Quotes about cart, page 6
Steering Precision
For years I've hugged a dream
Not a very lady-like one
But then again
Who said, I am a lady?
Not me!
I want a pile of rustic junk
A few bicycles
A perambulator
A pile of wood
Nails plus aged string
So that I may finally set about
Creating
My favourite thing!
There is no need for long drawn out plans
Blueprint, mentally stored
Dare I say?
Yes! I'm good with my hands
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poem by Karen Sinclair
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The Librarian
She put her 'check out books at down-stairs counter' sign and headed for the graduate stacks to do her -re-shelving.
The book cart rolled along punctuating her thoughts about him. Brian, she was sure would be there in the stacks, at his little desk against the wall pretending to be buried in his books and she would come in and pretend to be shelving her books and she would pretend to notice him casually.
It would be awkward but the awkwardness of it was exciting for her. Thirty-two and not married but idling for something to happen in her life she was ripe for something to happen and the desulatory weaving pushing the cart did not conceal from even her where her true destination was. She was headed straight toward him, her twenty-five year old Robert Redford look-alike virgin.
To be continued.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Critic
That from _you_, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?
Admonished by the stimulating goad,
How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances
Its cart before it-eager to unload
The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.
Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out
The tail-board of his curst imagination,
Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,
Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.
To improve your property, the vile cascade
Your thrift invites-to make a higher level.
In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,
Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.
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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Noise Pollution 1
The scientific efficacy is noisily murdering
Unlike enlivening
The olden household's hushy sibilance
The olden street children's play-scream
The olden vendors' musical sale-phonetics
The olden bullock-cart's running rhythm
The cart-man's 'hi hi
The jhatka's galloping trots
Of and on a cow's 'ammaaaah'
Dawn and dusk the cattle's dusty grazing treads
The rooster's cackle', the crow's' caw-caw'
Squeak, screech of chirping birds
Headed high by white collared eagles
The coherently, agreeably hissing breeze
Etcetera, etcetera all olden
All in melodious harmony neatly audible
With the evincing spherical silence
Today..
Everything deafening, deadening
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Sorry Sorry Sorry
In time Of need to you
i wasn't there indeed
it was my mistake
My friendship it is too costly
never people have to measure
A honey was lost
memories were post
in our minds the most to you
A friend me want to be you
And more worries you got
sorry, if i let you down
In the middle of the crowd
Sorry, I didn't get the point
Of being so depressed
Sorry, because i wasn't there
when you needed a teddy bear
mistake people do
bcaz i am human being
but they correct them due
There for you, i am going to be
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poem by Khushi throne
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Give Way
I know a man from Lancashire
who had a horse and cart for hire.
The horse was old but the cart is strong,
somehow together they didn't belong.
When they became one there was a change,
Ears went up, whip in the tail, snap the riegns.
They came to a bridge, it looked a little weak
As they crossed, it hobbled, tapped and creaked.
The wooden bridge was small and norrow
not to long, but only room for one to pass.
Towards them flapped a little brown sparrow,
horse thinks, no way he's makin me into an ass.
The old horse snorted and put his head down,
nothing would stop them getting to town.
Said the horse: ' no one's gettin in my way'
Then the little sparrow flew up, got out the way.
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poem by David Darbyshire
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The Shopping Cart Lady
She walks towards me, pushing everything she owns
In a shopping cart with wobbly wheels
Her entire life stuffed into a four wheeled basket
The well dressed ignore her, she doesn't exist
And even though she's not asking for money
I give her all of my change, a dollar or more
Buy yourself something to eat I tell her
I will, she smiles with missing teeth
I see her, sometimes more than once a day
And I wonder what brought her to this
I doubt I'd be able to survive like her
If her misfortune also became mine
Sometimes when I see her I want to ask
What happened that you ended up this way?
I don't and not just because of the fear
That the same thing could happen to me
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Homeless, Na
He was unwanted so parents abandoned
Homeless, loveless grown as the orphan.
Can't stay more in orphanage of ill treat
would escape from there for life's retreat.
Has a dream of a home where he can live
with respect, comfort, bliss and peace.
He doesn't have money, to buy one little.
He collects and sells junk and scrap metal.
Every dawn and dusk used to pull cart
To increase the income he would work hard.
Sleeps in the cart or a shipping container.
deposits in bank, savings after meals, whatever.
Years passed dropp and dropp make ocean;
to buy a house, now he has money enough.
Now no more, Na, would live near gutter.
In a bank account he has one million dollar.
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poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Broken Axletree
On the Track of Grand Endeavour, on the long track out to Bourke,
Past the Turn-Back, and past Howlong, and the pub at Sudden Jerk,
Past old Bullock-Yoke and Bog Flat, and the “Pinch” at Stick-to-me,
Lies the camp that we have christened—christened “Broken Axletree.”
We were young and strong and fearless, we had not seen Mount Despair,
And the West was to be conquered, and we meant to do our share;
We were far away from cities, and were fairly off the spree
When we camped at Cart Wheel River with a broken axletree.
Oh, the pub at Devil’s Crossing! and the woman that he sent!
And the hell for which we bartered horse and trap and “traps” and tent!
And the black “Since Then”—the chances that we never more may see—
Ah! the two lives that were ruined for a broken axletree!
“Fate” is but a Cart Wheel River, placed to test us by the Lord,
And the Star of Live Forever shines beyond At Blacksmith’s Ford!
Shun all fatalists and “isms”—heed no talk of “destiny”!
Ride a race for life to Blacksmith’s with your broken axletree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Brook
Seated once by a brook, watching a child
Chiefly that paddled, I was thus beguiled.
Mellow the blackbird sang and sharp the thrush
Not far off in oak and hazel brush,
Unseen. There was a scent like honeycomb
From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome
Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft
A butterfly alighted. From aloft
He took the heat of the sun, and from below.
On the hot stone he perched contented so,
As if never a cart would pass again
That way; as if I were the last of men
And he the first of insects to have earth
And sun together and to know their worth.
I was divided between him and the gleam,
The motion, and the voices, of the stream,
The waters running frizzled over gravel,
That never vanish and for ever travel.
A grey flycatcher silent on a fence
And I sat as if we had been there since
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poem by Edward Thomas
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