Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!
Get Your Premium Membership


 I made sackcloth also my garment; and I 
 became a proverb to them.
They that sit in the gate speak against me; and I was the song of drunkards.
Psalm 102 I made sackcloth my garment once, by cutting arm and neck holes into a burlap bag.
A croker sack they called it.
Sackdragger they called the man who dragged a croker sack between the cotton rows to pick.
He dragged a gunnysack behind him in the ditch collecting empties.
Him they chose the Likeliest to Sack Seed in the feed store, or to suck seed.
He was your daddy.
He sacked groceries part-time, and they jeered: you sorry sack of shit.
Sackcloth, which Job sewed upon his skin, was goat hair.
God who clothed the heavens with such blackness said, I make sackcloth their covering.
Isaiah understood.
God had him speak a word in season to the weary.
Speak, Isaiah, now, to me.
Before the stars like green figs in a windstorm drop, the sun is black as sackcloth, and the moon becomes as blood.
My soul is weary.
Speak, Isaiah.
I was a scholar as a boy: I cut the neck and arm holes into the burlap, pulled it on, and cinched it with a hank of rope: what I have done from then till now is itch.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - SackclothEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

Top Brooks Haxton Poems

Analysis and Comments on Sackcloth

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Sackcloth here.