the wagon was sitting in the garden. I was ready to fill it with green beans that I had picked. All of a sudden beside the wagon I spotted a large black spider! To my surprise I I also saw, beside the spider her babies!
My children used to have a wagon. IT was so easy to go for walks back then. I just put them in it and pulled them all over the neighborhood, easily getting in a good workout. They’d pack snacks and toys, and it would be an adventure. Now when I walk, I am always looking behind me waiting for one of them to catch up. I never had a wagon. We lived too far in the country.
Wood slats and metal pins. Cloth that hides your many sins. Hide beneath this wagon’s roof to keep away the awful truth of the muderous things you have done.
A wagon carries things, people, memories, treasured moments towards the great blue yonder, to the California Gold rush of the 1800s. Can’t find a wagon like that no more.
Bandwagon!
Also, it just reminds me of childhood. Like little Matilda dragging all her books around in a wagon on the way home from the library. That would have been me if my parents would let me walk around on my own. Wagons make me think of simplicity. And carrying other people’s ish to help them out.
We ran down the street toward the old wagon, watching the horse trot at its slow methodical pace, wondering if the wheel would come off. We were just kids, it was a simple prank, but what would happen if a stray stone were to knock it off balance?
The wagon slip of the road and fell into the ravine. On one was hurt, however, the supplies destined fro those villager weer destroyed. what a pity, after such a great effort to get them to it destination.
I drag my little red wagon to the lakeside. I look at the lake and back to the wagon. I continue to walk until I came back a small rock, sitting under the tree.
“Happy Birthday, little brother.” I smile at the rock with bitter tears in my eyes. Then, I walk back home, dragging little red wagon behind me.
I drag my little red wagon to the lakeside. I look at the lake and back to the wagon. I continue to walk until I came back a small rock, sitting under the tree.
“Happy Birthday, little brother.” I chokd a smile and walk back home.
“Roll ’em out”
Cried the swarthy rustler,
windswept, dusty; cracked leather and sweat,
A bronze orb dips behind a blood-red canyon,
Shadows lengthen,
The congregation shivers,
Whips crack,
and away.
“So, where the fuck is “back” to you, pal?” Jensen asked somewhat snarkily.
“Well, back to your home, sir, where you belong.” He answered.
“In case you didn’t get the news flash, tard, my home, as you put it, and about a million others were vaporized by some clowns in uniforms trying to out-testosterone each other in the name of world peace, ” Jensen shot back.
“Oh, sir. You haven’t heard?” the ninja replied. “Corporal, bring the wagon alongside. We need to move fast. He’s slipping again.”
“Slipping?” Jensen thought, “Is that the term they’re using?”
“So, where the fuck is “back” to you, pal?” Jensen asked somewhat snarkily.
“Well, back to your home, sir, where you belong.” He answered.
“In case you didn’t get the news flash, tard, my home, as you put it, and about a million others were vaporized by some clowns in uniforms trying to out-testosterone each other in the name of world peace, ” Jensen shot back.
He had been off the ‘wagon’ for just two days, but it got to him, the thirst, the dribble of moisture down the side of the cold beer. He slunk into the dusky bar and slaked his thirst. Oh well, two days is a record, tomorrow I will try again.
“Circle the wagons!” Billy Bob called the other boys to the center of the driveway, “there’s girls approaching!” The other boys pulled their little red wagons to circle around as Becky Bob and Sarah Bob passed by the crabapple tree at the corner. “You ain’t gonna get us with your girlie ways,” Billy Bob shrieked, “We’re protected!”
“Whatever you say,” Becky Bob laughed and spat tobacco juice at him. “But we’re still gonna take your money when ice cream truck gets here.”
I fell off the wagon when I was six years old,
Wagon going, wagon going, and I was off.
The wagon went the wagon way
And I was just a-layin’ in the hay.
Well, ever since I fell off that wagon, boy,
I know how to play with my wagon toy!
I have never jumped on a bandwagon
I steer my own wagon
whichever direction it wishes to lead
which is infrequently parallel to all else
I have never understood the desire to jump off and on bandwagons
I guess it is to bask it other people’s glory
but where is the joy that accompanies glory
if that glory is not your own to bask in?
Red flyer wagon. It’s funny how an image, an icon, stays in your memory forever. Marissa and I pulling an old squeaky wagon to the park. Filled with books, crayons, paper, blanket, snacks, and jump ropes. Adventures to be had as we took turns pulling up and down hills, over side walk cracks, twisting and turning, the sunlight tumbling through tree tops on a summer day.
The valiant prince slayed the dragon and rescued the princess from her tower. On their way down the steps, she fantasized of what his steed would look like. She had always imagined a white horse. But when he opened the door, she saw a wagon.
She had jumped onto the wagon when she had realized that there was another person there. He was a nice looking young man, with a prince-like aire to him. As it turns out, he, himself, was a price trying to escape his duties. They started talking about what they wanted in life, and they both wanted the same thing: Freedom.
The wagon’s broken again. I said it to myself, for I knew no one could hear me. For days I have been wandering this desert, with nothing to aid me but this wagon, and now, the damn thing is broken.
Pull it. It’s wood. Made to be used, not precious behind plexiglass, with people staring, fetishizing. Once horses did it but we do what we can. The real pioneers. Behind the museum a trail. Maybe going to Oregon. The gold fields wit if you look hard enough.
Back to childhood– remember that little red wagon?
Lemonade stand, transportation, the ultimate toy.
Every kid wanted one, some of them actually got it.
Shiny and new, even dirty, it was beloved.
But we grew up, didn’t we? It’s lost its appeal.
We like shiny, new things. And then they aren’t new after a while.
So what do we do? Replace them, of course.
How upsetting to know that all that is considered good is that which is new.
join in the band wagon it doesnt hurt to join the group…umless you dont have anything to lose that is. i join the wagon along time ago and ive lost many things like my life and my will to live but so far ive gain that back little by little only because of you
The rusty, blue wagon lay abandoned in the equally neglected- looking yard.
The farmer leaned on the gate, studying the flat tyres, flaky paint and warped axle.
I was walking in the park when I saw it. It was a brown wooden wagon. A wagon is a device that is use to carry objects. Usually there is a horse attached but this time it just stood there, patiently waiting for someone beautiful to come; someone who never did. It was a depressing sight to see such a lonely wagon. No owner, no horse and no purpose to clutch onto.
It seems that everyone is jumping on the bandwagon, conforming to the monotonous lull of routines and everyday life. Even I, despite this writing, am conforming. But I want to break away. I want to breathe in the color of the world and exhale words of great beauty and might. I want to stand alone and strong on my own island of individuality, watching Routine suck people in with it’s boring, gentile tide. I want to be away from the bandwagon. I want to be me.
i can see it in the worry on your face, the tense in your shoulders; the wagon-full of concern you pull everyday. take my hand, kiss my lips, run your fingers through my hair. let me help you turn that wagon into hope.
The child heaved himself onto the counter, eager for a tasty treat. His mother had placed the box high, higher than his reach; but he was resourceful. With a skip and a jump, he leaped and seized the box of oh-so-delicious wagon wheels.
The little boy toddled down the street, tugging his red wagon behind him. His older sister followed, walking slightly behind to allow the child what little independence could be allotted at such a young age. The wagon overflowed with the treasures of youth: a smiling teddy bear, a box of cookies, a half-full pitcher of lemonade, and tub full of crayons broken into a myriad of sizes.
The wagon stood out in the forest; seemingly half in the ground half out. It was rotten, and the moss overtook the wagon so that it almost looked to be a disfigured shrubbery. The bright colours had faded. . . .
I sat in the wagon and tried to hide my tears. No one wanted me. No one ever did. But i thought this time it would be different. But here I was, saying goodbye to the people I considered to be my family. I waved, and Mary waved back. Tad hid his face, but Willie waved as well. I lowered and face and let the tears fall. Sometimes you can only have one emotion at once.
The wagon rattles through the prairie, a slow, groaning thing of old dried out timber, cloth bleached by the sun and nearly threadbare. The tall prairie grasses swish up along the sides of it, nearly as tall as a man’s shoulder. The flowers are in full bloom at this time of year, and despite the hardships of such a life, moments like these, she thinks, make it worth while.
They drove around in the litte blue station wagon that hot, dry summer of 1988 debating life, eating ice cream and smoking doobies. A flat, black shoe was kept under the passenger seat to hit the dashboard when the radio acted up.
It’s back wheels were stuck in the past, while the two front wheels were perfectly capable of moving forward. If only there was someone stronger pulling this wagon along. If only there was someone stronger, it might not matter whether or not all the wheels were willing.
this brings me back to my childhood. When I was 3, my brother used to have this toy range rover that he was able to sit in and drive around in our front/back yard. But, my parents were too scared to give me a car because they were afraid i would get hurt, so instead, they gave me a wagon. How fair was that.
The wagon was filled with loss and regret. I drug it behind me, as one of the wheels was stuck. With this wagon, I drew wrote in cursive along the dirt and gravel road as I left my past behind.
the wagon was sitting in the garden. I was ready to fill it with green beans that I had picked. All of a sudden beside the wagon I spotted a large black spider! To my surprise I I also saw, beside the spider her babies!
My children used to have a wagon. IT was so easy to go for walks back then. I just put them in it and pulled them all over the neighborhood, easily getting in a good workout. They’d pack snacks and toys, and it would be an adventure. Now when I walk, I am always looking behind me waiting for one of them to catch up. I never had a wagon. We lived too far in the country.
Wood slats and metal pins. Cloth that hides your many sins. Hide beneath this wagon’s roof to keep away the awful truth of the muderous things you have done.
A wagon carries things, people, memories, treasured moments towards the great blue yonder, to the California Gold rush of the 1800s. Can’t find a wagon like that no more.
Bandwagon!
Also, it just reminds me of childhood. Like little Matilda dragging all her books around in a wagon on the way home from the library. That would have been me if my parents would let me walk around on my own. Wagons make me think of simplicity. And carrying other people’s ish to help them out.
We ran down the street toward the old wagon, watching the horse trot at its slow methodical pace, wondering if the wheel would come off. We were just kids, it was a simple prank, but what would happen if a stray stone were to knock it off balance?
The wagon slip of the road and fell into the ravine. On one was hurt, however, the supplies destined fro those villager weer destroyed. what a pity, after such a great effort to get them to it destination.
Weight too powerful
Burden too heavy
Aims too lofty
Expectations too low
I drag my little red wagon to the lakeside. I look at the lake and back to the wagon. I continue to walk until I came back a small rock, sitting under the tree.
“Happy Birthday, little brother.” I smile at the rock with bitter tears in my eyes. Then, I walk back home, dragging little red wagon behind me.
I drag my little red wagon to the lakeside. I look at the lake and back to the wagon. I continue to walk until I came back a small rock, sitting under the tree.
“Happy Birthday, little brother.” I chokd a smile and walk back home.
“Roll ’em out”
Cried the swarthy rustler,
windswept, dusty; cracked leather and sweat,
A bronze orb dips behind a blood-red canyon,
Shadows lengthen,
The congregation shivers,
Whips crack,
and away.
“So, where the fuck is “back” to you, pal?” Jensen asked somewhat snarkily.
“Well, back to your home, sir, where you belong.” He answered.
“In case you didn’t get the news flash, tard, my home, as you put it, and about a million others were vaporized by some clowns in uniforms trying to out-testosterone each other in the name of world peace, ” Jensen shot back.
“Oh, sir. You haven’t heard?” the ninja replied. “Corporal, bring the wagon alongside. We need to move fast. He’s slipping again.”
“Slipping?” Jensen thought, “Is that the term they’re using?”
“So, where the fuck is “back” to you, pal?” Jensen asked somewhat snarkily.
“Well, back to your home, sir, where you belong.” He answered.
“In case you didn’t get the news flash, tard, my home, as you put it, and about a million others were vaporized by some clowns in uniforms trying to out-testosterone each other in the name of world peace, ” Jensen shot back.
“Oh, sir. You haven’t heard?” the ninja replied.
He had been off the ‘wagon’ for just two days, but it got to him, the thirst, the dribble of moisture down the side of the cold beer. He slunk into the dusky bar and slaked his thirst. Oh well, two days is a record, tomorrow I will try again.
“Circle the wagons!” Billy Bob called the other boys to the center of the driveway, “there’s girls approaching!” The other boys pulled their little red wagons to circle around as Becky Bob and Sarah Bob passed by the crabapple tree at the corner. “You ain’t gonna get us with your girlie ways,” Billy Bob shrieked, “We’re protected!”
“Whatever you say,” Becky Bob laughed and spat tobacco juice at him. “But we’re still gonna take your money when ice cream truck gets here.”
I fell off the wagon when I was six years old,
Wagon going, wagon going, and I was off.
The wagon went the wagon way
And I was just a-layin’ in the hay.
Well, ever since I fell off that wagon, boy,
I know how to play with my wagon toy!
I have never jumped on a bandwagon
I steer my own wagon
whichever direction it wishes to lead
which is infrequently parallel to all else
I have never understood the desire to jump off and on bandwagons
I guess it is to bask it other people’s glory
but where is the joy that accompanies glory
if that glory is not your own to bask in?
Red flyer wagon. It’s funny how an image, an icon, stays in your memory forever. Marissa and I pulling an old squeaky wagon to the park. Filled with books, crayons, paper, blanket, snacks, and jump ropes. Adventures to be had as we took turns pulling up and down hills, over side walk cracks, twisting and turning, the sunlight tumbling through tree tops on a summer day.
The valiant prince slayed the dragon and rescued the princess from her tower. On their way down the steps, she fantasized of what his steed would look like. She had always imagined a white horse. But when he opened the door, she saw a wagon.
She had jumped onto the wagon when she had realized that there was another person there. He was a nice looking young man, with a prince-like aire to him. As it turns out, he, himself, was a price trying to escape his duties. They started talking about what they wanted in life, and they both wanted the same thing: Freedom.
The wagon’s broken again. I said it to myself, for I knew no one could hear me. For days I have been wandering this desert, with nothing to aid me but this wagon, and now, the damn thing is broken.
Pull it. It’s wood. Made to be used, not precious behind plexiglass, with people staring, fetishizing. Once horses did it but we do what we can. The real pioneers. Behind the museum a trail. Maybe going to Oregon. The gold fields wit if you look hard enough.
the station wagon had a back seat we called the way back. sometimes we’d wave at the driver behind us during a traffic jam. cheesy, for sure!
Back to childhood– remember that little red wagon?
Lemonade stand, transportation, the ultimate toy.
Every kid wanted one, some of them actually got it.
Shiny and new, even dirty, it was beloved.
But we grew up, didn’t we? It’s lost its appeal.
We like shiny, new things. And then they aren’t new after a while.
So what do we do? Replace them, of course.
How upsetting to know that all that is considered good is that which is new.
What world is this? When will you replace me?
join in the band wagon it doesnt hurt to join the group…umless you dont have anything to lose that is. i join the wagon along time ago and ive lost many things like my life and my will to live but so far ive gain that back little by little only because of you
WAGON ITS THE ADBREVIATURE OF A WORLD THAT I DON’T KNOW REALLY MAYBE THAT CAMBE A LONELY PLACE AND I LIKE TO FOUND IT BUT I CAN GO, NOT ALONE.
The rusty, blue wagon lay abandoned in the equally neglected- looking yard.
The farmer leaned on the gate, studying the flat tyres, flaky paint and warped axle.
I was walking in the park when I saw it. It was a brown wooden wagon. A wagon is a device that is use to carry objects. Usually there is a horse attached but this time it just stood there, patiently waiting for someone beautiful to come; someone who never did. It was a depressing sight to see such a lonely wagon. No owner, no horse and no purpose to clutch onto.
It seems that everyone is jumping on the bandwagon, conforming to the monotonous lull of routines and everyday life. Even I, despite this writing, am conforming. But I want to break away. I want to breathe in the color of the world and exhale words of great beauty and might. I want to stand alone and strong on my own island of individuality, watching Routine suck people in with it’s boring, gentile tide. I want to be away from the bandwagon. I want to be me.
the red wagon lay cock-eyed bt upright in the overgrown front yard of the ratty house. Its front wheel was bent out at an
i can see it in the worry on your face, the tense in your shoulders; the wagon-full of concern you pull everyday. take my hand, kiss my lips, run your fingers through my hair. let me help you turn that wagon into hope.
The child heaved himself onto the counter, eager for a tasty treat. His mother had placed the box high, higher than his reach; but he was resourceful. With a skip and a jump, he leaped and seized the box of oh-so-delicious wagon wheels.
The little boy toddled down the street, tugging his red wagon behind him. His older sister followed, walking slightly behind to allow the child what little independence could be allotted at such a young age. The wagon overflowed with the treasures of youth: a smiling teddy bear, a box of cookies, a half-full pitcher of lemonade, and tub full of crayons broken into a myriad of sizes.
The wagon stood out in the forest; seemingly half in the ground half out. It was rotten, and the moss overtook the wagon so that it almost looked to be a disfigured shrubbery. The bright colours had faded. . . .
I sat in the wagon and tried to hide my tears. No one wanted me. No one ever did. But i thought this time it would be different. But here I was, saying goodbye to the people I considered to be my family. I waved, and Mary waved back. Tad hid his face, but Willie waved as well. I lowered and face and let the tears fall. Sometimes you can only have one emotion at once.
The wagon rattles through the prairie, a slow, groaning thing of old dried out timber, cloth bleached by the sun and nearly threadbare. The tall prairie grasses swish up along the sides of it, nearly as tall as a man’s shoulder. The flowers are in full bloom at this time of year, and despite the hardships of such a life, moments like these, she thinks, make it worth while.
They drove around in the litte blue station wagon that hot, dry summer of 1988 debating life, eating ice cream and smoking doobies. A flat, black shoe was kept under the passenger seat to hit the dashboard when the radio acted up.
It’s back wheels were stuck in the past, while the two front wheels were perfectly capable of moving forward. If only there was someone stronger pulling this wagon along. If only there was someone stronger, it might not matter whether or not all the wheels were willing.
this brings me back to my childhood. When I was 3, my brother used to have this toy range rover that he was able to sit in and drive around in our front/back yard. But, my parents were too scared to give me a car because they were afraid i would get hurt, so instead, they gave me a wagon. How fair was that.
The wagon was filled with loss and regret. I drug it behind me, as one of the wheels was stuck. With this wagon, I drew wrote in cursive along the dirt and gravel road as I left my past behind.