Long Sackcloth Poems
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Dont you worry about
my cloudy sky,
for I was born
under it.
The reasons why,
is right here,
and It's here,
where I sit.
But that's the concern,
of the authorities,
as precious time,
still ticks away.
There's reasons why,
A heart stopped beating,
call me a fool,
call me a liar.
Anyone with a nose,
can smell it,
the poison,
the stench of cover ups.
She put them in the grave,
then dug them up,
because they weren't,
dead enough for her.
Sackcloth and ashes,
the height of her fashion,
her strange and vile little world,
surrounding herself with grey.
Her light was dark,
the black and white,
of right and wrong,
didn't matter to her.
Not with knowledge,
but with guesswork,
she hung the laundry out,
already dried.
It's the reason I sit,
under clouds waiting,
for the rains,
to justify.`
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
When I was just a small tot
I remember lying on my Grandmother’s lap
Face down in her apron of old sack cloth
Scents of her cooking ingrained in its depth
I was carried off to a peaceful slumber
Those are times I fondly remember.
She rocked babies from her children of seven
On an old straight back chair we thought was heaven
All the while still sweetly singing
An old lullaby song that’s still ringing
In my memories yet
Sundays we gathered around our grandparent’s table
Watching her use that old apron
To take hot pans from a cast iron stove
To us, no better food could be served
Than what Grandmothers’ hands made with love.
She gathered eggs, and vegetables from her garden
Feeding the chickens with the corn gathered
Up in the folds, and the bottom
Of that old sackcloth apron she wore .
Grandmothers over the years have done the same
Though memories fade over time it seems
This memory for me is one clear and sweet
I look forward to that time we’ll meet
In Heaven’s kitchen with loved ones we know
Eager to see Grandmother in that old apron she wore.
©?Deborah M Kelly
Aug 2021
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
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. %
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.
BURLAP and SATIN
Texture fine, woven design
Like harden tree sap
Rough is the burlap!!!
That's at my finger tips
Smooth is soft the satin as silk
The dress rapped around her waist
Burlap and satin
Give me such touch my reactions
Hard rough the silken liner
Smooth is the burlap binder???
Coarse touch soft brush
Weave me, cling to me of skin
Jute plant fibers touch
Burlap and satin
Just rough on the skin
May combine me with vegetable fibres
Wall hangings made of burlap rough to my eyes
Fibers to make rope, nets
Coarse canvas woven from jute, hemp
Burlap and satin
Browned fiber burlap, used especially for sacking
Sackcloth, gunny, canvas, hessian
Dress making and furnishing burlaps a burlap shirt
Fabric burlap Flowers nation
Can be a rose or carnation
Or woven even turned into a shirt Even seen them as a skirt
For what it's worth, smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
Matters not touch me in the morning
Also together burlap and satin so adorning
Fabric flower bouquet
A smooth, glossy fabric
Satin of silk, produced by a weave
In which this the threads
Burlap and satin
The warp caught and looped by weft cross stitch
At certain intervals a blue satin dress smooth like satin
Oh, also fabric flowers to the bouquet
Satin is a weaved that has glossy surface and dull back action
The satin weave is four or more no harm
Fill weft yarns floats over warp yarn
Four warp yarns floating over a single weft
a luxurious satin look For what it's worth smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
3/24/18 ©2018
For Contest: Burlap and Satin
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
I've seen some ugly faces
I've thought some ugly thoughts
I've lost some ugly battles
I never should've fought
I've worn some ugly styles
I've written ugly songs
I've tried to find the places
To keep ugly where it belongs
It takes a sharp eye and a tender heart
To recognize the ugly in it
Now you may say that beautiful
All boils down to taste
That one man's treasure is another's
Refuse, trash or waste
But me, I've got my spyglass
And I'm locked into the world
And I'll be just fine so long as I
Can spot the ugly girls
It takes a sharp eye…
I've always heard these voices
That never made no sense
And I've made a couple choices --
I still come to their defense
Now the house is dark, the walls are plain
There's sackcloth on the mirrors
My face is old, but the cares of old
have begun to disappear
And the words that define beautiful
Have faded into the past
So I won't be so struck by the ugly
When I finally uncover the glass
Sackcloth and ashes
blood and steel clashes
carbon dust burnt at last
digging the umber crust
sackcloth and ashes lie
as time passes into the future
it is written on the walls,
something cracks n crawls
the morality of passing
they have girded themselves
in sackcloth n ashes, secondhand lashes
blood of fear in emerald eyes tear
the aetherium is burning
they have bowed their heads to the ground
As lives are lost to the reapers machine, turning
deaths rattling sound, quite n opaque
the shadow finality looms into the doom light
sackcloth and ashes, steel crashes
dust of ages drift down deep, losing sight
Ashes twirl in dark halls
something calls:
“I clothe the heavens with blackness
And make sackcloth their covering with ashes…”
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!”