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.
All the President's Men
I read in the press that Donald Trump
The American president gives off a peculiar smell
that many dislike but act as if nothing
When the boy, the garbage man, picked up the waste
to the few who could hire him
He had a horse and cart, and invited me to ride
With him, he gave the rain so he could read the local
paper; I was proud to try to get the horse to walk
faster, but it knew the route and ignored me
The garage man had a peculiar smell, too, which is
normal, surrounded as he was by other people
detrious
Could it be that President Trump suffers from
the same problem
Not a Democrat
Is democracy good for individual freedom
a year when spring sprang early
he bought horse and cart and made a living
moving people's rubbish to the town's pit
He was not a man working from 9 to 5 in
a factory where underpaid workers slaved
putting macaroni in tomato sauce, into a tin
he had many children, but was not a pater
Familia, the children grew up with varied
success, some failed while others thrived
Besides, he liked gardening, in the poor
A section of the town people came to see his
display the beautiful flowers
In the night, people came picked the bloom
to give color to their meagre homes, that
It was what he had wanted
He lived a long life, and his wife loved him dearly
No, he was not a democrat
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
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
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!
Friday shopping
The farmer and I went shopping every Friday
(horse and cart) to a small town at the lowland, the shop had a stable.
This place had no café or bars; the farmers congregated in the stable
And drank from a bottle.
The farmer in an expansive mood gave pennies to buy ice-cream
It was not much of an ice- cream; I walked around looked into shop windows
Selling things, I would not dream of buying.
When I came back the cart has fully loaded the staff in the shop had
Seen to this, outside the town the farmer fell asleep I took the rain.
When we came to the steep hill, the horse stopped I had to get off and help push.
On the home stretch, the farmer woke up, took the rain chewed tobacco
And looked sober as a priest a Sunday morning.
I open the oven door
to a blast of heat
and hot bread bulging
out of a high tin, brown, crusty
and ready to be taken out.
That smell wafts across
seventy years to when I can
remember bread being delivered
in a horse and cart.
Carrying a big
wicker basket full of hot bread,
the baker would run
house to house whilst his horse
ambled along at a pace
in perfect sync with the bakers
progress along the street.
Weekday mornings
I would wait out front
and rush the hot bread
inside for my mother to make me
sandwiches for lunch.
Mum always complained
that the bread was too hot
for cutting. I had a steaming
slice smothered in butter
before I left for school.
Big, thick, uneven slices
of bread holding metwurst
or cheese or peanut butter
greeted me when I opened
my lunchbox at school.
Bread was never better.
Nearing eighty, I keep
baking bread, writing poems,
as if trying to recapture
those pleasures still steaming
in the past before they go.
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.
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.
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