Best Wheelbarrow Poems
The old red wheelbarrow is still standing there
right next to my Grandfather’s fixed rocking chair.
Though neither has moved in a good many years
their presence revives former laughter and tears.
As children, my Grandfather placed us inside
the bright red wheelbarrow and off we would ride.
Down rough country tracks to the orchard we’d go
returning with plentiful apples in tow.
I once asked my Grandfather why it was red,
‘That was your Gran's favourite colour’ he said.
And red were the roses he laid by the side
of the grave where he mourned for his beautiful bride.
When Grandfather died, I just hadn't the heart
to cast on the scrap heap his rusty red cart.
And so by his rocking chair it shall remain
to take me on journeys down memory lane.
06/08/18
For Your Poetry Journal Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
The red wheelbarrow
with its cement smudges
and rusty scratches
dwarfs the white rabbit
nibbling young lettuce
covered in morning dew
next to the flowering
crepe myrtle.
Note
(Try to put your best Scottish accent on when reading this one)
Disguarded fae the workplace, rusted red distorted frame.
Mangled handles reachin' oot like a wee disguarded bairn.
Were ye pushed aroon' a factory,heavin' loads or liftin' grain.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Wer' ye wheeled aroon' all day in the snaw an' wind an' rain.
Yer tyre treed is bare noo an' has seen far better days.
You've been a mate tae many wi' the heevy loads you've raised.
Yer bolts an' axles aches an' pains are a burden o' yer past.
Manufactured in the 60s an' for sure wir built tae last.
After all yer toil an' efforts,the flickers gone noo fae yer flame.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Old wheelbarrow,a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Did you carry sand or rubble, did ye muck oot on the fairm?
Yer buckets lying twisted like a face that's had a batterin'.
As the rain hits aff your rusty hinge, i hear a pitter-patterin'.
Ye look like you've been there a while,as yon weeds make ye their home.
Wi' yer pal lyin' there down at yer side ,old flattened traffic cone.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life you came.
Your future's no' too bright but we all can say the same.
'Cause oor country's in a rut right noo and it's all hands to the pumps.
The pension age has risen and we're all doon in the dumps.
Old wheelbarrow i ponder,will i fix up yer old frame?
And work ye till you drop (again!) It's oor Governments main aim.
(Well done,good ascent! Pour yourself a wee whisky,now)
So much depends
Upon
a black coffee
cup
faded with use
steam
into the faces
of us all
Wheelbarrow cat was the garden overseer
Sitting above the plants year after year
When buyers got closer, she would disappear
Her owner never put her seat into gear
She loved the butterflies with their wings so sheer
Tried to bat them away when they got near
Garden gnomes let out a thunderous cheer
When the Germans brought out their exotic beer
Dexter John, baby calf was tuckered, he had been playing all day.
He laid down in the Kansas grass, brown enough to be harsh hay.
His fifteen-year-old human cousins picked him up without a peep.
Placed him in a green wheelbarrow, comfortable enough to sleep.
His mother was comfortable resting her teats for a little while
The sun came out and filled the sky for a delightful country mile.
Dexter John snoozed loudly, his dreams of barley, oats and hay.
He was being weaned from his mother, and this truly was the way.
Bull Daddy came across his wife, with no calf youngster by her side.
Where is Dexter John? He snorted, for Dexter was his loin-filled pride.
He’s in the barn, taking a snooze, giving me a little breathing room.
When he gets ready for some milk, he’ll be back out, probably quite soon.
The teenage boys heard Dexter John bellowing for his tasty mother.
They gave him pats and set him on his feet and he ran to join his brother.
Why did they put you in the green thing? His twin asked, was it a dare?
It was not so bad, Dexter John replied. I napped. It was kind of fun in there.
Walking down with my red wheelbarrow,
I spied a blue jay and a brown little sparrow
Flying across the golden fields;
I went behind them on a path narrow
To collect my flower garden's yields;
Now, inside my red wheelbarrow,
You will find some marigolds yellow,
Pink roses, violets and white carnations,
Green olive leaves and some fresh hedgerow,
All gathered for my sweet home's decorations.
08/06/18
Contest: For Your Poetry Journal
Sponsor: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
I thought I needed a wheelbarrow
Ordered a blue one and was cleaning up my yard piles
When I discovered the identical one, I had purchased last year
The perils of being a spendthrift!!
something is under the wheelbarrow today
It moved up in the air in a weird way
a monkey? a squirrel? tiger or bear?
a faerie queen with gobs of sparkly green hair?
the wheelbarrow moved ever so slightly
whatever it is, can I afford to take it lightly?
what if it is a kitten, a bird or a large puppy?
a whale? a shark? or perhaps a teensy guppy?
the green wheelbarrow started to shiver and shake.
this is a real story, true all the way through, not a bit fake.
a column of red fire ants paraded out, a thousand in all.
proud and fierce, all puffed up, with lots of gall.
Then a snake, a whale, a dolphin, and a baboon.
They brought with them a storm and a little monsoon.
I stared at it amazed, wondering what else would come out.
My husband was the last one, and he gave a big shout.
Hillbilly Bobby shared his snack with a chickadee
The bird gave out some sounds a toot, a peet and a twee
His relatives came by and wanted bird seed too.
Bobby called in relatives to see what they could do.
They baked up cornbread and threw it onto the ground.
The smell of ham, beans and onions wafted all around.
They ended up feeding the entire chickadee nation.
Now this is an annual October harvest celebration.
I've built up such a thirst
keeping it on course
ripping words from ink stained pages
Wil doth shake
Charlie just a dick end
I wrote whit i want
Bleed your tortured visions
Blur your softest word
The Bring out your dead
cart is back
Crossing the street in a motorized wheelbarrow.
Drops of ice cream on the road that is narrow.
Someone says I’m blocking the street.
While I’m eating my cold treat.
I found a nice spot in the shade.
At a bus stop that doesn’t allow wheelbarrows, I’m afraid.
While I innocently sway.
Like a bale of hay.
They think I should buy a ticket.
Maybe they should pay for it!
They say the bus is more normal.
But my wheelbarrow is never too full.
My invention is good enough for dirt and cement.
It’s also good enough for a person, I bet!
The passengers step around me in anger.
I’m enjoying the shade a little longer.
When my relaxation is through-
Why not stop at a drive thru?
Whether they laugh or yell,
I will take my burger done well.
I might get a tomato thrown at me today…
But it’s better than paying for a car I say!
Background:
The Great Wheelbarrow race is an annual event in May of each year. It replicates the Chinese pushing all their belongings in wheelbarrows , prior to modern transport, to goldfields near where the race concludes. I would imagine the Chinese walked whereas the participants in todays event run whilst pushing an empty wheelbarrow for a distance of one hundred and forty kilometres. The event raises money for local charities.
The Poem
THE GREAT WHEELBARROW RACE
The Great Wheelbarrow Race
it will soon be on again
They'll start off in Mareeba
and they'll run through Almaden
They'll also do Dimbullah
probably stay there overnight
Next day they're on the road again
before any sign of morning light
Whilst camping in Dimbullah,
there's live local music bands, they'll share an evening meal
Another day has come they'll be heading further south
the will power will be tested, stiffness and soreness is what the runners feel
It's tough work to push a barrow solo
gotta keep on running , never get a rest
Whilst the relay runners which consist of three or ten. take turns to sit down in a cab
some they run for fun, others want to prove they are the best
All the barrow pushers
are supported by a bus
The relay teams jump in and out
it seems with little fuss
When pushing a barrow
for over forty kilometres per day
It's a real test of endurance
there's some that fade away
And finally it's day three
there's only three kilometres to go
There's many relieved happy faces
as they hit the finish line in the town of Chillagoe