I’d been sitting in the back with my feet dangling over the edge of the wagon as it jumped and tripped, pulled by oxen, up over the plains. My mother and my older sister walked in the back, covered faces against the storming winds carrying dirt and sadness along with them. We had the body of my youngest brother still with us because mother wanted to bury him somewhere nice. Somewhere better than an Indian graveyard. But the blood and flies were beginning to get to me, and if my legs were a little stronger, I’d have been walking too.
The sheep are all led to the wagon as lambs are led to the slaughter. They know not its purpose, or it’s origin, they simply follow. Thus are the beasts led to the bandwagon.
Wagon Train! As kids we were always playing wagon train. We were big on games with imagination and that was favorite. We would put on our cowboy and Indian clothes and get out our play guns and ride the horse that was the avocado tree, We watched Wagon Train and other westerns on tv all the time – the whole family would watch. I feel so old writing about this since it is clearly about a whole different time frame. Life was simpler then or so it seems. There were fewer issues but maybe people were more unhappy.
She couldn’t be certain, but something seemed familliar about his sunken brown eyes. His harness jingled despondently as he pulled his wagon full of goods, shoulders stooping as he tugged at the load and gave her a cynical, world-wearied look. Something about his grizzled gray hair, his arthritic pace, jogged a half-submerged memory from her childhood, instantly reminding her of the old peddler man who used to do his rounds in her neighborhood. She watched as he struggled down the road, flanks heaving with each missplaced hoof on wet cobblestones. Sometimes, she missed those days so much it hurt.
The little wagon struggled climbing the hill. ” I think I can I think I can ” But the hill was too steep until another little wagon came behind and said I ate my breakfast so I have steam for both of us.
They packed up their belongings in the wagon. The dusty road seemed to stretch forever ahead. The grasses had dried up here and who knew how far the next patch of wet land would be. Dispossessed belongings sat in the glade next to where they had set up camp, too heavy for them to take; perhaps they would come back to claim them years later or maybe their descendants.
Sometimes I have a fight with myself about jumping on the bandwagon. I had a falling out with myself over twilight but I’m past that. And now I can’t stop watching One Direction videos. What? They’re cute.
A wagon is supposed to take you somewhere…somewhere pleasant. I imagine a red one with someone pulling me to a place that’s magical and happy. I just get to sit there while someone else does the work. Oh how that feels so freeing.
I watched the little girl pull her wagon down the sidewalk
the summer sun blushing her cheeks and dancing in her eyes.
She stopped every few feet, bent over, and stared
then perhaps would pick something up,
examine it, and deem it worthy of a ride in her wagon.
When she came near, I shouted to her,
“little girl, what are you collecting?”
She smiled big and held her open palm
up to the sky so I could see them.
“Treasures!” she exclaimed.
“I’m collecting treasures!”
she turned back toward her destination
and went about her way
her and her wagon-full of treasures.
Wagons always seemed to me as if the only way you could ever move forward with them is if you were willing to work at it. I guess I like that. It doesn’t depend on outside forces and luck, but just on a need to get somewhere. All you really need to do is pull and there goes the wagon. For cars, you have to rely on the engine working and having enough gas. Wagons are so much more brilliant.
My bright red wagon, shiny and new, being pulled up the hill by my young hands
My dull red wagon, a wondrous taxi for my child, being pulled by my time strengthened hands
My rusty red wagon, destined for the dump, being pulled reluctantly by my arthritic hands.
i jumped on the wagon as soon as i could. i told myself i loved every single subject. that it was all i thought about. i want those equations bouncing around in my head the way making out with a hot guy does. i want the numbers to steal my soul from me… in a good way…
It wasn’t like I fell off the wagon. It was more like I kicked the wagon in the face and slit the tires.
Diets? Pshaw. I’m beautiful.
ANd appreciative of good food.
A little red wagon. Just a red wagon with four squeaky wheels and a rusty only handle to pull it by. But through the eyes of that little girl, it was an adventure just waiting to happen… How I miss seeing the world through the eyes of that little girl.
The radio flyer wagon squeaked as I wheeled it behind me up the steep hill. When I reached the pinnacle of that mountainous neighborhood land mass I stepped into my vehicle. Using the handle to steer, I pushed off. The wagon groaned and creaked but it did not falter. I was hurtling down the hill at a clip of at least 20 mph. My 8 year old heart was racing as fast as those wagon wheels were spinning. Judgement was coming in the form of a cross street with no stop signs. “Safely” I made it across that dangerous finish line. To the top again!
On the wagon, off the wagon, getting on the band wagon. Wagon is a funny word with such a visually old fashioned image in my mind, of pioneers sitting in wagons with horses driving forward across the wild, wild west.
the canvas covered four-wheeler of the 19th century.
families huddled to stay warm in this freezing weather.
husbands standing tall and strong.
wives holding the children tight.
children so cold and afraid, and innocent.
Go this way. But don’t forget that you can’t turn around. That lil’ dumb boy sometimes cain’t get his bearings straight and tries turnin’ the wagon on a dime. Lost 3 horses last summer. Damn idiot. Don’t care to know where he is now, but that brand mama put on his hand ain’t gonna make gettin’ work easy. For sure.
With a small bump over a pot hole it went wheeling along all sorts of stolen goods. Every little bump in the road threatened to stop the timid wagon and throughout the long trip bits and pieces of the peddlers goods fell out of the truck.
When I was a little girl, I got my thumb stuck in the hinge of a wagon handle. Don’t ask me how, I must have seen something in there that caught my eye like a cocoon or something. Regardless, it took the fire chief, police chief, and many people to get me unstuck that day.
The station wagon trundled down the dirt road. Beige and rusty, it rumbled and made a racket as it bounced along the pitted road. My brother and I knocked against one another in the back seat like marbles in a bag, laughing as we hit one another again and again.
Wasn’t life so much simpler when we were all pulling little, red wagons? What’s lost between then and now? Confidence? The belief that life is simple? The belief that life is vast and full of possibilities? I need to get back on the wagon. Or I need to get back to pulling the wagon.
The wagon bumped on the muddy road, and the already soggy book flew from my hands. I moved in its wake, reaching for what wasn’t there and crying out.
“Shut it,” the man beside me hissed, and backhanded me without restraint.
I could see the tawny, umbre leather there in the rutted road, pulling away as fast as the horses would take us and darkening beneath the pelt of rain.
i had a red wagon when I was little.Zach and I used to use it to carry dead sticks and leaves and pinecones around the yard. We never really used it to go on the street because the road we lived on was dirt. The word “wagon” reminds me of that computer game that everybody played when I was little…Oregon Trail.
I’ve always loved that red wagon that my dad used to pull me around in when I was little. My curly locks would bounce as the black wheel would go over a pebble on the sidewalk. It would always be a bright sunny day and I would be holding a sticky popsicle in my little fist.
The old wagon trundled down the dusty lane, kicking up small poufs of brown in its wake as the slim figures in question were slowly removed from view.
The sheriff shielded her face against the afternoon sun with a rather unladylike snort to accompany the last glimpse of the prison wagon disappearing from the horizon. “All that’s well ends well.” She proclaimed. “And good riddance!”
“You don’t suppose the wagon will actually make it to the Clearwater Fort, do you?” Her deputy accused, his tanned face creasing with worry at the thought of the possible manipulations of their beloved sheriff being used on such unworthy desireables. “Really, they weren’t worth the headache!”
“Right, Regan.” She gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Headache. That was just the thing I was trying to avoid. Coffee?”
Take one person, put them in a wagon. Roll said wagon and push down a rocky hill. According to television this is a hilarious entertainment. I watch and think when will they call the ambulance. Also what kind of fractures they could sustain.
THe little red wagon that I used to ride in and then sit in and watch the tacoma park parade go by. thats what i am thinking of as i look at the word wagon. wagons are just i donno old school i guess
I swear the wagon was empty when it passed us, but I can’t be positive. It was dark, cold and raining. It was so close to us that I could smell the horses, but when the chain on my bike snapped, i had no choice but to surrender.
I looked over the dusty planes, my horse, chargin, galloping towards the sunset. His tongue hung out in near exhaustion. The wagon was heavier then I thought it would be. Perhaps Chargin was getting up in years, but I thought he could handle it.
I’d been sitting in the back with my feet dangling over the edge of the wagon as it jumped and tripped, pulled by oxen, up over the plains. My mother and my older sister walked in the back, covered faces against the storming winds carrying dirt and sadness along with them. We had the body of my youngest brother still with us because mother wanted to bury him somewhere nice. Somewhere better than an Indian graveyard. But the blood and flies were beginning to get to me, and if my legs were a little stronger, I’d have been walking too.
The sheep are all led to the wagon as lambs are led to the slaughter. They know not its purpose, or it’s origin, they simply follow. Thus are the beasts led to the bandwagon.
Wagon Train! As kids we were always playing wagon train. We were big on games with imagination and that was favorite. We would put on our cowboy and Indian clothes and get out our play guns and ride the horse that was the avocado tree, We watched Wagon Train and other westerns on tv all the time – the whole family would watch. I feel so old writing about this since it is clearly about a whole different time frame. Life was simpler then or so it seems. There were fewer issues but maybe people were more unhappy.
She couldn’t be certain, but something seemed familliar about his sunken brown eyes. His harness jingled despondently as he pulled his wagon full of goods, shoulders stooping as he tugged at the load and gave her a cynical, world-wearied look. Something about his grizzled gray hair, his arthritic pace, jogged a half-submerged memory from her childhood, instantly reminding her of the old peddler man who used to do his rounds in her neighborhood. She watched as he struggled down the road, flanks heaving with each missplaced hoof on wet cobblestones. Sometimes, she missed those days so much it hurt.
The little wagon struggled climbing the hill. ” I think I can I think I can ” But the hill was too steep until another little wagon came behind and said I ate my breakfast so I have steam for both of us.
They packed up their belongings in the wagon. The dusty road seemed to stretch forever ahead. The grasses had dried up here and who knew how far the next patch of wet land would be. Dispossessed belongings sat in the glade next to where they had set up camp, too heavy for them to take; perhaps they would come back to claim them years later or maybe their descendants.
Sometimes I have a fight with myself about jumping on the bandwagon. I had a falling out with myself over twilight but I’m past that. And now I can’t stop watching One Direction videos. What? They’re cute.
A wagon is supposed to take you somewhere…somewhere pleasant. I imagine a red one with someone pulling me to a place that’s magical and happy. I just get to sit there while someone else does the work. Oh how that feels so freeing.
I watched the little girl pull her wagon down the sidewalk
the summer sun blushing her cheeks and dancing in her eyes.
She stopped every few feet, bent over, and stared
then perhaps would pick something up,
examine it, and deem it worthy of a ride in her wagon.
When she came near, I shouted to her,
“little girl, what are you collecting?”
She smiled big and held her open palm
up to the sky so I could see them.
“Treasures!” she exclaimed.
“I’m collecting treasures!”
she turned back toward her destination
and went about her way
her and her wagon-full of treasures.
hop on the band-wagon, take a ride. you dont have to walk your own road the entire journey
Wagons always seemed to me as if the only way you could ever move forward with them is if you were willing to work at it. I guess I like that. It doesn’t depend on outside forces and luck, but just on a need to get somewhere. All you really need to do is pull and there goes the wagon. For cars, you have to rely on the engine working and having enough gas. Wagons are so much more brilliant.
As the wagon rocked side to side, we knew the adventure to the West was over, the winds were coming, and we weren’t making it out alive.
My bright red wagon, shiny and new, being pulled up the hill by my young hands
My dull red wagon, a wondrous taxi for my child, being pulled by my time strengthened hands
My rusty red wagon, destined for the dump, being pulled reluctantly by my arthritic hands.
i jumped on the wagon as soon as i could. i told myself i loved every single subject. that it was all i thought about. i want those equations bouncing around in my head the way making out with a hot guy does. i want the numbers to steal my soul from me… in a good way…
It wasn’t like I fell off the wagon. It was more like I kicked the wagon in the face and slit the tires.
Diets? Pshaw. I’m beautiful.
ANd appreciative of good food.
red
for kids
fun
fast
memories
convenient
helpful
can carry things
red
red
red
A little red wagon. Just a red wagon with four squeaky wheels and a rusty only handle to pull it by. But through the eyes of that little girl, it was an adventure just waiting to happen… How I miss seeing the world through the eyes of that little girl.
The radio flyer wagon squeaked as I wheeled it behind me up the steep hill. When I reached the pinnacle of that mountainous neighborhood land mass I stepped into my vehicle. Using the handle to steer, I pushed off. The wagon groaned and creaked but it did not falter. I was hurtling down the hill at a clip of at least 20 mph. My 8 year old heart was racing as fast as those wagon wheels were spinning. Judgement was coming in the form of a cross street with no stop signs. “Safely” I made it across that dangerous finish line. To the top again!
red wagon
why not blue or yellow or green
why not black or brown or plaid
of our childhood
it’s red
these things get stuck in our minds
it’s red always and forever red
On the wagon, off the wagon, getting on the band wagon. Wagon is a funny word with such a visually old fashioned image in my mind, of pioneers sitting in wagons with horses driving forward across the wild, wild west.
the canvas covered four-wheeler of the 19th century.
families huddled to stay warm in this freezing weather.
husbands standing tall and strong.
wives holding the children tight.
children so cold and afraid, and innocent.
Go this way. But don’t forget that you can’t turn around. That lil’ dumb boy sometimes cain’t get his bearings straight and tries turnin’ the wagon on a dime. Lost 3 horses last summer. Damn idiot. Don’t care to know where he is now, but that brand mama put on his hand ain’t gonna make gettin’ work easy. For sure.
Time to hop off this wagon,
Time to make my own path.
My eyes are wide open
my heart empty of fear.
With a small bump over a pot hole it went wheeling along all sorts of stolen goods. Every little bump in the road threatened to stop the timid wagon and throughout the long trip bits and pieces of the peddlers goods fell out of the truck.
When I was a little girl, I got my thumb stuck in the hinge of a wagon handle. Don’t ask me how, I must have seen something in there that caught my eye like a cocoon or something. Regardless, it took the fire chief, police chief, and many people to get me unstuck that day.
Dirt roads and wagon wheels.
dust blooms into clouds
a wolf howls in the distance
Senses inhanced by a lack of sight
The station wagon trundled down the dirt road. Beige and rusty, it rumbled and made a racket as it bounced along the pitted road. My brother and I knocked against one another in the back seat like marbles in a bag, laughing as we hit one another again and again.
Wasn’t life so much simpler when we were all pulling little, red wagons? What’s lost between then and now? Confidence? The belief that life is simple? The belief that life is vast and full of possibilities? I need to get back on the wagon. Or I need to get back to pulling the wagon.
The wagon bumped on the muddy road, and the already soggy book flew from my hands. I moved in its wake, reaching for what wasn’t there and crying out.
“Shut it,” the man beside me hissed, and backhanded me without restraint.
I could see the tawny, umbre leather there in the rutted road, pulling away as fast as the horses would take us and darkening beneath the pelt of rain.
i had a red wagon when I was little.Zach and I used to use it to carry dead sticks and leaves and pinecones around the yard. We never really used it to go on the street because the road we lived on was dirt. The word “wagon” reminds me of that computer game that everybody played when I was little…Oregon Trail.
I’ve always loved that red wagon that my dad used to pull me around in when I was little. My curly locks would bounce as the black wheel would go over a pebble on the sidewalk. It would always be a bright sunny day and I would be holding a sticky popsicle in my little fist.
The old wagon trundled down the dusty lane, kicking up small poufs of brown in its wake as the slim figures in question were slowly removed from view.
The sheriff shielded her face against the afternoon sun with a rather unladylike snort to accompany the last glimpse of the prison wagon disappearing from the horizon. “All that’s well ends well.” She proclaimed. “And good riddance!”
“You don’t suppose the wagon will actually make it to the Clearwater Fort, do you?” Her deputy accused, his tanned face creasing with worry at the thought of the possible manipulations of their beloved sheriff being used on such unworthy desireables. “Really, they weren’t worth the headache!”
“Right, Regan.” She gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Headache. That was just the thing I was trying to avoid. Coffee?”
Wagon rhymes with dragon. Imagine a dragon in a wagon. Would that be hard to pull or what?
Take one person, put them in a wagon. Roll said wagon and push down a rocky hill. According to television this is a hilarious entertainment. I watch and think when will they call the ambulance. Also what kind of fractures they could sustain.
The wagon fell to the ground as its wheel smashed into the rock.
THe little red wagon that I used to ride in and then sit in and watch the tacoma park parade go by. thats what i am thinking of as i look at the word wagon. wagons are just i donno old school i guess
I pulled the little red wagon
and you sat in the back
as we went around the corner
to spend a quarter each
on penny candy
and feel rich
I swear the wagon was empty when it passed us, but I can’t be positive. It was dark, cold and raining. It was so close to us that I could smell the horses, but when the chain on my bike snapped, i had no choice but to surrender.
I looked over the dusty planes, my horse, chargin, galloping towards the sunset. His tongue hung out in near exhaustion. The wagon was heavier then I thought it would be. Perhaps Chargin was getting up in years, but I thought he could handle it.
wagons are brown and are hard to push. there isd a punching game about it, Walse wagon.