Quotes about lane, page 4
Bob's Lane
Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,
Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he
Loved horses. He himself was like a cob
And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree.
For the life in them he loved most living things,
But a tree chiefly. All along the lane
He planted elms where now the stormcock sings
That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.
Till then the track had never had a name
For all its thicket and the nightingales
That should have earned it. No one was to blame
To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.
Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now
None passes there because the mist and the rain
Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough
And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane.
poem by Edward Thomas
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A Walk On Memory Lane
To me a walk on memory lane can be a thing of joy
To visit my uncle Dan and aunty Mary in their home in Lisnaboy
I could call there at anytime and a welcome i would find
The past it seems to stay with us in the memory of the mind,
The little brown lark carolled as upwards he did fly
Above the old coarse meadow on an evening in July,
I am on a walk on memory lane and how lovely to hear and see
The red breasted robin singing on branch of an alder tree
It all seems very real to me not a vision in a dream
The white breasted dipper singing in the rapids of the stream
On it's way to the river babbling as it does flow
Through meadows and through rushy fields and by many a hedgerow
I walk the fields of Lisnaboy when I'm on memory lane
And i visit Dan and Mary it is like old times again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Chasing The Train
Two young boys ran down the lane,
Playing the game of chasing the train,
As it puffed its way proudly along,
Chugging out its rhythmic song,
This was of course the age of steam,
Engines were then, an Engineers dream,
Producing such mighty pulling power,
Travelling onwards, hour after hour.
Over steel tracks, tearing up the miles,
Oh, you should have seen the happy smiles,
That emanated, seemingly with such an ease,
From enthusiasts who had tried to squeeze,
Into the carriages all swaying along,
They too just loved the rhythmic song,
And waved to the two young boys in the lane,
Playing the game of chasing the train.
This was inspired by a watercolour of two boys running alongside a steam engine travelling through the countryside parallel with a country lane. The picture was painted by Don Breckon '77.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Famous Movie Poem - Singing in the Rain
you are young, your skin is taut
my heart reels like a guitar tight
and plucked for the first time
you are young and your crown
billows and crests cascading
like a great waterfall i am pleasantly
entangled in the shiny resplendent tresses
your enchanting intelligence fueled eyes
darting over the silver screen are shangrila's
spring lakes of passion, appetisers for love
i cant take mine off
you charge up the morning like a
thousand birds bursting in their
enthusiasm, all ready to fly away
with their present of the new day,
giving life to a solitary tree now
waving and whistling its
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Lucky Ones
stuck in the rain on the freeway, 6:15 p.m.,
these are the lucky ones, these are the
dutifully employed, most with their radios on as loud
as possible as they try not to think or remember.
this is our new civilization: as men
once lived in trees and caves now they live
in their automobiles and on freeways as
the local news is heard again and again while
we shift from first gear to second and back to first.
there's a poor fellow stalled in the fast lane ahead, hood
up, he's standing against the freeway fence
a newspaper over his head in the rain.
the other cars force their way around his car, pull out into
the next lane in front of cars determined to shut them off.
in the lane to my right a driver is being followed by a
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poem by Charles Bukowski
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Blood Suckers
Driving down the fast lane.
I hope one day I don't miss my turn.
To capture the moment.
To hold it in my hand.
Show you how it is so grand.
Setting the butterfly free.
It was the way it was meant to be.
Just look at those beautiful wings.
All the vivid colors.
We are holding so many back.
Slaves with the invisible whip smacking their backs.
Can you see the welts?
Can you the blood dripping yet?
It is being inflicted by you.
So tell me why is it you don't care?
A benefit to whom?
A dark cloud over all of us looms.
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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Where the Sidewalk Ends
where the sidewalk ends
now a nursery school stands
it slowly quietly comes alive at morn
the gentleness of a breeze as
children with their bags on their backs
walk, run into their classrooms
after the first light of morn
where the sidewalk ends
now a nursery school stands
it quietens down at the last light of dusk
the gentleness of a breeze
as children leave and go happy that they
have fulfilled mom's and dad's wishes
and learnt a few rudimentary words and grammar
their laughters and cheers as they leave
echo those in the lane of my memory
- a few young boys and girls swarming round
a mango tree shaking for its last mango
it had missed my friends and dropped right on my left eye
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Little Women
little women of my childhood gravel lane,
fill out a part of my memory of
linked-wooden houses built on stilts.
their crowning glories still so vivid;
how they flipped like a pendulum from
shoulder to shoulder as they ran;
those different-styled hair
each carving a story and character in
my own little women world;
straight, graceful tresses,
shoulder-length lioness-styled crown,
and their varied-toned skins;
fair, dark, palsy so many different shades
in one family, it's a wonder how genes work.
all these differences held tight by a love
that flowed so abundantly from shy mom and salt fish market businessman dad.
how they had run helter skelter
from their games of rope jumping, hide and seek, hopscotch, ....
for home when they saw daddy
strolling home with his straw basket round his elbow, the dollars and cents of the day to get the family runnning.
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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What Others May Think.
Apart from the water tower
and the farm
and a few scattered cottages
there were no other buildings
for a mile or more
just you and Jane
and birds in the early morning sky
I like it at this time of day
she said
I like the fresh smell of nature
and the farm
and having few people about
you walked beside her down the lane
that led away from the farm
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poem by Terry Collett
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The Book of Van den Braak
I stared at the book on the table
Where it lay on the weathered oak,
The cover so black and tarnished,
Tanned in leather through coils of smoke,
Its ancient layers had long been carved
As petals of some grim flower,
Where an evil mildew spread its mould
From the walls of that ancient tower.
The book was set like an altar piece
In that ancient, flagstoned hall,
Catching the feeble rays of light
Through cracks in the old stone wall,
I hastened to look away, but yet
It gripped me in its glare,
Like some old German Grimoire...
Though no title page was there!
I reached for the cover and opened it,
The leather creaked with age,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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