#wagon
The wagon rode, laden with dreams,
Of clear happiness and fairy love.
His path was hilly, full of trees.
But he rode brightly inspite of.
The wagon rode and galloped slowly
Without any troubles and fears.
The sun shined to him tenderly
And forest gave him pure cheers.
The wagon rode and breathed a peace.
He went so breezily and calm.
It seemed that nobody again,
Never and never do him harm.
The wagon rode on tiny rocks.
And now he have to started home.
His home is sunless and no cheers.
His home is gloomy catacomb.
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 6:27 PM UTC
Love me some sunshine
In the midst of daylight
Pour me some wine
In a glass of sweet and dry lies
Kiss me some flowers
In a pile of hot lures
Plant me a garden
In the back of your wagon
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
_Grease
Wagon
Paper cups,
Hot chips and sauce;
Sticky fingers dip in for just one more..._
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
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,
sweating.
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.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
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.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
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 ***
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.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
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.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
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
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC