Best Wagon Poems
The clouds have formed a mare’s tail in the sky,
a fitting image, for I’m being led
beneath them, where in eerie silence lie
abandoned stalls, untended land, a shed.
And on a gate, like some strange souvenir,
a halfway broken sign reads “Wagon Wheel.”
That horses once were bred and ridden here
both grime and span of time cannot conceal.
But farther down a lane, behind some trees,
(where happiness once lived!) awaits my spring -
a large house, shuttered, with its memories.
In front of it still hangs that wooden swing.
Above long grass and weeds it starts to sway.
The ghost of me has now returned to play.
For the Love and Loss Poetry Contest
I saw an old wagon wheel in the antique store the other day.
What type of vehicle it must have conveyed, I couldn't really say,
But I let my imagination roam as I studied the old wheel,
And pondered its odyssey and what secrets it might reveal.
Its iron tire was pitted and rusted due to age.
The wooden spokes were intact but their age was hard to gauge.
Its diameter was about five feet and its tread six inches wide.
Ah, if it could only speak to me, its mysteries to confide!
Could it have carried a pioneer family in a Conestoga wagon west,
With the anticipation of a new beginning in their relentless quest!
It with other wagon wheels rutted well-worn trails along the way,
And traces of those treacherous routes are seen to this very day!
Could it have graced an army lorry drawn by cantankerous mules,
Driven by a pugnacious trooper to deliver hay, grub and tools?
The wear and tear was evident due to many military campaigns,
Crossing perilous rivers, mountain heights and endless arid plains.
Or could it have borne a farmer's wagon as he plied his trade,
Hauling crops of wheat, corn and oats once the harvest was made?
Oh, the many miles it endured through the mud, dust and snow!
I left the store still musing about its odyssey of so very long ago.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
When I was a 6 or 7 old boy,
my mother bought me a red wagon.
I loved this wagon.
I would pulled my friends in it.
I imaged I was a bus driver.
My friends would line up
at designated street corners,
and I would pick them up.
Too many kids would want
to join in on the fun,
and I was too stupid to say no.
I would pulled when my red wagon,
was stuffed with fat and little ones.
I would get tired but I never
turned any children away.
I loved making the other kids
happy. I still do that today but
with reservations.
I want to make my friends and
family happy, I wish I could take theirs
and my own problems away,
and that we can pile up in some
red plane or red boat or a red car
and forget about it all.
But, none of us are children anymore
and my red wagon is too over wrought
to even carry me.
My ol' memory is hazy
And sometimes things don't seem too real;
But I can still recall the night
That I danced at the Wagon Wheel.
Well, seems I was in a good mood
And was puttin' on quite a show;
Prancin' on top of that slick bar
And yellin' like a crazy crow!
I wore my new black Hoppy shirt
And a pair of Gene Autry boots--
They say I danced till 'bout midnight
And did all them ol' cowboy scoots.
Then outside that saloon window
Comin' in was a gent in black;
They said he was that bogey man--
Since that night I never been back.
So ends my honky-tonk story;
Like Red says: "It's saucered and blowed"--
I never danced for drunks again
Like back when I was four years old.
The Last Wagon
The story tells of wagon wheels,
rollin,' cross the plains.
New land with its promises,
planning their bounty claim.
Every wagon rollin' cross
had to weather the plains.
Injuns' watched with eagle eyes
and counted wagon trains.
Staggered and strayed they would travel,
the land in numbers strong.
But always the last wagon',
carrying it all alone.
Usually slow old horses,
pulled tattered canvas covers
Rattlin' wood, and clankin' chains,
certain not like the others.
The unknown secret of the west
This wagon was filled with only the best.
Last wagon was always an easy mark
But hidden beneath were very brave hearts.
They waited in silence and ready to fend,
off the Injuns' that crept from behind,
To capture the women and children ahead,
and bring them back to their tribe.
But quick within sight the old men would wait,
shoot and attack as Injuns' kept gait
Halted their forces to preserve the rest,
these were the marksmen of the old west.
Protectors of wagons, preserve the course,
this was their job with no recourse.
Men of old age, whose lives had been spent,
rented the time just for a chance.
To see the new west, if they should make it,
or die for the others, safely escorted.
Christmas, me in my red wagon
Slogging in tears, later you forget
Am I a full person?
Blown black pepper stings your eyes
You strike me, the ambivalence aches
Covered mouth laugh-sharing from now on
Reattached you escape childish dreams
I offer to banish parts of me
Warriors on the horizon, plump and ascending
You appear similar, soul less, smaller
I scurry, looking for your parts
I miss them
At your escape hatch I make room
I hide in your obscurity
Broken in all endeavors
Waiting in luxurious swamps
Emeshment preventing loneliness
I wanted to hurt you too
I'm Neddy the draft horse
And of course,
I have a job to do, CHOROUS
I chauffeur people
Round Windsor Town,
To take in the view.
Neddy the horse goes
Clip, clip, clop,- clip, clip, clop,
- Clip, clip, clop,
Neddy the horse goes
Clip, clip, clop,
Can you hear the sound?
The wheels of the wagon go
Whir, whir, whir,- whir, whir, whir,
- Whir, whir, whir,
The wheels of the wagon go
Whir, whir, whir,
Can you hear the sound?
Chorous
The people on the wagon go
Yak, yak, yak,- yak, yak, yak,
- Yak, yak, yak,
The people on the wagon go
Yak, yak, yak,
Can you hear the sound
The driver on the wagon goes
"Whoa, whoa, whoa,- whoa, whoa, whoa,
-Whoa, whoa, whoa,"
The driver of the wagon goes
"Whoa, whoa, whoa,"
Can you hear the sound?
Chorous
Neddy the horse goes
Crunch, crunch, munch,- crunch, crunch,munch,
-Crunch, crunch, munch,
Neddy the horse goes
Crunch, crunch, munch,
Can you hear the sound
Neddy the horse goes
Deep, deep, sleep, - deep, deep, sleep,
-Deep, deep, sleep,
Neddy the horse goes,
Deep, deep, sleep.
Can you hear the sound?
Authors Notes: { suggestions for performing on stage}
-children should dance on their feet each time, clip, clip, clop, is said/sung
-children should swivel the upper part of their body each time, whir, whir,whir is said/sung
- children should pull back on imaginary reins each time, whoa, whoa,whoa, is said/sung
- children should move their head in an eating motion each time, munch, munch,crunch, is said/sung
-end of last verse children should move forward 3 steps & put their heads down pretending to go to sleep standing up.
They left their father's hearths, those stalwart pioneers,
To follow their dreams to the west seeking new frontiers.
They laded Conestoga wagons and without a backward glance,
With faith and fortitude, ventured into that vast expanse!
They gathered at Independence to form a wagon train,
Then, ferried the Mighty Mo to trek the featureless plain.
They followed the rutted Oregon Trail of those who'd gone before,
Never sensing the hazards and trials that were to be in store!
They were met with savages, mud, dust and howling gales,
Trudging westward, ever westward over endless hills and vales.
With visions of virgin homestead land they followed the sun.
They wouldn't be deterred from the migration they had begun!
"Prairie schooners" were crammed with goods and vital tools,
And were drawn by plodding oxen and cantankerous mules.
The caravan was under the command of a crusty wagon master.
Not to obey his ever bidding was sure to court disaster!
Alas, they left many desolate graves along the rutted track,
Victims of exhaustion, disease and fearful Indian attack.
They conquered interminable valleys and towering crests,
To fulfill their aspirations and complete their western quests!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Wagon ruts--those cut backs
Of roads along a ridge
Heal in natural obsolescence,
Heal with rock and wash ripping gullies,
Bearing gnarled root
And jagging teeth of jutting quartz,
Heal with rain and wind
Flinging seed darts to stubble thickets
For holding in a mountain's side,
Heal and vanish from all those
But that old man whose weight
Was of the time and purposes
Of wagon ruts.
On the Wagon…
I’m on the wagon
Out to slay the dragon
His breath of fire always one step behind
I’m on the wagon
Out to slay the dragon
With my only weapon
The power stored within my mind…
Cleaning up the act
Facing all the facts
When you were burning you know you couldn’t see
Removing the blindfold
The truth is seen and told
Now you’re cooling down and fighting to be free
You’ve got to get away
Find someplace to stay
Immune to temptation as it looks for you
Start it once again
The beginning of the end
You’ve failed to see all that it has yet to do
I’m on the wagon, out to slay the dragon
His breath of fire always one step behind
On the wagon, out to slay the dragon
With my only weapon
The power stored within my mind…
Look straight into the mirror
How do things appear?
Can you make out through the haze, the bloodshot eyes
Remember the times you said, that’s it?
All those times you’d never quit
Can you, yourself, live with all of the lies?
I am on the wagon, out to slay the dragon
With his breath of fire always one step behind…
There Is No Little Red Wagon
The professor, the priest, the psychologist commanded me
Do not think about the little red wagon.
My tormentors and captors yelled at me
Do not think about the little red wagon!
In turn they all question me ever so sweetly
“Did you think about the little red wagon?”
Naturally I respond, “No.”
I think I have them on the run this time, just for fun
Perhaps they don’t know
But when they asked again like a friend and a foe
I had trouble remembering
And said, “Could you repeat the question please?”
“Did you say something about a little red wagon?”
They turned on me, responded arrogantly
“Say that thing you just said one more time for the record!”
I said, “Sure.” “My pleasure.”
And repeated, “Did you say something about a dribble and a dragon?”
I guess that fixed their little red wagon.
This is such a bore so I can say no more about that thing on wheels.
The landscape. No blame.
Should have been designed downhill.
Thumping could be fixed.
The Wagon
The Radio Flyer that carried my friend
The hay wagon ride at October’s end
The seat in the car that faced to the back
The kids making faces, through rear window crack
The little wagon, that rolled up the street
The wheel that would squeak…
And the ice cream was sweet
My buddy and me with horsepower one
Holes in our shoes, but man it was fun!
Our wagon we left to sit in the rain
To gather some rust, and childhood pain
Just an old wagon, no power of its own
To pull through the streets
While your childhood is on loan
The handle hangs down, in the middle it’s bowed
At my command, it goes where it’s towed
Carrying treasure like toys sticks and pearls
Along with my memory, of pony-tailed girls
It’s long gone now, sold at the sale
But it took me a ways…up life’s little trail
David Kettler
THE LOST WAGON TRAIN
Last fall, hurriedly clearing the attic,
We were packing lots of books and crocks
For the church rummage sale frantic.
My son grabbed a book from one box,
And threw it on the heap marked “low priced stocks”
Cowboy book, hardback with title unheard.
It was a small novel, really cheap you’d say,
With some handwritten word
On the home-made dust cover gray:
THE LOST WAGON TRAIN by Zane Grey.
I said no, son, gimme that please - that stays with me.
But dad, it’s only a Zane Grey book.
Son, its gran’s handwriting don’t you see?
The dust cover was made by my mother - look.
. . . . . And when she went, it’s just about all I took.
He gently blew the dust off, and gave me it clean.
I had mislaid it and never would have guessed.
Time stood still : it seemed only yesterday I had seen
Her write it - she loved Zane Grey stories about the West.
And I realized how much I loved cowboy movies best.
C’mon dad, he whispered, I ought
To get this stuff packed quick and on the road myself,
Seeing me daydreaming in deep thought.
I went and put it where it belonged itself,
On our living room ‘s central bookshelf.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Paula Swanson’s Contest “Yard Sale”
Brother had made me mad so I knocked him down the basement stairs.
Choicely words he hurled my way-His teary eyes reflected pain and back at me they glared.
Like a viper he laid around the house daring me to come his way.
Sorry am I now for I have no one with to play.
After several weeks had passed, he still snarled and hissed.
Only his foot- to-hip cast kept him constantly at bay.
But I grew lonely with no brother to rumble with; no one to share my day.
Then the thought struck me as a jolt of reality-tomorrow is his birthday.
Off to Mr. Green’s corner store I went for a birthday present- I had fifty cents.
I spied a red kite- asked him to rap it and back to brother as I whistled and skipped.
I presented the little red kite which brother threw down-saying you ain’t right!
Sadly I looked for a solution of how brother can fly his new birthday kite.
It was in the backyard, positioned under the lean-to – the answer to my prayer.
I dragged it out and cleaned her with new found hope and no despair.
I carried my brother and placed him in the little red wagon with difficulty as he held his kite in hand.
The school yard was empty- we tailed the kite and then pulling the wagon I ran.
The little red kite stilled high in the air as brother and I where once again a pair.
The kite soared the faster I ran and finally at the end of the day, a brother’s love had been won again.