Long Horse and cart Poems
Long Horse and cart Poems. Below are the most popular long Horse and cart by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Horse and cart poems by poem length and keyword.
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
It was an age when
bread was delivered
by a baker in a horse and cart
and carried to the house
in big wicker basket,
and the milkman left bottled milk
on the doorstep before the sun
was up, and old men
kept an eye on the street
and raced out with a bucket
to shovel up the manure
prized for giving a backyard
vegie patch a jolt.
It was an age when the rabbitoh
would come along the street
with rabbits hung in rows
in the back
of his beat up truck
and women in pinnies
would come out with a plate
to take a bunny or two
to bake that night.
It was an age when groceries
were delivered once a week
in a wooden box shouldered in
by the grocer and placed
on the kitchen table
to be unpacked over a cup
of tea and bit of banter.
It was an age when lollies
and biscuits were sold unpacked
and children walked to school,
when serials and quiz shows
kept families huddled around
radios on cold winter nights
and held a generation
of kids captive to the Saturday
night countdown
on the top 10 hit parade show.
All said,
the age no longer matters
yet seems to find its way
back here.
We all carry our own,
ingrained like play dirt
in the hard to reach places
of the soul.
Perhaps that's what
poetry is about, or at least
that part of it that some say
points more towards
a pedestrian end,
the sad preservation
of the oddities of an age
by an ever diminishing few
and before memories flicker
and finally go out.
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.
Can I find the words to say, just what you mean to me today
And what you’ve meant to me, throughout these forty years gone by
We first met at that meet n greet, a low brick wall became our seat
And then you seemed to find me sweet and my heart skipped a beat
We lived so many miles apart; each inch a mile in my heart
But I’d have walked or stole a horse and cart
And letters, phone calls, weekend drives, sealed a bond in our two lives
A hundred miles would not keep us apart
I’m no Keats, I’m no Shelly; I’m no poet off the tele
So let me say a few words in a quite straightforward way
I love you
okay
And I love you more with every passing day
For we were always meant to be, it’s in the stars, our destiny
It’s me for you and you for me… eternally
I know this is true…
My heart beats just for you
And so today, my birthday girl, who still has my heart in a whirl
Without you my whole life would soon unfurl
I love you, you see… Anne, I hope that you can see
That there’s no way you can rid yourself of me
I’m no Keats, I’m no Shelly; I’m no poet off the tele
So let me say a few words in a quite straightforward way
I love you
okay
And I love you more with every passing day
Is it today now or yesterday still?
Is it time already for morning pill?
hazy light filters in through the window,
as crimson gathers over distant hill!
Can’t tell early dawn from the evening glow,
for me time stands still and the day is slow,
from downstairs sound of kitchen plying food,
my rumbling hunger signals time to go!
I walk in to dinning hall, panelled wood,
smiling faces greet me as sweet as could,
Coffee, bread, favourite jam and honey,
they wish me a morning, morning so good!
Some days I get visitors too many,
Some other days there are hardly any,
young girl comes often with two little tots,
When daughter’s name fails you, it’s not funny!
My son is very tall has grown so smart,
Like his dead mother very good at heart,
He brings little ones to play with grandpa,
they ride on my back playing horse and cart!
flickering thoughts..how memory ages raw,
life as it flows has to obey time’s law,
yet Love finds a way to overcome this flaw,
Love finds a way to overcome this flaw!
Written 06/August/2020
Honourable mention
Sponsor Brian Strand
‘Strand New any form any theme(18)’ Contest
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!
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.
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.
(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