Best Sackcloth Poems
The Cronus prowls the darkened glade,
in pitch black robe of sackcloth made.
He foretells of eternal night,
and seeks to wield death's heinous blade.
From shadow he haunts woods and path,
dispensing of time's final math.
Frail souls evade his obscure realms,
they fear to meet his scythe's fierce wrath.
The Reaper's ghastly harvest knife,
sharp-honed, grim-edged, creating strife.
Oh, save us from his shadowed land
and from his dreaded afterlife.
Faint memory of morning light,
which salves our souls and makes life bright.
Protect us us from such mortal plight
safeguard us through both day and night.
The Cronus
10-10-14
Would you crusade to remote regions
in search of that timeless tomb, the one made of seasalt & sandstone,
to towns tempered by the terror of war, windswept with worry,
Do prayer calls of the Jihadist singe the comfort breathing in your books of traditions,
could the Koran summon an instinct of journey in the feet of your hopes,
perhaps the Bardo Thadol a simmering shout from the monastery of one's monsters
suppressed in cells of selfless sorrow, daring repressed in reminiscence of rectitude,
in the Old Testament do you find aged allergies or fertile figments of prophets' pennies,
saviors in the center of gravity cinching the flinching surfacing in proverbs proofing
along the borders of the desserts chilling in the kitchen of your cares,
Maybe in front of the Wailing Wall you'd find dust entreating you to become a martyr
for the charm of morning, on your knees amid the Caaba perhaps sand jinies will jest,
in the midst of the tree grip of Angkor Watt the tongue of first life might muse of miracles
sewn into the sackcloth of parents' aspirations, conceptions wrought from the wanted,
take it to the sky, take it to the soil, take it to the core, let saints keep score,
take it 'till there is no more -
J.A.B. %
Removing the sharpness
of doubts corners
Rounding off the edges
of borrowed defeats
No room for either
at this table of peace
Examining the discards
with prayer
clothed in the sackcloth
of meekness
the spirit bends knees
in humbled repentance
Meekness bids the oil
of forgiveness
as humility bows
to understanding
while the ashes
beg the embers
from stronger hands
I'm an African, with an American attached to my name,
a lot of cultured people like wearing nationalistic, hyphenated accessory
My people arrived on a no-class ship when they came,
ashes and sackcloth are a part of every country's wardrobe history
A lot of cultured people like wearing nationalistic, hyphenated accessory,
it feels good to be dressed in the colors of a pretty flag
Ashes and sackcloth are a part of every country's wardrobe history;
blood, sweat and tears can't be packaged and put in a bag
It feels good to be dressed in the colors of a pretty flag,
just don't make waves if you see some spots on the cloth
Blood, sweat and tears can't be packaged and put in a bag
sad to see all that labor get eaten up by profit hungry moth
Just don't make waves if you see some spots on the cloth,
as long as your conscience is clean, everything is alright
Sad to see all that labor get eaten up by profit hungry moth
minimum rage living is the upper-class' dignified plight
As long as your conscience is clean, everything is alright
My people arrived on a no-class ship when they came
Minimum rage living is the upper-class' dignified plight ---
I'm an African, with an American attached to my name
DOWN A STORM DRAIN GONE FOREVER.
There was once a wicked, jealous old human,
Who lived in a house down the lane,
Not far from us,
Ugly and mean sounding, couldn’t tell
If man or woman,
Was narky to the neighborhoods children,
Including me,
We discovered this human was woman with
One large bosom!
She lived on her own, no children or husband,
Or even a pet,
She always wore the same apron, her hands always
Hidden in this grubby apron,
My friends decided on a bet,
That she had a gun and would should shoot,
Us all dead
Why else would she always keep her hands
In her apron we said!
We could never have guessed the truth
About this apron.
One day we saw two young girls laughing at her
She was furious, fiddled in her apron
And immediately,
Upon doing this, the girls fell, and each
Broke a leg!
We couldn’t believe what we had seen, I noticed a
Hairpin on the path, going back, very sharp,
And then another and another,
Each one, a different color.
Obviously someone was throwing the
Used pins away,
In a very careless way!
I have to find out what is in her apron pocket,
I said to my friends, so early the next day,
We all met
Behind her house, I was chosen to be
The pickpocket,
So I crept along the bushes outside her house
Waiting for her to have her afternoon snooze,
I saw a locket around her neck which was open
And from it peeped bright colored
Hairpins, she was asleep,
With one eye open, I thought I could see
Her eye socket!
Terrified I stretched out my hand, put it gently
Into her apron pocket,
And pulled out a tattered faceless little doll,
Home made from potato sackcloth,
A voodoo doll, screamed James,
He was certainly not wrong for he played
A great deal of TV horror games!
She obviously pricked the voodoo doll
With colored pins,
Every time someone annoyed her, she would one
Day pay for her sins!
As quickly as we could we ran to the nearest drain
Down the street and dropped it in, it fell silently
And disappeared, gone forever,
That woman was not sane!
The next day early we walked towards her house,
The house was empty and the horrid old witch gone,
We breathed a sigh of relief as we watched
A new morning dawn!
Contest: Down a storm drain, gone forever,
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Date entered: 2019/03/02
How dark the night, when the end came
and love vanished in a voiceless turbulent moment
when eyes pulled away, leaving a vacuum
as pain and sorrow blackened the skin of my heart
Allowing tears to fall and reverberate
in the recesses of my soul
with a thunderous throbbing depression
that sullied my world
leaving ragged roots of despair
that gorged themselves
on the passion of my soul's soil
Where footprints led to the open gate
where strings of unknown reasons
played on my heart
like the sound of a sad violin
calling my soul, seeking a melody of understanding
in a night of upheaval
that rushed toward me with melancholy tones
of misery
stripping away the joy of love
leaving a black sackcloth of ashes
that was plowed into my dead garden
of love
revealing crushed furrows of turbulent ground
where the roots of love once grew
and is now an empty windblown field
drenched in darkness, where nothing lives
but my grief-stricken memories of love
In the Dark Silence and Late
At the enchanted hour when the night turns a ghostly gray,
clouds slowly swirl in anger billowing a dense suffocating smoke
choking the dim moon. All the insects and birds shy away.
The beast crawls out from underneath the bed silently and late,
ploys to take all bad little girls and boys.
It is tall and walks with a limp, a shrimp like face,
fire blazing eyes, vapor-stench mouth full of thorn sharp teeth.
You can hear its cow hooves clatter as it walks across the room.
He is covered with coarse dark brown hair,
wears a spider spun flowing black shroud and holds a staff.
In the dark silence and late, he will catch you by your ankles
hold you upside down over a tethered sackcloth.
A gift for himself as he passes by.
You will fight and scream until you are blue
to stay alive and beg not to take you.
You will nosedive into he's dark gloomy den of doom
to beat you at his feet. He will save you in a room
until it is your turn for him to feast until his through.
All children are afraid of monsters.
Monsters that hide in the shadow,
closet and underneath the bed.
10/25/2018
As we walk towards one another
from a long distance of dare
with a stare straight into each other's soul glare
on a plateau of ancient, barren heartache,
the broken, fine diamond ground
love dry and dusty
bemoans our steps as severe moxie,
yet it's faith that motivates
our forward motion into maybe,
the wind waits not for want
as it stirs dreams from the ruins
of passion fallen short,
the ghosts of gothic romance
howl and whirl in the waste of ashen pulses,
ringed by mountains of ageless endurance
with a sky speaking rare fever
We get closer to the crucible of touch,
your scarlet gown and shawl of lip song
whipping wildly,
my mantle of sapphire sackcloth undulating
to match your confident stride,
We're feet away, the rush rises hot,
You extend your unmarried hand
into my palm of fire,
We give each other a smooth smile
because we know the price,
You give me a token of virgin time,
I hand you a blood jewel,
and suddendly the weather explodes
into a storm of burning roses...
A Widow of poetic warfare,
an Apex Princess in a shadow of love's heartbeat,
with a noble yearn
for honest caress,
weeping strongly on a living prayer,
She sends a warm teared whisper to her Love,
long away saying...
Stay with Me...
She expects not a cure or kiss,
Nightfall comes to envelope her
in soft sadness,
late after Midnight she's awoken
to a firm hand waving along her sleeping arm,
He moves her laying hair
as if it were a delicate beauty,
His lips gently touch her ear,
and He tells her...
I've never left You...
My sighs begin to trace Your borderlines
of beauty ablaze in love mania
with a charcoal ivory smoothness
as your body begins to beckon like warm tides
before the storm,
your heartbeat thunders
for a mouth to mouth kiss,
My tip glides lips tender and open,
You begin to foam sweetly,
My sighs reach your thighs,
A masterpiece enters You
with strokes true and deep...
Feel me in my silence
as I ache for your aplomb approval,
I lay alone,
afflicted with love burn,
I need You to cool me,
to handle my heart devotedly,
come up onto me, supple like,
Kiss me from above the pain and stars,
heal the scars and take me far
into your hunger,
deliver me beyond the dream,
teach me what love means -
J.A.B.
The Scriptures teach that there is a Heaven to gain and a Hell to shun !
We Preachers need to pass the Word,
for there are far too Many which have never heard.
The world mocks and says "all my friends shall be there",
The Lord says that there shall be "no parties for them to share".
The rich man asked Abraham to send Lazarus,
The Lord sent Jesus the best He had for us.
Today we think that "the rich man and the wealthy" are truly blest,
The Bible teaches that for all eternity without Jesus they will have no rest...
The beggar Lazarus did not enter Heaven because he ate crumbs and dogs
licked his soars nor because in this life he did suffer,
He entered paradise because he believed by faith what Moses and the Prophets
had offered !
Miracles cannot save nor people rising from the dead will change the hearts of
men,
It is the preaching of God's Word for faith in them to be heard the Spirit to
convince them.
The heat truly is extreme, dark as sackcloth shall be the sight, Mankind shall
scream:
No rest for them, their names forgotten, teeth shall they gnash, no room for them
to even dream...
Will you use your "wealth and lend us your health",
To get the message out for now is the time to "SHOUT" !
God save us all and give us all angels wings:
Help us to bring plenty of persons with us to those gates of pearl,
For we know that Thou doth Love this World !
So Preachers preach and Teachers teach:
For there are many that if they were to die shall receive eternal pain...
For they were never told the message to God RUN !
Because there is a Heaven to gain and a Hell to SHUN !
(You never know it could be your family, friends or loved ones, if only we had
shared)
by William Tell - (based on Luke 16:19-31)
I'm a christian Nudist,
I believe that the only way to find true pleasure as a christian,
Is to give up all worldly belongings, live as a Nudist,
And worship God in the skin you were born in.
Then should Christians go bottomless and topless and be at Nudist beaches?
You have no idea what you are missing
Until you worship God
In your bare skin with many others.
Do you realize that a true christian is a sword-wielding Nudist, then?
Being a christian Nudist is much simpler than being a christian non-Nudist
That's because you have to love everyone if you're a christian,
And if you're a christian Nudist, you already do.
"At The Same Time Spake The Lord By Isaiah The Son Of Amoz, Saying,
Go And Loose The Sackcloth From Off Thy Loins,
And Put Off Thy Shoe From Thy Foot, And He Did So, Walking Naked And Barefoot."
"And The Lord Said,
Like As My Servant Isaiah Hath Walked Naked And Barefoot Three Years
For a Sign And Wonder Upon Egypt And Upon Ethiopia."
Isaiah 20:2-3
"And He Went Thither To Naioth In Ramah: And The Spirit Of God Was Upon Him Also,
And He Went On, And Prophesied, Until He Came To Naioth In Ramah,
And He Stripped Off His Clothes Also, And Prophesied Before Samuel In Like Manner,
And Lay Down Naked All That Day And All That Night,
Wherefore They Say, Is Saul Also Among The Prophets?"
1 Samuel 19:23-24
Although public Nudity and the modesty
That churches frequently advocate
May appear to be at odds with one another,
For christian Nudists like myself, the two go hand in hand.
In his 1981 book "love and responsibility,"
Pope John Paul II stated that "Nakedness itself is not immodest,"
We can all attest to the fact that God's dress code has always been bare,
As Christians.
God dress code from the beginning has been Nakedness and we all as Christians
Can surely testify to this; I'm a Nudist christian, i believe that the only way
To find true pleasure as a christian, is to give up all worldly belongings,
Live as a Nudist, and worship God in the skin you were born in.
Giant of justice has visited Baba Umkulukulu
The lion that gave in to wolves like sheep
To be sheered for our own freedom has died
Father of the black and white
Mentor and hero of freedom
Our own Madiba has died
Anti apartheid hero sleeps with grey hair
As we dress in sackcloth to mourn the great Lion
Rolihlahla Son of Thembu has rested
Though We mourn millions with pain
But for the son of Xhosa
We pray for
Instead of mourning
We praise
Praise our own
Rest in peace Mandela
the sack cloth lay
black as ash upon the mourners
the sack cloth lay
tears could not soften or defray
rods could not break its rough corners
upon witnesses at vespers
the sack cloth lay
Revelation 11:3
And I will cause my two witnesses to prophesy
a thousand two hundred and sixty days dressed in sackcloth...
Romans 12:19 Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves,
but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written,
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Someone to Love
Sweet little ragdoll with tar button eyes
do you see your worth, when the little ones cry?
Can you feel their hearts lighten,
at your faded yarn smirk?
Or sense how you're cherished, when the world grows dark?
Sweet little ragdoll of sackcloth and tweed
do you love them back in their moments of need?
How broken are we,
that you do what we should?
What has happened to childhood?
Tiny hands hug you; they squeeze you so tight
do you squeeze them back in the deep veil of night,
to offer assurance
that someone is there;
that in this existence, someone still cares?
Oh, little ragdoll, all tattered and worn
thank you for all the shared burdens you’ve borne.
Thank you for staying so close by their sides,
and seeing no child who's unworthy of
your quiet comfort, and unceasing love.
4/6/16
Submitted for Contest: It Shouldn't Hurt to be a Child
Hosted by: Becca Teagan
The wicked souls like gasoline light up
Afire without remorse sorrow and heat
As if Hiroshima Nagasaki
In bright atomic pillars of fire burn
Unquenched like a mad lunatic bonfire
The judged the condemned the damned all around
Without mercy are swallowed engulfed by
The supernatural fates and their white-hot
Enraged furies as if to disgrace men
And fallen angels at war against earth
As gamma-rays consume their calcified
Bones they cannot withstand resist before
Megiddo's Jesus Christ whose burning light
Flash-cooks their soft moist fleshy tongues in
Their mouths like steaks as the sight of him melts
And liquefies their eyeballs into ooze
In their sockets as heads and scalps ablaze
With radioactive fire's decay and heat
Whilst ashen clothes like death's sackcloth robes fall
From rude and roasting flesh such that even
Thews sinews ligaments and tendons of
Flesh melt in the wrath of the Next Advent
Until they are gently slain by his love
Without forgiveness hope or the grace of
Redemption and salvation and are thrown
Into the lake of fire forever where
The damned are “weeping and gnashing of teeth!”
On weary feet I walk the fallow field
Hearing ghosts from another time
The ploughboy’s labour filled tread
With horse drill long straight furrows
Women clad in sackcloth and calico
Scatter saved seeds on hungry soil
Then came the chill rain of spring
They kneel in sodden clinging clay
Thinning the frozen beet and turnip
Standing only for the Angelus bell
Giving thanks to the Almighty God
For what they did and did not have
End of golden summer came fast
We played in chaff at harvests end
The labourers washed the year away
With drink and music and silver coin
No mirror reflects the toil worn face
Or tears of acceptance of their lot
I leave the field of olden memories
And stumble back to the other side
Across the way the lonely bell tolls
With wisdom of past generations
Telling me that I should leave now
Go---go---go, the old ghosts echo