Nine men,
one horse,
two huge barrels

of grapes,
one large wagon
stuck in ruts

in the field.
One pulls the horse's reins,
others push

the hugh wagon,
cursing and swearing,

The horse pulls,
head raised,
eyes flashing

against the sun,
but the wagon's stuck.
They heave it forward,

but it rolls back
in the rut.
Come on,

one shouts
in Italian,
the others push

and shove,
shoulders to the wood,
hoping the barrels

will stay put.
Mario pulls the reins
with both hands,

he stares
at the horse's dark eyes,
the heaving power

of its muscles,
then it moves
out of the rut

and onwards,
and the men cheer,
voices carrying

over the field
like warriors
of some ancient battle won,

and above them
the puffed up clouds
and hot sun.
Amanda Jan 29
Like a wave,
You crash over me,
Open my eyes with,
The calm of the sea.

Like a book,
Your pages read clear,
Sentences true,
Chapters sincere.

Like a wagon,
You carry the weight,
Of love, hold it up,
As your wheels rotate.

Like a compass,
I use you to guide,
My direction
I let you decide.
Another old one I edited. Much better now. I would love any critique or compliments.
Amanda Jan 13
I'm trying so hard to stay sober,
Taking it one day at a time,
But I'm barely hanging on,
Struggling on this uphill climb.

I'm on the wagon for good now,
But isn't that what I always say?
It seems like no matter what I do,
That is the one place I never stay.

Too soon, I'll fall off onto my ass,
And flush all my progress down the drain,
The landing hurts, but not for long;
The drugs are there to numb the pain.

Maybe this time I'll do better,
Tomorrow will be day twenty-three,
Although it feels so good to get high,
Sober is what I'm trying to be.
This is something I wrote today, I took some artistic liberty, this is only the second attempt I've made to get clean and I was barely hanging on but I actually feel really good now. It is day eight for me in reality, but that didn't rhyme. Writing about my journey helps, I usually don't share because it is so personal but hopefully I can help others struggling with addiction as well.
Nick Moser Dec 2016
I haven't fallen off the wagon,

But its been dragging me behind it.

The rope from which I am attached,
Is fixated like a noose around my neck.

And the thought of being happy and fully on that wagon once again, is killing me.

But hopefully I can make it a slow death,

So I can enjoy the ride.
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006
The story is fantasy but Henry was not.  He was my great, great grandfather and fought for the Union in the Civil War and really did have a medicine wagon.  My grandfather loved to tell stories about Henry. I am SOOO sorry I never met Henry which would have been really tough since he gave it up in 1899.  I am sure he had a great line of bull and I am doing my best to carry on the family tradition.

— The End —