Long Plaid Poems
Long Plaid Poems. Below are the most popular long Plaid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plaid poems by poem length and keyword.
Puffy fat potato heads, skinny stockings sewn,
bunched and hunched in bedrooms where
they’re scattered, scrapped, or thrown.
Clara, Dolly, Elmo, Sally, three wise sisters, Mr. mittens;
shoes and bags, skins in rags, scars from dog-teeth bitten.
Clothing torn, striped or plaid, missing parts they never had,
history’s pages on their faces; looking forlorn, sad.
Children’s memories locked inside, forever silent keeping .
Days caressed in sunshine blessed; or hugged, to stem the weeping.
Playmates past, forgotten days, lost within each one;
days recalled in tracing touch; teatime’s cradled fun.
Diaries of tearful words, smiles and laughter banking;
stories shared of lost pets found, a scolding, or a spanking.
Secrets gave in sacred trust; travels, hopes, and dreams;
stitched for unknown days ahead, inside their crooked seams.
Hands to Hold; Courage Given; needed tug or shove.
Closest Friends and Dearest Ones, Safety Nets of Love.
Refuge when the world at large; became too large to bear.
Afraid and lonely in the dark when only they were there.
We talk with all our Friends and Neighbors, Teacher, Husband, Wife
Long outgrown the need for dolls, to help us deal with life.
Fears and Trials, Tears and Laughter, shared in other ways;
but in our heart a prayer felt, and in our throat a lump still stays;
For none retain the deepest feelings only children show;
but those we clung to growing up, with love they could not know.
That secret room, of memories filled, with friends we’ll not forget.
All left behind in closets dark, who travel with us yet.
In the morning they file out of it all crisp, clean, neat, voiceless.
Dressed in plaid uniforms, white socks, a variety of jazzy shoes, not speaking.
Hair fixed in a variety of “look at me” ways, with yarn, bows, beads and boxes.
Okay, I was kidding.
No one speaking.
In the afternoon as they leave the school, their voices have opened up.
They are like flowers whose petals were pulled off, thorny, loud,
The bus windows are pushed down with slams.
We teachers can hear them screaming, shrieking, laughing,
They holler at us from the bus. “Hey Mrs. K!” “Hey Mrs. A!” “Hey Mrs. Z!”
Their hair is askew, the adornments long gone.
They are on their way home, crazily happy, excited, and loud.
Headed to their video games.
In the meantime, we send prayers to the bus driver.
Written: September 07, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the depths of sorrow, as pokiness prevails.
A smile defenestrates, though my heart wails.
Zestfully decrypts the agony and loss I endure.
I flashed a false grin, yet none grasped it for sure.
Hypnotically, when we had previously danced.
Has drifted away, leaving me entranced.
The voice I adored is now only a faraway echo.
Strands my sultry heart, tears yet to flow.
But still, I smile through tears, breaking.
By the scraps of words, my mind is belittling.
A cherished knot is now a thing of the past.
But life must fare as its spell shifts and casts.
I hide every trace of my misery and grief.
Put on a plaid face and find comfort in belief.
Walking out into the world with a clear wound,
Bleeding soul, grimly sobbing, yet unattuned.
Nobody surely heeds my pain.
I rarely condone its reign.
I mask the sorrow with the loth handlooms.
And persist, as if my heart still blooms.
But did I interpret their generosity as love?
They stole shards of my heart from above.
I smile, despite the tears that threaten to spill.
None leads to the same effects as the creeper, still.
I struck the flint against the steel
sending sparks showering over
the tinder I’d arranged in the pit
topped with the single bit of char cloth
from the tin of my fire starting kit
Not many know how to do that these days
The weight of what I was about to do
demanded the old ways
Breathing life into the flames I fed them
until they crackled into a conflagration
Beside me sat the box I’d hidden away
in the corner of the shelf in my closet
under piles of sheets and pillow cases
Within it stored what he’d worn
that arid August day we’d met
like trinkets from a time machine
The black T-shirt with the guitars
The red plaid flannel over it
After almost a quarter of a century
they hadn’t faded or degraded
His scent soaked into them discernable
The smell of his cologne still clinging
Transporting me back to the moment
I’d first seen his face, heard his voice
felt his touch
I held them in my hands feeling the fibers
replaying memories like a movie
of that single year
They were all that was left
of the me that had been
happy, hopeful and free
Like the last remaining relic
of a civilization that has ceased to be
Silently I placed them back in the box
Someday they’ll mean nothing to me
I throw my covers back
Place my feet upon the floor
Get my bearings of just where I'm at
Head for the bathroom door
I brush away the night
From my hair, my eyes, my teeth
I look back in the mirror with delight
There you go...now I recognize me
My closets filled with plaids and stripes
What's this Wednesday...then plaid it is
There's a lump in the bed I think it's my wife
Either or, I give the lump a kiss
Down the stairs straight for the door
But not before I grab my shades
Same as yesterday and the day before
We all know practice perfection makes
At my desk for one long eight hour yawn
Can't remember even taking a break
My boss stops by to ask what's going on
I tell the truth which might have been a mistake
Back at home I walk through the front
Keys in hand I reach for the light
Last thought I have as I again kiss the lump
Is tomorrow plaids or stripes
lights swirl ...
rhythms pound ...
cold Duplais Verte emulsifies in my square glass
tongue tingling, I swallow it in sips
woody, bitter licorice plucks my senses
the soft, dreamy warmth suffuses my blood, relaxing
and the flamingos start to dance
up-and-down, sweeping and bouncing
timed with colored lasers and a mirror ball ... real??
then the buzzards join in, hopping
spinning and jostling with the lovely pink birds
glowing, dark, angular shapes
I'm perplexed ... but hypnotized, I go with it
my mind picturing a fantasy land of odd animals
a steel drum paradise of music, green liqueur, and dancers
sublime women with latte' skin and palm skirts
twirling, shaking, kicking their legs
tossing hips and limbs in sensual syncopation
one special lady quite near to my table
whose face I recognize, and movements captivate
page-boy haircut and gold-flecked brown eyes
peasant blouse, off-the-shoulders
pleated, plaid mini and ruby-red Blahnik pumps
that bring attention to the watercolor tattoos on her calves
her left leg, chocolate turkey vultures
and on the right, three gorgeous pink flamingos
I finish my absinthe, smiling
pick up another square glass of the Green Fairy
and begin to sip ...
cold, cloudy … smooth.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Buzzards and Flamingos" Poetry Contest, Anthony Slausin, Judge & Sponsor.
Do not say, “Why were the old days better than these?” For it is not wise to ask such questions.
Ecclesiastes 7:10
WHY WERE THE OLD DAYS BETTER THAN THESE
Thank you God for the warmth in this cup of coffee.
Like mittens on my hands, a loving touch to my face.
I wrap my fingers around the panoramic scene of snow.
Red, white and green trees firmly planted. Snowflake
designs and its song implied, “Baby it’s cold outside.”
My purple sweatshirt and blue plaid socks harmonise.
The time of year we look for snow to fall on shoulders,
my own, but my hair’s dyed - many a Winter, fools.
I stay in shape the best I can - guarded, punching life.
Thank you God for wisdom, deep and coffee strong.
11/15/2022
Mommy and Daddy left everything to their favorite child, Bruce.
Bruce is also their self-centered, selfish child, but they did not see it.
Bruce came to visit once a year; he was their prodigal son.
They adored him, he was their everything.
Their daughter Sarah sat in disbelief at the probate office.
When had the will been changed?
She had taken care of her parents all of their lives.
Bruce now owned her home, she would have to move.
She asked if she could buy the house, but he said no.
She asked for her mother’s pearl necklace.
And her Daddy’s plaid jacket.
Two more no’s from the prodigal son.
Impish Legacy
by Odin Roark
He was like you and me
Arms
Legs
Regrets
Passions
With little that stood out
Save his church-Sunday handshake
His calloused palms
Telling much of
This no-nonsense man
His plaid shirt
Always starting off clean
But wrinkled
Hating to bother anyone
To iron
Wafted oil and soil by midday
The kind sometimes tied
To grease monkey slurs
Labor-ravaged pants
Covered legs of hardlife-stamina
Where given his bumless backside
Help was always needed
But
Snap-of-his-thumbs suspenders
Imprinted proudly with Monroe’s famous
Skirt-blowing pinup
Kept shortcomings intact
Here was an everyday man
With time galloping by
Waiting for no one
He rose at 6
Quick coffee
Out the door
Down the road
8 at the yard
Change this one’s oil
Replace that one’s brakes
Add up the receipts
Take home the earnings
Make another deposit
College won’t be cheap
Leave front door open
Son’s out late
Comfort frail wife
Crawl into bed
Labor’s hand gentle
Jergen’s hand longing
Spooning together
Smiles and pain
Always slow to slumber
So went this life
Until it didn’t
The funeral brought
Many more wafts of oil and grease
Friends of a feather
Still flocking together
With tears and sadness
While upon his face
A subtle smile well known
Belied the crossed hand atop his chest
Some of us knew
He was dreaming
Just one more snap of the suspenders
One last reminder of life
Such became an impish legacy
One who acquired so much
Yet took so little
Jasper J. Jigglebottom was stuck in the sixties, and proud of the fact.
He was on a movie set, admired by many for he could certainly act.
His job was to be available to stand in until the director yelled “take”.
The placement actor who stood in Bogey’s place when he needed a break.
He was dressed in the same dapper suit, a double breasted, jazzy plaid suit.
He smoked the same brand cigar, and wore the same wing tips to boot.
Jasper J. Jigglebottom was admired by those who could not do what he did.
A grown man but he had the keen wit and wildness of Bogart’s own kid.
How are those ear’s hanging? He looked up and saw Miss Lauren Bacall.
She was the most sensuous, sexy, woman of the sixties; a heavenly doll.
He nearly spit out his cigar, he was so gobsmacked by her beauty.
Let’s not lose it, the director admonished, reminding him of his duty.
So he tried to ignore her skin, her eyes, her hair, and her walk.
He knew he was practically in love, especially with her wiggly walk.
She’s something huh? Humphey Bogart said as exchanged places with him.
Jasper could not reply, but he had saliva precariously hanging off of his chin.