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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Related quotes
Unity Or Not
What is one accomplishing,
By chasing behind a horse drawn cart...
That is going uphill.
Yelling, 'Unity! '
All out of breath and sweating.
As the horse glances back every now and then,
Thinking...
~Why is that fool running behind me like that?
Yelling 'Unity? '
My name is Raymond.
And I've got all I can handle.
Unity or not,
He's not getting on here.
I'm pulling this cart.
And it will come to a stop...
IF he tries.
Late comers are not welcomed.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Give Way
I know a man from Lancashire
who had a horse and cart for hire.
The horse was old but the cart is strong,
somehow together they didn't belong.
When they became one there was a change,
Ears went up, whip in the tail, snap the riegns.
They came to a bridge, it looked a little weak
As they crossed, it hobbled, tapped and creaked.
The wooden bridge was small and norrow
not to long, but only room for one to pass.
Towards them flapped a little brown sparrow,
horse thinks, no way he's makin me into an ass.
The old horse snorted and put his head down,
nothing would stop them getting to town.
Said the horse: ' no one's gettin in my way'
Then the little sparrow flew up, got out the way.
Hovering above watching everything,
just like a slow motion scene.
The sparrow saw the horse
fly through the trucks screen.
P.S. We used a proffessional stunt horse, he is Ok.
poem by David Darbyshire
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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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Sibling Children at Play
Two sibling children are at play;
The ‘horse’ is elder sister, Jill,
Whose younger brother ‘driver’ Bill
Sits on an ‘Umbrella-cart’, gay!
‘Giddap! ’ ‘Giddap! ’ shouts Bill to her;
‘Pull me, pull me, pull me faster! ’
The fuming, panting tired Jill,
Finds it hard pulling Bill ‘uphill’?
The ‘Umbrella-cart’ moves with speed;
Poor Jill is pulling fast indeed;
Her brother giggles, laughs aloud;
The cart-drive makes him truly proud!
But, Jill is only five-years’ old;
Her baby brother is quite bold;
She does not have the strength to pull;
But give a joy-ride for Bill, she’ll!
The wheels of th’ cart wobble along;
Bill insists her to sing a song;
‘Neigh like a horse! ’ he commands her;
If she does not, Bill will holler.
Her little brother loves the ride;
The cart stops often by road-side;
The ‘driver’ shouts, ‘Pull on farther! ’
Or I will cry and call mother.
Poor Jill cannot pull on and on;
But she must do: she is first-born;
Jill loves her little brother, Bill;
Do anything for him, she will.
Yes, children love to play all day;
They do not know dangers en way;
They copy elders, come what may;
They never like the word called ‘nay’.
But children love a simple ride;
They do it on their own with pride;
They love to learn and enjoy too;
You never know what they can do.
To children, work is also play;
They love to learn in playful way;
At times, they fight as though by right;
They sleep like angels small, at night!
Their innocence is worth watching;
Their childish ways befit smiling;
Their scuffles are worth too, prying;
But sad ’tis to see them sobbing.
And adults dream of childhood years-
The loveliest in life with dears!
That was the time they knew not fears,
While parents never allowed tears.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 11-21-2007
poem by John Celes
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The Genius Of Being A Dumb Animal (like a horse for instance)
The precocious interrupted patterns
of his thick tongued speech
are a direct result of the broken dialects
he had been learned at home.(the master not the horse)
His loving mother and laboring father,
both of whom were legal immigrants,
had walked out of eastern Europe,
and yet only briefly had stepped outside
of their existentialist dreams,
when they conceived the likes of him.
'Son, we want you to hurt like we do.'
they both would radically repeat
to their impressionable boy.....over and over,
as they washed behind his balls and ears.
And so it was that at a very young age
these austere expressions would become
very systematic in his writings.
Poetry became his enemy and his best friend.
Throwing himself into books full
of someone else's distorted
thoughts and equations,
he promised himself that one day soon
he would save the world. (from itself)
Even if it resisted such help, he thought
he would never see it his parent's way.
In a time when most boys
still played with all their marbles
he kept his glass eyes in a tin,
which also doubled as his head.
Thereby,
an early indicator
of the duplicitous manner,
in which he intended to prove
to the myopic world
that he was smarter than one might think
Hence.....*this is where the horse comes in...*
The man bought a horse to help
him in the cluttered junk business
he had built from the ground up
The horse just as all else in the man's life
was always placed before the cart
and the cart was routinely overfilled,
while still bridled to the hard working horse.
The horse, after all was said and done
remained completely convinced
despite his Master's verbose claims,
that there was no possible reason,
or need to reinvent a better wheel
for his overloaded cart
as was suggested by the horse
when the horse had on one day developed
a noticeable shortness in his gate
Alas.....poor......horse
All the genius which the horse displayed
in both compensating for his limp despite the load.....
still completing his daily grind without complaint
would prove to count for nothing
when he broke his leg tripping over his master
in the stampede to get the 'Hell out of Dodge'____
and his master's utopia......
poem by Ted Sheridan
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Lost Complaint
The day was fine and sunny
And there i was on my balcony
Smoking my favourite ciggy
As i listened to a symphony.
Happiness seemed to be all around
Joy was in the air
Like it had no bounds.
Suddenly my eyes fell on my neighbours brand new car
Then there was my old bike a little distance afar.
Grumpiness and jealousy now crept inside of me
My smile was lost as also my glee.
Cudnt help complaining..My neighbours so well-off.
Then why am i victim of God's scoff? ?
My eyes caught something on the road
It was bustling with traffic in loads.
There in the middle was a man
He was pulling a cart full of metal cans.
He seemed to have crossed his retirement age
Maybe he was pulling the cart just to earn his daily wage.
He seemed hungry....his stomach was stuck to his spine
Cudnt help askin God..'How can you be so unkind.? '
The man's legs seemed to be shaking
I felt like his bones were cracking.
The man seemed like he didnt desire any material comfort
Yet was pulling the cart with all his efforts.
I asked myself..'Why do i whine? '
I know my life is better than him a million times
That poor man had cleared my doubt
Wondered wat i was complaining all about.
poem by Ashish Ram
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Me & My Horse
riding together,
you and your horse.
as you run against the wind all you call hear is-
the wind wipping your ears,
the horse's hooves thundering beneath you,
the chains of your bit as the horse pulls against the reins,
and the faint sound of the horse behind you.
your horse stops,
the horse behind you catches up.
the race is over,
freedom will have to wait until next time.
poem by Horse Lover
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Old News
Old News
As the clock struck seven, a summer evening, outside
the town hall, a horse pulling a cart bolted. The driver
fell off and broke a leg, a policeman on duty was able
to stop the horse and calm it down. In our small inland
town this was a big event and many people took their
evening walk down to the town hall and stood in groups
listening to what the witnesses, two elderly men who
spent their time there sometimes doing odd jobs but
mostly hung around doing nothing; now for once they
had an audience and were treated as equals. News get
old and little is as stale as yesterdays´ the driver’s leg
mended, the horse was made into glue and tasty salami,
no one was interested in what a pair of layabouts had
to say, not now that a circus was coming to town.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What is a Horse?
What is a horse?
A horse has eyes as dainty as a mink.
The grace is interrupted merely by a blink.
A horse is beauty.
What is a horse?
A horse is a tree in a storm that never goes down.
A horse is a weathered rock that stays around.
A horse is ancient.
What is a horse?
A horse waltzes like breeze over rivers.
She curvets and leaps like rain shivers.
A horse is a marionette.
What is a horse?
A horse is determination, that never stops flowing.
A horse is fondness, that never stops growing.
A horse is poetic power.
poem by Lily Whittaker
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Any Opportunity I Can Get
Which view,
In your opinion...
Has more of an advantage,
From a horse drawn cart?
The one riding as a passenger,
While sitting in the front?
Or the one from the back,
With nothing but the rear of the horse to see?
'That's difficult to answer.
I have grown very attached to gardening.
And any opportunity I can get,
To collect free manure...
I jump and grab it immediately.
On the other hand...
Some of that indecisive crap,
I hear coming from the mouths of those...
Riding along AND ignoring the view,
Provides for me no benefit at all.
And I can tell from the horse's expression,
There is something I do with something 'he' does...
I am getting for free!
And at his expense.
And I can tell by the look in his eyes,
He has become suspicious as to why...
When I ride,
I am the only one who feeds him carrots! '
I see!
So you prefer the rear view?
'That depends on the time of the year.
And what I am willing,
To sit through to listen and hear.
Some crap is more beneficial than others.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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.
Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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A Horse Is A Horse
A horse is a horse and a man is a man
And neither can be the other
And each can survive but is much better
In the company of one another.
And while a horse is a horse and that is true
A horse is but a beast
As a cow is a cow, some ask how
On its flesh we should not feast?
For they do so in France as in other places
And I don't know how they can
For while a horse is a horse and is only a horse
It is less a cow than it is a man!
poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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The Brook
Seated once by a brook, watching a child
Chiefly that paddled, I was thus beguiled.
Mellow the blackbird sang and sharp the thrush
Not far off in oak and hazel brush,
Unseen. There was a scent like honeycomb
From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome
Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft
A butterfly alighted. From aloft
He took the heat of the sun, and from below.
On the hot stone he perched contented so,
As if never a cart would pass again
That way; as if I were the last of men
And he the first of insects to have earth
And sun together and to know their worth.
I was divided between him and the gleam,
The motion, and the voices, of the stream,
The waters running frizzled over gravel,
That never vanish and for ever travel.
A grey flycatcher silent on a fence
And I sat as if we had been there since
The horseman and the horse lying beneath
The fir-tree-covered barrow on the heath,
The horseman and the horse with silver shoes,
Galloped the downs last. All that I could lose
I lost. And then the child's voice raised the dead.
'No one's been here before' was what she said
And what I felt, yet never should have found
A word for, while I gathered sight and sound.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Oh Yes I Love My Horse
Oh yes I love my horse,
and my horse she doth love me.
Riding o'er the countryside,
beneath me my trusty steed.
We ride fast through sunny days,
for my little mare always enjoys to play.
She may buck and she may rear,
but never has anything been so dear;
As the horse I cherish,
and know oneday shall perish.
I enjoy each moment that we get,
always pulling gently on her bit.
For my horse is my kin,
not to be purchased by any bid.
For as a young girl I slept by her side,
willing to battle any that would cut our tie.
So for now we frolick merrily,
each day together a special rarity.
Until the day the good Lord calls her up,
and I must find solace in her son.
poem by Kayla Lonkard
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The Horse and Cart Ferry
It was old Jerry Brown,
Who’d an office in town,
And he used to get jocular, very;
And he’d go to the Shore
When they’d serve him no more,
And, of course, by the passenger ferry,
A sight on the passenger ferry.
Now this is a song of the ferry,
And a lay of the juice of the berry;
’Tis the ballad of Brown,
Who’d a business in town,
And commenced to go down
Very slow,
Don’t you know?
By coming home just a bit merry.
By the Drunks’ Boat—that’s right—
On a Saturday night
He would often be past being merry;
With his back teeth afloat,
On the twelve o’clock boat,
And a spectacle there on the ferry
(A picture to all on the ferry).
In the mornings, ashamed—
’Twas the last drink he blamed,
Though the first was the matter with Jerry,
With his nerve out of joint,
He’d sneak down to Blue’s Point,
And he’d cross by the horse-and-cart ferry,
Like a thief—by the horse-and-cart ferry.
But long before night
He’d most likely be tight,
And a subject and theme for George Perry;
And he’d cross to the Shore,
Somewhat worse than before,
And a nuisance to all on the ferry;
Singing-drunk on the passenger ferry.
And so it went on
Till his reason seemed gone,
And the Law, so it seemed, got a derry
On Brown. He went down,
And they sent him to town
One day, by “the trap,” on the ferry—
The Government trap on the ferry.
He was sober and sane
When he came back again,
And the past he’d determined to bury—
Or, I mean, live it down—
And he crossed from the town
Like a man, on the passenger ferry.
(There were sceptical souls on that ferry.)
They say ’twas the jaw
Of his mother-in-law
Drove him back to the juice of the berry;
But he soon got afloat
On the passenger boat
Or adrift on the horse-and-cart ferry
(Wrongly called the ve-hic-ular ferry).
The drink had him fast,
And he drank till at last
He dried up—a withered old cherry;
And they thought him no loss
When they sent him across
In a box, on the cart-and-horse ferry—
In a low, covered trap on the ferry.
Which I rise to explain—
If the moral ain’t plain,
And if you’re a cove that gets merry—
Always stick, when “afloat,”
To the passenger boat;
Or else to the cart-and-horse ferry,
Or you’ll make matters worse, like old Jerry.
But this is the song of the ferry,
And the lay of the juice of the berry;
And you will not deny—
If you read by-and-bye—
That the casual eye
Of the Tight
At first sight
Misses much in the song of the ferry.
poem by Henry Lawson
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