Long Sackcloth Poems
Long Sackcloth Poems. Below are the most popular long Sackcloth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sackcloth poems by poem length and keyword.
Wall clock,
Cinderella got out,
Big Ben's pale attraction,
King Saul highest in York and London,
On dial, his twelve hands juggle,
Hypnosis,
Vineyard blood,
My arrows,
Strings of psalms,
Split arrowheads of dwarfs,
Big Ben's dogs,
Pursue Lady Rowena of Ivanhoe,
Titanic is broken,
Icebreaker from orca,
Sign of Jonah,
Canker on the tower,
Dark hole,
Toxic stepmother,
Fake freedom,
Make gunsight on Sarah (of Tobias) for the gnomes,
But my gold apple of the eye above and over,
Olive oil and Jonathan's honey,
Far like close against who shoots on,
Flame on the town,
Sky fall,
Christmas star only,
Michael knight helps these young women,
Against the red dragon,
To stay in Love,
"Who Is like the Lord?!"
Angel's name in the hand of Mother of God,
This boy, precursor
For Lamb and Lion,
Not a Teuton,
Robin Hood in New York and Chicago,
Monte Cristo at Lyon,
The voice in Moscow,
Wilderness of snow,
Service like an arrow of the Word,
David's stone going like a forerunner before,
When David arrives, He will return with the sword,
And with Cinderella's crystal shoe and Life crown,
For crows and doves, between children of Noah,
Town of the world,
Square of fake Concord,
The Pharaoh's obelisk by Napoleon,
Shady hand on dial clock from the catacombs of lodge,
This Jezebel collusion against the vineyard of Naboth and brother Joseph,
Like a nuclear-armed rocket,
Time stolen,
When Big Ben is loose, fall,
Against only Noah's bow,
With the arrow from the natural rainforest,
Fire of Mowgli,
Good outlaw among wolves,
Confessor on the cross,
Star from the Orient,
Say to the leaders of nations:
"Don't return to fox Herod",
And to Shere Khan Herod: "Don't be with Herodias, dame Terror",
Writing to the seven angels of the churches
By Revelation of John,
Cultures from Noah on Light give all colors,
Worthy and noble communion to Blood and Body,
One who has no sword sell his cloak and buy one,
In sackcloth therefore Elijah and Enoch.
I hope one day you suffer
I hope one day you burn
I hope one day you pay
For the love you have spurned
I hope you feel the torment
I hope you feel jagged thorn
I hope that you long to die
As in sackcloth black you mourn
I hope you feel less than dirt
I hope you twist with such pain
I hope betrayal drives you
Stark raving mad and insane
I hope one day you're haunted
I hope in terror you scream
I hope at nighttime you see
A nightmare in place of dream
I hope one day SOON you bleed
With a spear thrust in your side
Wounded for killing my love
Your soul not able to hide
Yes, it may be pure evil
It may be a heinous crime
But for my heart's rejection
I hope you get to do time
Yes, I hope that you suffer
I hope that you wail and weep
It will soothe my aching heart
That you didn’t want to keep
Eileen Manassian Ghali
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
He sleeps in the meadows
on a pillow made of flowers
Arc-Angel voices are heard
from afar
A gentle wind
blows softly
at the nape of His neck.
Is he sleeping or dreaming ?
I don't know, but I feel Him on my skin.
He created the world
in seven days
His garment is made of sackcloth and camel hair
The scars in his hands
have healed beautifully
from the salve of His father's loving hands....
He sleeps in the meadows
like a warrior King of old
who has just saved the world from a great disaster.
Holding back floods, earthquakes, gunfires, wars
he leaves behind the scent of flowers
where there once was hunger,
people aren't hungry anymore.
He feeds me honey from the shackles of my
fraying soul,
as I fall asleep next to him,
soundly,
like a child, who could never ask for more.
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. %
On the Jewish calendar, Tisha b'Av is the saddest day
We don't even smile, say 'Hi' or 'Good morning'
For when those who spied out the Land spoke untruly
The Lord gave the Jewish People fair warning
"You say that here in the desert you choose to die
My promise to lead you into the Land, you defy"
'By my word,' the Lord thundered
'I'll give you reason on this day to cry!'
And that we all know is why
Flames shot up from our Temple so high
Darkening Jerusalem's tear-streaked sky
exposing sins, once hidden, to the naked eye
______________________________________________
'Tisha b'Av, a day of fasting, sackcloth and ashes, begins
at 8:17 p.m. Chicago time Wed., July 26 and ends at
8:57 p.m, Thursday, July 27.
The youngish woman danced to a rollicking tune
Up early at quarter till nine, exhausted now
At half past noon
Leaning on her dance partner,
her always close by faithful walker
Her long white hair damp with her dew
of dancing's sweet exertion
Music truly always was her very best
excursion
She lied down on her couch to rest
This 1960's rocker
A power nap, ah, getting old
is such a heavy bummer
Her nap leads to a sparkling beach
And the dreams of endless summer
Waking fresh within an hour the stereo
Sings again
A gift she got in '65, is still a constant friend
Her fall had lead her to some pain,
But that won't stop this lady
She's feeling groovy anyway
She's barely turning eighty
For now, no this isn't me. This is just
for fun....
But I'm still loving dance time
at a younger sixty-one
A sweet Friday night sing along
Enjoying old fun songs we've sung
Rising in dance to yesterday's beat
Then melting in laughter, and taking a seat
I look to my future less two decades away
Hope I'm still dancing on my 80th Birthday
~ Psalm 30:11 ~
King James Version
"Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness;"
My fury and outrage remain unabated , it seethes like magma
and spreads itself throughout my being , it is barely contained
I shield it to keep the damage within , so it does not consume me
or those I love and want not to hurt.
My dark raving hisses and steams awaiting release , with screams,
hysteria that I may not be able to save the one that becomes my
vent , the outpouring eruption of pain , that I would whip and lash
with lurid pitch that it might cloak with agony the one whom I love
upon its receipt .
Why cannot I cover it and shift my focus to that which builds and
does not tear down and ravage as I have been ravaged?
Why does not that majesty of things that stand before me
not move me to ease or peace?
Oblivion , that vast chasm that plunges deep within my
soul ice cold heart , I wish it destroyed , but its the only thing
within that seems still alive and beating.
I wish it replaced with tenderness and warmth that it may
mark you with pleasure and not agony, clothe you with
beauty and not the ugliness that has taken up residence
and keeps its rent.
In sackcloth and ashes I mourn the loss of innocence , not
for myself only but for all those who suffer , and raise
not their hands against the perpetrators of their suffering.
God do not let me join in acts of perpetuation , that I strike
others in kind , in repayment for their deeds.
My life has been sacked and looted , thieves have stolen every
precious piece of personality that might make me redeemable.
Raw and naked estate exposed, my inheritance from Adam ,
I was molded in pain and forged by fire imprinted by a storm
of ire......
Oh God , why did you preserve me so that I had not died and
left me alive to cry , scream at the trials of fire that blister
the souls of men....
Awaken oh my heart , do not sleep in the death of love , and
the reign of savage pain , and the cries of those who live in
affliction , whose cries have been silenced before you.....
My tears have become stone , my walls a castles fortress
I cannot cast aspersions it holds you as well as I,
unlike the earth my stone cannot drink in the sun
Job moments
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
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