Ox Cart Man
In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,
counting the seed, counting
the cellar's portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart's floor.
He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hoped by hand at the forge's fire.
He walks by his ox's head, ten days
to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,
and the bag that carried potatoes,
flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose
feathers, yarn.
When the cart is empty he sells the cart.
When the cart is sold he sells the ox,
harness and yoke, and walks
home, his pockets heavy
with the year's coin for salt and taxes,
and at home by fire's light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year's ox in the barn,
and carves the yoke, and saws planks
building the cart again.
poem by Donald Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
I was not great behind the counter. I had a week off without asking for it. Another time, we had a cart go up in flames, and we went out on another cart, which we wrecked by running it into the cart that was on fire.
Odd musings of an impatient heart
A shopping cart sits alongside the road
Its taunts me as its stands there alone
Just a piece of metal to passers by
But I see that metal and swallow a sigh
And now I've had more than I can take
Its eating me up and I begin to wish
That I could leave this place for a while
Or maybe forever that would be even better
Maybe I could meet someone who is new
And his words would be only the truth
Not lies compared to the thoughts in his head
But I see this shopping cart stranded alone
Just waiting for someone to come take it home
And i wonder of all the things that could make me sad
How a lone shopping cart had the effect that it had
poem by Kamryn Chew
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Seldom Asked
A horse familiar with pulling a cart,
Doesn't have to be taught...
What that experience is like.
Or is in need to have details of scenes,
Described by those riding in the cart...
As the horse pulls.
A horse familiar with pulling a cart,
Doesn't have to be taught...
What that experience is like.
A horse familiar with pulling a cart...
Is seldom asked,
About anything the horse knows and has seen...
On a path that is daily traveled.
Those in the cart,
Seldom repeat the ride.
And few, if any...
Know what it is like to pull their own weight,
And others.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Advice To The Kings And Administrators
The axle of the cart, loaded
with light-weighted peacock feathers
too, may break if the cart is overloaded.
ThirukkuRaL 475
This is the advice
given to the Kings and administrators
to know their strength,
their opponents' strength
and act accordingly.
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'd like to get four people who do cart wheels very good, and make a cart.
quote by Mitch Hedberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Demigod and a Demi-Monde
She always looks for the status
and re-examined her blueprint lover.
He doesn't like her disdain
and tawdry damsel's illusive world.
They put the cart before the horse,
Still holding the cart load
and deprived unnecessarily.
To the blushing lovers.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Little Lady Of The Bullock Cart
Now is the time when India is gay
With wedding parties; and the radiant throngs
Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part
In human pleasures. Dressed in bright array,
They fling upon the bride their wreaths of songs-
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
Here is the temple ready for the rite:
The large-eyed bullocks halt; and waiting arms
Lift down the bride. All India's curious art
Speaks in the gems with which she is bedight,
And in the robes which hide her sweet alarms-
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
This is her day of days: her splendid hour
When joy is hers, though love is all unknown.
It has not dawned upon her childish heart.
But human triumph, in a temporal power,
Has crowned her queen upon a one-day throne-
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
Ah, Little Lady! What will be your fate?
So long, so long, the outward-reaching years:
So brief the joy of this elusive part;
So frail the shoulders for the loads that wait:
So bitter salt the virgin widow's tears-
O Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Mallam Carting.
Daft was thought he says called,
For his naivety struggling carting,
For his blindness,
Made more detention,
Note heart of his depth,
In fishing for best,
Games where wrongly for coins,
Mallam cart pushiness for glory,
Note heart for his depth,
Made calmly for detective,
In given and buying of the silence,
Amorous glorious Mallam cart,
Say say say say,
Daft he was called,
Pleading pleadings for purity,
Help confession Mallam cart pusher,
Games where wrongly for coins,
Survival of fitness aloud,
Here there divinely,
Amorous glorious pusher Mallam cart,
Daft thought he says was called,
For his naivety struggling cart,
For his blindness,
made more detention,
Note heart of his depth,
In fishing for best,
Amorous glorious pusher Mallam cart.
poem by Bunmi Orogun Samuel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blind Road Ahead and A Hill Too!
An old man older than me
and he pushes a cart with two water barrels
taken from the muddy river
for his small vegetable farm?
'Papa I could have push the cart
as the hill ahead.' I said.
'O my son thanks a lot, but
your dress get this dirt? '
'Never mind I just go for an interview
that's not a white-collar job,
collect the stray dogs for a rehabilitation camp
and it's actually a volunteer, not paid? '
Then the old man mutters; 'Good people get bad jobs sometimes
and bad people get handsome salaries for doing good jobs, it depends? '
And I pushed the cart till the end of the road
Then he said; 'Thank you son and good luck! '
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Homeless, Na
He was unwanted so parents abandoned
Homeless, loveless grown as the orphan.
Can't stay more in orphanage of ill treat
would escape from there for life's retreat.
Has a dream of a home where he can live
with respect, comfort, bliss and peace.
He doesn't have money, to buy one little.
He collects and sells junk and scrap metal.
Every dawn and dusk used to pull cart
To increase the income he would work hard.
Sleeps in the cart or a shipping container.
deposits in bank, savings after meals, whatever.
Years passed dropp and dropp make ocean;
to buy a house, now he has money enough.
Now no more, Na, would live near gutter.
In a bank account he has one million dollar.
No God! sudden pain takes him to hospital
where Na is diagnosed of dreadful cancer.
He can't take money, unable to prove identity;
no evidence of his existence was there officially.
Before court ruled for identity, he was dead
Na, born homeless, as well, died homeless.
sdtiwari1@gmaildotcom
poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Water Butt
Rainfall! Please do not stop your function in the off-seasons
As she catches rainwater to her rusty barrel for her living.
The half of her life without a partner she pussyfoot with the old tire cart
Along the thorn avenues; Not the flower roads.
Yes still she is beautiful & fertile
And there should be a windfall.
If a soft heart soul could join her in a drought
And push the cart well with the offspring?
* [ A dumb voter writes on his ballot; Warmongers! Please do not pollute the serene sky and let the rain falls on its freer style.]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Picture of Confidence
In Bermuda
shorts on a cold morning
he wheeled his shopping cart,
a little recklessly,
up to the side
door of the cafe',
pulled out a stainless
steel, covered mug
and splashed the steaming, old
coffee into the gutter,
then came in for a refill.
Long, straight hair shining,
a smile lit his face
as if all of us
warm, secure people
should envy him.
He came out of nowhere,
got his coffee,
and was gone
with the cart,
humming into the cold
morning air.
Hot Potatoes
My baby woke me up this mornin
She said get down that labour exchange,
And if you dont come home with a job son,
Youll get no dinner to-day.
You gotta secure me a weekly workin wage.
Youll get no more fancy cookin,
Youll get no more apple pie,
Youll just get those plain hot potatoes
To satisfy your appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin every single day.
I said I dont need your fancy cooking,
I like the simple things in life,
Just give me those plain hot potatoes
And Ill be well satisfied,
Theyll satisfy my appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin 60 minutes an hour,
I want your lovin 24 hours a day,
I want your lovin 7 days a week.
Yeh, yeh, oh yeh.
I want your love, I need your love,
But all I get is hot potatoes
When I come home late at night
To satisfy my appetite.
Dont give me no more potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes,
I want your lovin every single day.
I want your lovin
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, hot potatoes, yeh.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why would anyone steal a shopping cart? It's like stealing a two-year-old.
quote by Erma Bombeck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Double Down in the Jewel
The kid walked through the doors
thar slid open at his approach
No shopping cart
nothing but a forty-four
magnum in his jeans
He blew away
the myopic clerk
making change
at the ATM
On his way out
he paused for an old lady
pushing her cart
and an undercover cop
blew him away
You can see the bloodstains
on the brick wall outside
and the graffiti mourning him
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hock-cart, Or Harvest Home:to The Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl Of Westmorland
Come, Sons of Summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a maukin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad, all, in linen white as lilies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-Cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kiss the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat:
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers, than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
--Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef;
With upper stories, mutton, veal
And bacon, which makes full the meal,
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here, all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer:
Which freely drink to your lord's health
Then to the plough, the common-wealth;
Next to your flails, your fanes, your vats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
To the rough sickle, and crookt scythe,--
Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat,
As you, may have their fill of meat.
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Shopping Cart Lady
She walks towards me, pushing everything she owns
In a shopping cart with wobbly wheels
Her entire life stuffed into a four wheeled basket
The well dressed ignore her, she doesn't exist
And even though she's not asking for money
I give her all of my change, a dollar or more
Buy yourself something to eat I tell her
I will, she smiles with missing teeth
I see her, sometimes more than once a day
And I wonder what brought her to this
I doubt I'd be able to survive like her
If her misfortune also became mine
Sometimes when I see her I want to ask
What happened that you ended up this way?
I don't and not just because of the fear
That the same thing could happen to me
So I just mind my own business
And give her some money when I can
Knowing that one day she will disaappear
Her shopping cart taken over by another
Homeless, she still smiles and laughs
Never have I seen her sad or crying
Does she save her tears for midnight
When nobody would be there to see
poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Peace
And sometimes I am sorry when the grass
Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows
And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass
That I am not the voice of country fellows
Who now are standing by some headland talking
Of turnips and potatoes or young corn
Of turf banks stripped for victory.
Here Peace is still hawking
His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn.
Upon a headland by a whinny hedge
A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow
There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge
And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.
Out of that childhood country what fools climb
To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home
To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef,
With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, (which makes full the meal)
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Fifties and a Tomato Cart
Two.50 calibre rounds destroyed the old man's head
there was nothing left in the space
where once eyes, nose, mouth had lived
his face was shredded
The tomato cart untouched because
Americans fire tight shot groups
and they were directed at his head
The female MP surveyed the horror
with cool distaste posed the question
'cause of death? ' It was procedure.
An Army private could not resist delivering
his line with a wry twist of gallows humor
'Seems to me, seargeant, loss of head
would be the cause of death.'
Hearing this story now, second hand,
I am unable to make any sense of it.
I fail to grasp the value of it's telling
The facts are clear-
American convoy drew near
the old man and his tomato cart
two fifties opened up and took his head apart
head controls heart thus, life functions ceased
threat eliminated the American convoy eased
to a stop-
and the paperwork started with clinical indifference
to the recently departed tomato cart man
I feel nothing
I am unable to engage emotions though I guess
Somewhere, someone will be lost in an ocean of grief
that will bear no consolation-
no amount of belief in God, Allah, Jahweh
can begin to explain the immensity of their loss
as I attempt to calculate the cost to the Army as roughly-
nothing,
the empty feeling inside of me as
I try to tell myself I'm not dead-
try to sell myself on the idea that somewhere-deep inside
I'm aghast at the cheapness of life in the combat zone
where everybody dies alone and I know
each loss is a personal tragedy to someone back home
a catastrophy to mothers like Cindy Sheehan.
But what about the tomato cart man, his head squashed
like a ripe tomato by the twin hammers
of two fifties?
How much does his death really affect me?
It hits me then and I want to take the fact
and drive it through my own head like
those two fifties until
my head gives way
and my heart stops because
it is now clear that the numbness has become so severe
that I might as well be dead
Cause of death?
Not loss of Head
Oh no, no
I'd say loss of Heart
poem by Troy Younts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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