared,
To have a chat,
Tell people what’s wrong,
You know where they’re at.
A stranger or friend,
It can be anyone,
Just talk to someone,
Your minds over run.
Get the good times going,
Get rid of the bad,
It’s okay to talk,
I promise you’ll be glad.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2019
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Bradley Lane Poem
A ladybird landed, on my hand today,
And looked at me, in a peculiar way.
It stretched it’s legs, and opened its wings,
As birds flew by, soft melodies they’d sing.
“Excuse me sir?”, the ladybird squeaked,
“May I sit here?, it’s safety I seek!”.
I looked in shock, the ladybird spoke!
“I’m really tired, and I’ve lost my folk”.
“Of course you can rest”, I said to my hand,
Where the tiny bug, found a place to land.
I was shocked and stunned, to what had occurred,
I didn’t know ladybirds, could speak a word.
“Where are you from?”, I said to the bug,
“From the old oak tree”, as he sat so snug.
“My family are there, could you take me?
I’ve missed the buzz bus” - the back of a bee.
“I must be crazy”, I said to myself,
As the ladybird sat, regaining its health.
I got up on my feet, and turned to the oak,
“This must be a dream, or a strange old joke”.
I walked to a leaf, and placed the bug down,
His mother came out, wearing a dressing gown.
“Where have you been?!” The mother cried,
“I have been to the beach, on his hand I have lied”.
“Thankyou kind sir, for taking me home,
I got quite scared, and felt alone”.
Then I woke up, it was a strange old dream,
I knew the events, weren’t as they seem.
I walked out the room, and down the stairs,
To find a ladybird, was in my hair.
I laughed a little, and went on with my day,
A little ladybird, that had gone astray.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2022
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Bradley Lane Poem
From the age of three, I do remember,
The kitchen window, in mid December.
My grandma and grandad, would let me stand,
By the window to view, a garden so grand.
In December I’d see, a blanket of white,
As snow had fallen, throughout the night,
To cover the bushes, and flowers alike,
And try to hide, their colour so bright.
I’d run outside, as young as a flower,
And knock off the snow, I’d feel the power.
An invincible boy, a superman child,
I’d run through the snow, I always smiled.
Spring came so soon, the snow had gone,
The flowers would bud, I’d see the lawn.
Green grass returned, and sleepy bud,
That drooped off flowers, they lay in mud.
The awakening of life, as an alarm went off,
The seed potatoes, would lie in the trough.
Some flowers did wake, earlier than others,
Their petals do squint, through leaves of their brothers.
Yellow, and green, and purple appear,
As flowers will open their eyes and ear,
With the sound of birds, that now fill the sky,
The flowers will follow, as they fly on by.
Summer arrives, the garden’s in bloom,
The array of colour, as shadows consume.
Large evergreen’s perch, on either side,
Like defenders from sun, and it’s glorious tide.
A tide of ripples, and canes of gold,
That hit a garden, so delicate, and old.
Too much light, could harm the flower,
As the sun has harnessed, too much power.
My grandad is clever, he planted the seeds,
In shadows when needed, and pulled out the weeds.
He makes sure, that every plant is fed,
With sunlight and water, as it lies in its bed.
Autumn is now, to arrive in the garden.
The heat from sun, my grandad does pardon.
The sun has given his garden a rest,
As cool breezes arrive, and birds will nest.
The petals do fall, and their colour does fade,
As more of the garden, falls into the shade.
The sun is now tired, and can’t reach the height,
Where it was in the summer, to give flowers a delight.
The violet, the emeralds, the oranges, and red,
Now scatter the grounds, of the flower bed.
The flowers, have had enough for a year,
And sleep with comfort, as my grandparents are near.
From birth I have remembered, this wonderful place,
That each time I visit, brings smiles to my face.
The memories I have, are stored in the ground,
In a garden of wonder, where memories are bound.
My grandma and grandad, are lucky enough,
To tend to the grounds, the beds, and trough.
They’ve spent their money, and dedicated their time,
To make a garden of Eden, as the wind carries a chime.
A chime that hangs, from a tree so grand,
That lies at the bottom, of their flower filled land.
I love to go, and remember my memories,
It calms me down, it’s one of my remedies.
A bush that lives throughout the year,
Is there, to tell me that Buster is near.
Buster, my companion, my amazing old dog,
Now lies in ashes, between the bush, and the log.
My happiness lies, in my grandparents Eden,
With, an array of flowers, it’s story does sweeten.
As the garden itself, has been alive,
For fifty plus years, it’s flowers still thrive.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2022
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Bradley Lane Poem
The worker bees, are a hardy bunch,
They wake at four, and prepare their lunch.
It’s off to the mines, for another day,
To stir the pots, and earn their pay.
Their hard hats on, with small yellow lights,
Standing in line, to work into nights.
The start of the mine, is a wondrous hall,
Golden in colour, in the shape of a ball.
They tie their laces, and put on their braces,
They put on their goggles, to each of their faces.
Clocking cards out, the shift will begin,
As they enter the mine, the queen lives in.
Down a tunnel, of ember and gold,
Honeycomb walls, oozing and old.
Their brown honey sticks, are ready in hand,
A uniformed line, like a marching band.
The floor is sticky, with oozing honey,
The reason they’re there, to make their money.
One by one, they enter inside,
A room with pots, that honey does hide.
They get their sticks, place into the pot,
Of liquid gold, that’s still quite hot.
They stir the honey, all day long,
Whilst singing an ancient, working song.
“He he, ha ha, it’s off to the hive,
The place which where, worker bees thrive,
We stir the honey, to make our money,
It’s the thing that keeps us alive”
Delivery arrives, it’s the pollen bees,
They’ve done their picks, of flowers and trees.
Into the pot, they add the dew,
Of daffodils and hydrangea, to name a few.
A secret ingredient, will come at the end,
As the mixture thickens, their sticks will bend.
It’s nearing the end, of another long shift,
A siren is heard, their morale will lift.
Sweetness of honey, will fill the air,
As the bees do dribble, they want their share.
The shift then ends, clocking cards out,
The manager comes, “home time” he’ll shout.
The bees are done, for another long day,
One of the bees, will always say.
“Down to the pub? For honeysuckle beers?”
Worker bees go, for a long awaited cheers.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2022
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Bradley Lane Poem
I like to go to the sea sometimes,
and listen to its roar.
With crashing waves of blue and white,
with commands to attack the shore.
These waves that carry, their foamy white helmets,
Come in outstanding numbers, to attack yellow velvets.
An ancient battle, against sea and land,
The roaring sea, has the better hand.
Looking past, this battle of old,
We get to see, an ocean so bold.
A glorious array, of shimmering blues,
The sea and sky, together they ooze.
The deep blue ocean, with ribbons of gold,
A gift from the sun, with rays so bold.
It’s peaceful to see, when away from land,
And take in colours, on a boat you’d stand.
As we go in the depth, of an ocean so big,
We see the barnacles, under a rig,
And boats that fly, above our heads,
In a world so strange, our imagination spreads.
To depths we’ve never been before,
An underwater world, with conquered floors.
The yellow velvet, that lies underneath,
Of conquered lands, now a coral reef.
How beautiful it is, a world of peace,
A place where man, their existence would cease.
We sink and sink, to emerald green,
With rays of light, to show the unseen.
The lightning bolts, of curious light,
Strike down and through, with a courageous might.
Again however, the water will win,
As light will fade, and rays grow thin.
The vivid reds, and the bold dark blues,
The emerald greens, which seamlessly fuse.
Bubbles from the dark deep, slowly arise high,
Where a honeycomb sun, penetrates from the sky.
The bubbles light up, like a golden sun high,
Filling my eyes, to an underwater night sky.
Like the starry night, by Van Gogh himself,
A wondrous sight, in its glorious self.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2020
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Bradley Lane Poem
To watch the dark, and twinkling skies,
Brings joy and love, to my curious eyes.
To think of where we are today,
It sends my interested mind away.
To a place where thoughts and dreams come true,
To a place where all the planets are blue,
And green and round and full of beings,
An alien planet, that’s full of meanings.
You ask yourself questions, when so engrossed,
On what it is like, on the sea coast,
Of an alien planet, so far away,
To make you want, to run away
To catch a flight, to the nearest rocket,
Sail up to the stars, to go into orbit.
To glide by all of the shining diamonds,
To ponder and watch, at endless horizons
How much I would love, to visit the stars,
The velvet of night, the orange of Mars.
The blue of Neptune, the rays of sun,
The awe of earth, held by a gun.
The gun being held, by mankind themselves,
With pollution, mass production, and everything else.
A world gone to waste, our spot in the space,
A fact that no one, can seem to face.
I look up at the stars, whenever I see,
Through the polluted clouds, and satellite debris,
I see some worlds, untouched by mankind,
And think to myself, I hope we don’t find,
I hope we don’t find, a world to destroy,
We’ve already destroyed one, a child with a toy.
We can save the planet, we aren’t done yet,
We need to work, forget about debt.
We need to get rid, of toxic material,
It’s like man kind, is something bacterial,
A virus to the world, so beautiful and pure,
We don’t deserve it, and that is for sure.
To work together, is the only way,
To save the earth, from a gloomy fate,
Reduce the plastic, cycle to work,
Stop the cars roaming, we need to rework,
To come together, man woman and child,
To save the earth, before we’re exiled,
And end up doing what I first said,
And move to worlds, to break their bread
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2019
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Bradley Lane Poem
The north of England,
Is without a doubt,
A massive community,
That is paramount.
It’s a place where people,
Express their talent,
A place where people,
Should go if they haven’t.
A magical place,
Of women and men,
With the angel of the north,
Instead of the Big Ben.
We have some memories,
Unique to the world,
The Blackpool tower,
Where the dancers all twirled.
Oasis, stone roses,
Arctic monkeys, twisted wheel,
The north has a taste,
With a very strong appeal.
Black pudding,
Blackpool rock,
I tell you now,
We have the lot.
We have musicians,
Painters with talent,
We have good chefs,
There’s nothing that’s absent.
The north of England,
An extraordinary place,
If you come to visit,
There will be a smile on your face.
From Newcastle to Manchester,
Liverpool to Leeds,
There’s a city or town,
To fill all of your needs.
As Manchester say,
That we stand together,
All the north are the same,
For now and forever.
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2019
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Bradley Lane Poem
I'd love to paint, a picture for you, of images in my head.
Of a quirky old town, I'll set the scene, as you rise from a crooked bed.
The room you're in, whilst large in size, has rather strange design,
With five large walls, and storage drawers, with craftsmanship so fine.
The room has black, and rotting beams, supporting the floors above.
A Tudor look, a few hundred years old, a design in which I love.
You walk out of the rooms, down narrow stairs, to be greeted by a landlord.
"Welcome my friend, to the Spellmasters inn, whilst adjusting his buckled cord".
The cord that keeps, ragged old pants, from visiting his hairy ankles,
The jolly old man, with a kind old face, and nostril hairs that dangle.
"Welcome my friend", the man bellows again, a voice as a lions roar,
"To the town of magic, of wizards and elves, and landlords that can be a bore".
You walk outside, of the 'magical inn', and gasp as you look in the air.
The chimneys around, blow purples and greens, as potions are made, from hair.
For love, you'd need, the hair of the person, in which you do desire.
For courage, bravery, fearlessness and luck, i believe it's the hair of a tiger.
The streets are cobbled, and grey in colour, the windows of shops are stained.
The feel of wonder, of marvellous things, and things which are yet to be explained.
You walk down the street, as signs swing in the breeze, as sun trickles down through smoke,
To create an effect, seen on the floor, as well, as on your cloak.
Like shards of multi-coloured glass, that ripples through like waves,
With blues, and purples, pinks and greens, it's strange how the light behaves.
You look around, and read the signs, of all the ancient shops,
As witches and wizards, walk on by, in cotton tunics and tops.
You notice a door, it catches your eye, with a large, and old brass knocker,
'A traveller's rest', is titled above, and a side wall, with a knocker.
The door is open, and with curious eyes, you want to take a look,
The door creaks open, and to your surprise, is an old and dusty book.
You carry on walking, down alleys of cobble, as elves and goblins walk by,
You find a bench, and sit for a second, as you look again at the sky.
You took the book, which rest in a shadow, and carefully open the page.
With delicate touch, and a large deep breath, you sit in a mesmerized gaze.
'WAKE UP', is all that's written there, in bold and aggressive writing.
The bench you're on collapses, and darkness overtakes the lighting.
Your eyes spring open, you jump out of bed, for what on earth had happened?
Surely it can't have been a dream, not something you've imagined?
The details of the town, begin to escape, like a long, forgotten world.
You go downstairs, like nothing happened, but notice something that's curled.
A large, brown package, posted through the door, with curled corners, rips, and tears.
You cautiously pick, the package up, and walk, back up the stairs.
You open the package, turn it around, and a glittering powder falls out.
And then, some hair, then a thud on your knee, which makes you scream and shout.
A brown old book, is lying there, in a puddle, of coloured dust.
You open the book, and read the first page, 'COME BACK TO US, YOU MUST!'.
You feel confused, and in a daze, but carry on, to read,
'COME BACK TO MY INN, WHEN YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES, AND TOGETHER, WE'LL SHARE A MEAD!'
- THE SPELLMASTERS INN
Copyright © Bradley Lane | Year Posted 2022
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