Best Horse And Cart Poems
A country yearns industry
from assiduous minds revolutionary,
cities conceived with mind set and skill
yet lay insipid in the body of Britannia
those in need of life’s blood,
akin to human organs
served only; by arterial veins.
The first sod to lift an unfolding nation
the first cut the inauguration the call,
have a thought pleasure seeker
enduring men with pick, shovel, some did fall,
his sweat given freely or not as the case may be
to mingle with earth removed
or deep within copse ghyll may well be for a tree.
The Dales emptied, of its men
famine ravaged Ireland too,
drawn towards the rush of new born adrenaline
a creation of foresight
when the need for this an artery to flow
through lock, tunnel aqueduct,
transforming her virgin land
albeit out of trades of old,
an era steeped in tradition
tools an extension: of one’s own hand.
Adverse weather geography
this realm having found fame,
complexity from above, below,
the elements the environment
nothing to stand in obsessions way,
from soil to solid rock, energy sapping
clods of clay negotiated all
amidst many tongues, yet same laborious conclusion
wheeled away by the barrowman;
horse and cart.
This precious land host to many heroes
those upon columns stand tall,
our sons live on in remembrance
a memorial for them all,
so to this symbolic structure
craved through hostile terrain,
a burly navvies sculptured cleft
within the very earth
his body one day to lay.
Oh the city Leeds, city Liverpool and those in between
the bargees upon the cut there now do dwell
living within the ideals of another time sown
but of ease it is with just a memory
conservation the historic debt on loan!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
(An Addingham poem)
‘There! Where every curve
injects another memory.’
Analytic beauty that
nestled in verdant valley
allows the mind to review,
where archaic dry-stone walls
enhance the ancestral ghosts,
impeccable trees, nature’s
guardian to one’s heady days,
inscribed when lovers called.
Now historic brows lost
within the village face,
expressive meadows
from a bygone age did
grace now lay in waste,
every thistle upon
throstle nest cut down
and stone barns redundant.
For cement and brick
replace the gathering blooms,
fertile soil lay under macadam
and house numbers
supersede the hawthorn hedge,
and old ‘Bram’ on horse and cart
daily down moor lane
long gone and dead.
Oh. Them old manifestations
embedded, the labour
of many a village son,
where leaf and wood
do part but once a year,
after seasons of regrowth
give way to winter’s ascetic sun
that rolls across Rombald’s moor.
‘Oh. Yes, the sun, one thing
that man has not yet changed.’
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Unreceived Parcel
I have sent your parcel Please be patient
Your curtain hooks have been sent
It's on its way
Yes sir, I have sent it
I will make a special deliver
Through the dark forces of night
In horse and cart
Await me at 2 am tonight
Leave the window slightly ajar
I will ring three chimes on my arrival
With your special delivery
Slide open the window
Look down You will see me standing there with your parcel
Slowly on your toes
Push forward and slide out the window
Reach for me
Then you will have your parcel
I will have delivered the goods
Your wife will have curtain hooks to hang the curtains
Then your curtains will be closed forever
I will place roses on your grave
Sending you a graceful goodbye
Delivering, your unreceived goods
There once was a chauffeur called Bart,
Who had a Rolls that wouldn’t start.
He wanted to be green -
His boss was very mean -
So now he drives a horse and cart.
The
Cookie Farm
Homemade whipped cream
Cradled in a strawberry stream
Cotton bonnets as far as the eye can see
Fifty pickers gathering berries for a fee
Distant rows of fruit bearing trees
Stately greening in the breeze
Ice man with his horse and cart
Want ice? Got old iron for my cart?
Stallions whinny from the barn
Granny's on the porch twirling yarn
Over the butter barrel labors Sis
I picked some lettuce nice and crisp
Lunch bell rings we all go running
Sis took my seat Oh so cunning
Memories of these days I reminisce
Wholesome days of sunny bliss
Carole Cookie Arnold
2010
CREELS
My father spent hours
trimming the edges
of the newly cut sally rods,
to make creels fore taking the turf
over the soft soil of the bog,
so that the horse and cart
could bring it home
for the winter time.
I watch how he scalloped
the edges, tightly tied
and intricately weaved
the fresh wood.
He was always making tools,
repairing them.
Birsy with his hands,
he wasted no time,
toook no holidays,
or trips away, except once
a year, cycling to Mohill
for the Manachan Day Fair
with my mother.
When they got home,
the sun was a low ember,
the cows milked.
PUBLISHED in PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS, DUBLIN l999
Technology,
Just a time travel away!
Did people become so brilliantly clever!
Within a blink of an eye,
Evolving superhuman beings,
From cavemen to inventors,
Hunter-gatherers,
To knowledge condensers,
Traveling thousands of miles,
Within the speed of light,
From horse and cart,
To jetting across the universe,
Life at a fast pace,
Messages that can travel,
Around the world and back,
With one scientific click,
How amazingly human is that,
Mobile phones and internet,
Knowledge is the future,
How far can technology travel?
Faster than a time machine,
Gadgets for every occasion,
With comfort, luxury and splendour,
Everything for this generation’s need,
I think my mobile phone makes me more human
My mother thinks otherwise!
07/07/2016
For contest
Being Human
Sponsor John Hamilton
It's a cold bitter day
the wind it bites like needles
head held low, wind chimes
beckon from the open fields
to the shelter of his elders
woods, a cabin quaint and humble
place enough to potter and mumble
where he kneels beneath the smoke
stained stone vent
Kindle wood in hands to light the fire
helped on by his old leather bellows
a gust makes good the flame
With time on hand and pipe on lip
he lays right back and takes a sip
old man Brent demure, content
he lived a quite
descent and lent
an ear to the wild,
travelled to town on his
horse and cart always
up with the lark an
early start
Made his own wine from
elderberry fine, where he
drank in the evening of his
own decline
He played his father’s fiddle
that high pitched hey diddle
diddle, fingertips hardened
aged and brittle
The years are closing in on
the old man from fresh pine
hill sitting on the rocks where
his fore-bearers sat, ending
his days on the shores of his
youth, old man Brent his far
away stare, smiles.
A Story of the Unsung.
Man, horse and cart wait at the railway station, picking up wares
and delivering them to local shops. Every July the man and horse
go on holiday to the country side, so his animal can eat fresh grass
and trot about on soft soil, while the man sits on a stone fence
smoking his pipe. A frosty day the horse fell on icy road, it was
not the same after that, it was off its hay, lost weight, had to stop
often, up hills, for a rest. The vet shook his head too late, nothing
he could do for the beast.
The man got a hand cart, tried to deliver parcels around, but could
not push heavy loads; fell ill, took to his bed and vanished into
blue yonder. There is a green field on the country side if you go
there In July you will, on a misty dawn, when the ash tree is
covered in gossamer, see a man sitting on a stone fence, smoking
his pipe whilst his horse, grazes on green lushness. But you must
go before the field is turned into a posh housing estate and
fairytales die in the glare of street lamps and prowling patrol cars.
The taxi speeds down the highway
zig zagging to miss the potholes.
It slows as a horse and cart crosses,
followed by the owner's dog.
On the other carriageway people wait
hoping someone will give them a lift.
An old Cadillac smokes its way down the road.
In the town, buildings are like well-worn pairs of shoes –
they fit, still function but have seen better days.
But the people are well nourished, clothed and clean.
Smiles of genuine happiness are all around.
This is a country which lives to a different pulse -
Ché its heartbeat,
Fidel its lifeblood.
People are living the revolution where others have failed –
common wellbeing before personal gain,
society’s hallmark is equality and colour-blindness.
Educated and cultured, enjoyment is beyond the material.
Musical rhythms set the daily pace.
There is a determination to live and succeed despite hardship.
But is it only hardship when seen through Western eyes?
The freedom of spirit is to be admired.
But what does the future hold?
The greatest challenge is yet to come –
influx of other peoples from not so far away.
¡Cubana!
Painstakingly I gathered shrapnel from grandpa’s fields,
sold them to the metal man who came on horse & cart.
Alas, disaster struck...the sixpence, fruit of my hard work,
slipped through my fingers, forever lost in the soil!
A young entrepreneur’s euphoria evaporated into thin air.
My heart painfully shattered beyond repair by the shrapnel
of irremediable loss, anger and bitter disappointment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Unsayable (7 lines)
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Placed 2nd
© 24th November 2017
Years after WW II ended, shrapnel from exploded bombs
was still to be found in all the area where my grandpa’s
farm was - in the vicinity of Hal Far military aerodrome.
A man used to visit from time to time, with horse and cart,
buying anything made of metal; we called him the metal man.
My road map, imagination,
My poor passion, horse and cart,
All my poems like a compass,
Arrows pointed at your heart
My affluence beyond measure,
Poverty defies belief,
All my treasure lies in heaven,
Victim of an earthbound thief.
Dreams sail on in search of beauty,
Music’s all that makes me whole,
Chains that bind me only duty,
Sole companion is my soul.
Sometimes silence fills my future,
Loneliness just mine to share,
Snow appears on every channel,
Yet such joy to know you’re there.
Brian Johnston
February 7, 2014
About the end of times when
Carts were hauled by Shires,
Coal was king and homes
Were heated by open fires,
A seemingly huge dark figure
From my early childhood days
As he drove his horse and cart
Through the country byways
From village to village to village
Delivering sacks of coal
To feed our coal fires, then
Each home’s heart and soul.
One hundredweight of coal
Measured into each heavy sack
Which they’d hoist off the cart
Onto a waiting broad back
To be carried to the coal shed
To be skilfully slipped
And with ease of movement
Very carefully tipped
Not a black lump wasted
As it piled on the coal heap8
For money was tight
And coal wasn’t cheap.
His horse patiently standing
By each house’s kerb side
Waiting to be led on or
For him to climb up and ride.
Hours they must have spent
Huddled on that cart seat
Muffled up for winter’s cold
Or soaking up summer’s heat.
One day suddenly, progress,
The Shire retired out to grass
The second hand liveried lorry
Shelter behind steel and glass.
Still a hard dirty job but warmer
As the world moved slowly on
King Coal was coldly murdered
And the job was virtually gone.
Just a figure from history
From a simpler, slower age
Not even meriting a foot note
On a social history primer’s page.
Is there a niche in time and space
Where a coal man and his horse,
Waggon piled with sacks, eternally
Trundles his once essential course
Toy’s abattoir has decayed.
Gone is the bank, E.S. & A.
One time Witton Street brickwork’s,
is grass growing over the clay.
Bruton the blacksmith has rusted.
His name on a shed disappears.
The water trough in Mackey Street,
has not seen a horse in years.
I s’pose this is meant to be progress,
tearing this village apart,
so the old folk, keep telling me,
history lives inside their heart.
The Flinders Road bakery has gone.
Maisey the butcher has too.
Eacott motors remembered by concrete,
on a block in Princes Avenue.
The produce of Follett and Pope,
along with the vital Wenns store.
The banks, green grocer and plumber,
don’t open their doors any more.
I s’pose this is meant to be progress,
tearing this village apart,
so the old folk, keep telling me,
history lives inside their heart.
The shrine to our heroes at war;
relocated and out of the way.
Ed’s milk bar where we gathered;
ivy covers the rubble today.
Idle is the old butter factory,
at one time the hub of this town.
Four timber mills once flourished.
Three of them now have closed down.
I s’pose this is meant to be progress,
tearing this village apart -
once held in the old pioneer hands,
who gave this village a start.
Some of them say they remember,
days of the old horse and cart,
so the old folk keep telling me,
history lives inside their heart.
Ted is a novice when skating on ice
Kept slipping and falling twenty times twice
Body shattered and battered
And his teeth were all scattered
Prayed the tooth fairy will give a good price
Soups and soft food is all he can now eat
But he fancied something that is more sweet
Poured treacle in a large cup
Then quickly drank it all up
Feeling sick, vowed he would never repeat
He felt very hot and started to fret
From every pore he was pouring with sweat
He went outside to cool down
Some wasps where flying around
And saw his body as a sweet object
He screamed loudly, hollered, blubbered and cried
As the wasps were all stinging him with pride
His body grossly swollen
And dignity now stolen
Wished instead gone for a horse and cart ride
14.09.23