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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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
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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.
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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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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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
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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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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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Steering Precision
For years I've hugged a dream
Not a very lady-like one
But then again
Who said, I am a lady?
Not me!
I want a pile of rustic junk
A few bicycles
A perambulator
A pile of wood
Nails plus aged string
So that I may finally set about
Creating
My favourite thing!
There is no need for long drawn out plans
Blueprint, mentally stored
Dare I say?
Yes! I'm good with my hands
The item of my affection
My ultimate dream
Building a go-cart for deep gradient.....
Screams
Of joy, exhilaration
Still on the back burner
But anticipation
With dogged OCD
Knowing myself and the core of
me
One day when I'm even older
than I already am
I'll relish the disassembling
Of one ancient pram
To create my most desired of
visions
A go-cart with side brakes
And steering precision
poem by Karen Sinclair
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The Freedom Of Words
A dreamer
Trying to catch
The gold dust
As the sun
Bursts overhead
Illusive
As the cart wheeling seeds
Of the dandelion
Caught in a whirlwind
A maelstrom
All the better
For dispersil
Free from those
Who would eradicate them
As weeds.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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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
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How can you put out a fire set on a cart-load of firewood with only a cup of water.
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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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
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