Long Wheelbarrows Poems
Long Wheelbarrows Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheelbarrows by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheelbarrows poems by poem length and keyword.
A violent scene lay before me
Huddled in death, there’s Ella, Mary-belle, everywhere I could see
Swollen tongues, sunken eyes, frail bodies strewn in the hot powdery dirt,
I sniff the sharp stench of death, I catch my breath, swallow, stomach clenched, alert
Stark rocky outcrops, blister amongst the sharp needles of spinifex grass
Stones, sand and mica glints, ants scurry about their tasks
Red dirt, blue sky, sun bears down relentless upon the tin roof of the Station
Majestic hills, once coral reefs, the Chinamen pushed wheelbarrows up them, Dinosaurs, Indigenous people walked here long ago in my imagination
Soft bursts of purple feathery flowers of Mulla Mulla joyfully sway in the crisp air this morning, locked in the silent perennial embrace of that blue blue sky
Frivolous, dollies those desert girls, with their sweet smell and blush as I walk by
I think I’ll put a bullet in my head in that very spot
To die in such fine company, you make those tough choices on the land, easy as, why not
5,000 cattle dead, I’d cry, but there’s no more water in my eyes, in a blink, all gone so terribly wrong
I’ll sleep with my cows tonight, Ella, Mary-belle in the Mulla Mulla desert dreaming, on the land is where I was born and where I belong
The sun rises slow, casting light so sweet,
In the Kasi, where the streets meet.
Wheelbarrows roll with greens so fresh,
Hustlers hustle, working to impress.
On the corners, voices rise and fall,
“Tomatoes! Spinach! Come buy it all!”
The clink of coins, the sound of trade,
As Saturday's tiredness starts to fade.
Grandmothers with prayer beads in hand,
Walking slowly, their hearts so grand.
Hand in hand with little ones near,
Their laughter echoes, pure and clear.
The scent of stew fills the air,
Pots bubbling, food everywhere.
Mothers and daughters, side by side,
Stirring the pot with love and pride.
Some are at home, busy and bright,
Cooking up dishes to end the night.
And others gather, all smiles and grace,
Sunday in Kasi, a familiar place.
Here, the rhythm of life never rests,
A dance of hard work, faith, and the best.
In wheelbarrows, in kitchens, in church—
Sunday in the Kasi, where love doesn’t search.
It’s not in riches or fame we find,
But in shared moments, hearts intertwined.
Where vegetables are sold and prayers rise,
Sunday in the Kasi, under open skies.
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
Like a drop of the rainbow
A mother arches herself over her stricken child,
A man arches himself over his prostrate wife,
And a stranger arches himself over another.
Rainbows in a hailstorm, they all are,
Bringing out their best colors
To hold back the hail of bullets
That but for them would rip another:
The killer sought to see red
Yet from heroes and heroines alike
Came the rainbow through his gun sight.
Wheezing past the bullets
Were ambulances and wheelbarrows,
Taxis and foot angels--
All in search of succor for the wounded, the dying...
Nowhere, though, did I see the gun laws:
While the rainbow flew at half mast,
They remained asleep and aloof.
My Granddad can’t stay on the straight and narrow
Robs garden centres with his bow and arrow,
Police knew his scheming
So now he is screaming
Speeding downhill in a plastic wheelbarrow
As gramps in his wheelbarrow got lots of LOLs
The river impeded his getaway goals
When used as a boat
It just wouldn’t float
Since when did those wheelbarrows have drainage holes
He dragged out the barrow as fast as he could
Expecting somehow it could do him some good
He thought it made sense
To ask Fred the Fence
“Who launders wheelbarrows in this neighbourhood?”
He sold the wheelbarrow and tried to go straight
Then Grandad found weeds all round his garden gate
“Oh for goodness sake,
I need a new rake.”
Went shopping at ten ’cause the store closed at eight
He snuck through a window by breaking the pane
And made his way through to the garden tools lane
The alarm’s manic blast
Brought police really fast
He grabbed a wheelbarrow and set off again
Evil is incremental
One bullet after another
And after another
And after another
Until there’s a blister
On my trigger finger
Where there used to be a wet print
Of a little kiss
Transplanted to my little girl’s cheek
Before I left for work
This morning,
She’s sound asleep in bed
With the spring birds singing
Through her window.
All day
I do
The best I can
To shoot low,
To spare the gut,
To leave the heart within its chest,
I merely shred knee caps and groins
With shrapnel
From the cannon in my hand,
To buckle those distant shapes
Of brown people,
To see them writhe in the dirt
On their asses,
Legs and arms pumping into the air
Like half-squished spiders
On top of a table,
Hauled away in spoonfulls of wheelbarrows
My God
My God
Please stop
This prophecy
Of slingshots
And firebombing kites.
I know most of my bullets
Have slipped into the gaseous abyss
With their own orders
And less discipline
Into a handshake of fate
Until I reckon
With the end of time
I am doing this
Me
All day
At work
Shooting
Across a field
Over a fence erected by men
Because this is heaven, and that is hell
And they all want in,
Millions of them,
Wanting to kill me
And my little girl
Asleep in her bed.
I’ve never heard or seen
Of anything
More irrelevant
Than having a choice.
Did I say that, or did they?
We all follow our orders.