Vagabond brothers in plaid patchwork socks (parts 2 and 3 added)

Became a series after all

Vagabond brothers in plaid patchwork socks 

 

 

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

 

~~~

 

These two you see, not renown fancy dressers,

‘least not like chandeliers hung in the hall

No gilded frames carved of walnut or cedar,

nothing to wear for a night at the ball

 

Nary a comb touched their heads in the daylight,

finding the part was a line you can’t beat

Sideburns at length by their ears sounding funny,

learning their chin was the wrong place to meet

 

Still, they went down to the inn on the corner,

rented a room for the house cost too much

Asked for some towels and an extra firm pillow,

hand crocheted blankets so soft to the touch

 

Purchased a pot at the gardener’s yard sale,

made of ceramic and looked like a tree

Planted some seeds labeled fresh from the orchard,

wondered if plums or a peach they would see

 

Till that one day when a beautiful woman,

captured their eyes with a wink of her own

She was too old to be somebody’s cousin,

and far too young to be someone they’d known

 

Pulling a book from a pocketbook pocket,

she turned the page with the corner turned down

Taking a seat, she sat quietly reading,

that’s when they knew, she was new to this town

 

Staring, they entered the city park entrance,

tossed out some crumbs so the pigeons could eat

Questioning why she was dressed in that fashion,

wearing a dress that was hiding her feet

 

Then she got up and she motioned them forward,

walked right beside them a couple of blocks

Lifted her skirt and their world started spinning,

seems that she too wore some plaid patchwork socks

 

~~~

 

The look on their faces, the same only different,

neither was ready and neither could start

Both thought this girl was the ultimate fancy,

tugging the strings threaded tight through their heart

 

“I saw her first,” you could hear one complaining

“After I did,’ was the brother’s reply

“Over my body,” the word dead omitted

“I like her socks,” was their unified cry

 

Boys will be boys, in her mind she was thinking,

flattered and more by the show they put on

Pulled out a compact and freshened her lipstick,

red like the sunrise that comes at the dawn

 

Out in the street with the cobblestones squealing,

fist after fist and some other things whirl

Hair all a mess, which is normal for brothers,

vagabond twins who both want the same girl

 

She hailed a cab with a checkerboard sticker,

opened the doors at the front and the rear

Puckered her lips and then let out a whistle,

both of the brothers jumped in out of fear

 

Closing the doors, she collected her bearings,

looked at her watch, it was half past the hour

Licking her lips made for champagne and cherries,

waved a goodbye for she harnessed that power

 

At the next stop the two brothers departed,

paid for the taxi with quarters and dimes

Saving the nickels for pork chops and cider,

their favorite meal when the dinner bell chimes

 

So, there you have it, a tale of two siblings

Turning the keys in their rented room locks

Finding a note from a vagabond sister,

she was the one with the plaid patchwork socks

 

 

~~~

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I posted this a week or so ago and a few people read it and enjoyed it. One reader suggested it become a series, so I have added 2 more parts to it. I hope you like it.

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

From beginning to end I felt this was more than story or book than a poem because you invisibly placed so many delicious facts into the tale.. and every stanza's fine meter. How you do that, don't know, will web. There's something of a comedy of errors, re-made perhaps, but a distinct connection in spite of the brothers' connection , near branded however by those magical socks! Give familiarity to a moral and it becomes near sacrosanct - in an imaginative writer's mind! But then, perhaps that lady held the quill!

[willweb]

Perhaps she did. I know one who does. : ) Thank you my friend.. I am thrilled you had fun with this

[Ken Simm.]

What a remarkably charming story that caught my imagination. Brothers from different mothers in love and two socks. What concepts.

[willweb]

Thanks Ken, just a little poetic craziness. I am glad you liked it

[FGFRANKLIN]

So wonderful to learn about the plaid patchwork sock family. They're every bit enduring as the Huckabuck family that raised popcorn in Nebraska and then quit and came back. Love the quixotic and delightful nature of this. F.

[willweb]

Thank you Fabian. Just having a little fun with my imagination.

[Lorry]

This is awesome Will, and not just because the brothers sound like the cure to hipsters. Through in a woman with ruby red lips in a gypsy skirt and you've got my attention!
Now, what was I talking about! I got distracted by (we know what you were distracted by, us filthy animal)
Oh yeah, you didn't even mention that this was a song, so how did that tune get in my head?
I feel shenanigans is at play here, or maybe I mistook the lady for a gypsy, but she was in fact a siren...one of the temptress variety and not a loud wailing noise I mean.
Ah, the folly of brothers. Me and my brother once fought over a woman too, but I won and according to the rules, he had to marry her! :-)

[willweb]

Hey, rules are rules and sometimes they favor the victor. : ) Thanks for coming by again to read the added portions my friend. I appreciate your visits and always look forward to your informative and engaging comments

[Lorry]

You're Weclome, and yes, that's how it's spelled in Scotchland 🥃 😊

[Betty Hermelee]

charming stormy of the two vagabonds brothers with different mothers....vying for the same woman because she had the same socks...street people living off of their change, managing to scrounge for scraps, except on Sunday when they had pork chops...I guess they knew everyone is town, until this woman arrives,,,and that was short lived....I enjoyed the read, the rhyme and everything,
thanks for sharing!
Warmly, B

[willweb]

Thanks so much for reading this again Betty. I know you read the first version and I am happy you answered my request and read the continuation of the story.

[Betty Hermelee]

of course I would!!! loved it; has many meanings.....
Warmly, B

[AYVID N]

I am so awed by your skill and story telling. This is such a worthy read. Everything about this poem is beautiful, it’s unique concept, the detailing, the imagery and words.

[willweb]

Thanks so much Divya. It was a fun write because I was there with them the entire time and almost didn't want to leave. : )

[AYVID N]

You have such magic in you. It’s something precious. No wonder I enjoyed it so much.

[Chris Shaw]

An epic read will. You are a great story teller and the plaid patchwork socks added an amusing touch. You really are a master when it comes to the rhythm in your verse. Your lines always flow like a river in spring time. Well done.

Chris

[willweb]

Thanks so much Chris. I am happy you read this and enjoyed it so much. It is just a fun little idea I had and then expanded on it.

[Chris Shaw]

You are far more patient than me. My poems are never epics:)