A Scotsman going by Archie McFlip
did a stumble, a fall, and a trip
he started to sing
and to do the fling
even though he had broken his hip
He said he was bringing her plaid flowers today.
Pandas exaggerate, right? I said to Aunt Fay.
Not this one, he is pretty level-headed and true.
Okay, I said but plaid flowers make sense to you?
I am just saying he has been totally honest, she said.
He comes over every morning at six to be fed.
Why don’t you stick around and you can see for yourself.
Panda walked in that moment and put plaid flowers on the shelf.
Where did you get those? I asked him, with enormous eyes.
Down at the Chinese market, he said. “No big surprise.”
They have everything down there. Give me a request if you want.
I liked him immediately, but went with him to market so I too could hunt.
He dreams in electric themes
draping around the armchairs
he wheezes down time
Across feral fields his eyes skims
the scenery
His shadow silhouetted by the evening sun
aware of the amolaly
recalling a spectral youth
My mother had three magazines coming monthly in the sixties.
Women’s Day, Redbook and Ladies Home Journal.
American Girl Magazine made its debut, and she bought if for us.
My twin and I.
I remember thinking “who dresses like this?”
With the first edition.
By the third month I had to have white go go boots.
And a short plaid skirt.
But of course, living with my mother, it was never short enough.
The plaid couch was well-built in 1972.
We purchased it brand new from a ritzy furniture store.
I was not fond of the plaid, but it was fairly inexpensive.
Little Plaid could tell stories about my potato chip binges.
Many of them ended up in bits under her cushions.
Her Scotch guard was remarkable.
She is fifty-one years old now.
Sitting in my granddaughter’s sorority house.
They needed a couch.
It’s so comfy, we fight over it, she told me.
They had dolled it up with pillows and artwork.
It looks better there than it ever looked in my house.
Fifty-one and you have never aged, I tell her.
Plaid never looked so welcoming!
Old red plaid shirt blew off the line with ease.
One July day with a gentle breeze,
Farmer’s wife came out to peek into old deep freeze.
She was now standing in meat up to her knees.
Old farmer came out and asked with “please”…
Can you find my shirt up in the trees?
The wife stopped smiling. There were no tee-hees.
She began to hunt for shirt in their Humvees.
Farmer went inside to pay their state fair fees.
Opportunity to upgrade tickets, he did seize.
He loved the Iowa state fair in all degrees.
Wife asked everyone with heartfelt pleas,
“Have you seen a red plaid shirt taken by a breeze?”
A few neighbors did aptly tease.
Saw it go north, said old Mr. McFees.
I am sure it is in Belize, another decrees.
One thing for sure, that plaid shirt was gone in the breeze….
rainbow idea
we need prisms in prison
uplifting inmates
plaid idea
We need design on shirts
even on Fox News women
paisley idea
We need to bring back the joy of the sixties
But leave the Viet Nam War behind
plaid announces self
variety of colors
speaks rather clearly
in children’s jumpers
or fanciest Scottish kilt
keen stability
plaid fosters feelings
upon arrival
saying blue collar
working mans fodder
powerful in every way
plaid picks up a rake
plaid is confident
marching in pleats and jackets
generational
With days so bland, I must find color where I can
Panoramic Plaid Underscores Sunrise
grinds dark and fine, aroma transcending
tranquil skies a smoky gray ~
the saffron and blue grass
1/29/2020
my favorite plaid shirt
smells of her perfume
letting memories saunter in
like she did to a room
now that it's all over
what else is there to do
except to wear my favorite plaid shirt
that smells of her perfume
My dream of yesterday I'm calling
under caress of a plush plaid,
What was that? And who won? Who's falling?
Who was defeated? What is bad?
I think again, I change my thinking,
Anew I feel the sweetest pain,
Say, was it love of just a winking,
I have no word for it again.
Who was the prey? Who was the hunter?
All is contrary, it is mad,
Siberian cat has got it under
that caress plaid.
Who, whose hand was the ball in
in our duel of self-win?
Oh, say, your heart or mine was rolling
and bouncing real.
So, do I want it, do I need it?
What did it show?
Say, did I win? Was I defeated?
I do not know.
23.10.1914
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Marina Tsvetaeva
Vagabond brothers in plaid patchwork socks
Crossing the street between stripes painted yellow
Stretching the avenue half past the hour
Dodging the drunk, he’s a staggering fellow
Grabbing a smoke from the stack on the corner
Begging a match that just isn’t the same
Identical twins from a different mother
Thinking the postman holds most of the blame
Belting a chorus while changing their trousers
Pressed at the seam near the fine zigzag stitch
Hiding the spot that is worn in the middle
Caused by aggressively scratching an itch
Checking the fridge just to find it quite empty
Not even leftovers left over there
Hearing their stomachs now growling profusely
Hoping that none on the sidewalk would stare
Reaching for handles of brass alabaster
Gathering things at a grocery store
Paying in cash with a currency foreign
Offering nickels, they don’t have much more
Pork chops on Sunday and sweet apple cider
Pushing their cart over ten city blocks
Still they are known for their colorful fashions
Vagabond brothers in plaid patchwork socks
Written for the Zany contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
I love to see a person clad
In skirt or sweater made of plaid.
A shirt or scarf works just as well;
No stripes or dots can parallel.
In Scotland, once, I went to see
A mammoth Tartan factory.
Each pattern has a special name
And certain ones have gained acclaim.
My closet has a wide selection,
Plaids I wear with great affection.
Wardrobes must be really Spartan
If they lack at least one Tartan!
My crayon color is greenish plaid
Cause monochromatic is sad
His silence
outlines
His beauty
As does
His
shy
demeanor
A small tug
of His
faded
plaid shirt
sends me
into
blind
ecstasy
Mutual acquaintances
have
brought US
together
But not nearly
as together
as
I’d
like
Waist; Body;
Beauty; Smile
A shy smile
with His
eyes down
Bliss
He gives me
a loud peace
Heart,
jumping
in my throat
Will this
ever be?
Leaving him
Irks me
Twists me
Burns me
But I must
Unaware
He is
of
my
lust
for
Him
Pushing me
into the unknown
Without
the satisfaction
of
Knowing Him
Having Him
or
Loving Him
I’m
Left with
my lust
and His
faded
plaid
shirt
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