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.
Metal, blood, and mascara
Half sunk a shattered visage lies,
A wrinkled lip, a sneer of cold command,
Of boundless and bare
Along the level, sands stretch far away.
the imagery of night, snow, virginity,
lipstick on cigarettes,
cars trapped in the snow,
dingy white sheets, and the chosen few ….
I still drink cider and black
Metal and blood and mascara
Of sackcloth and ashes
Black eyelashes
Blood and hot metal
Half sunk a shattered visage lies,
The ruins of a half-god
Eyes stare wide all along the sands
In a White House on a foreign shore.
Metal, mascara, and methedrine
A half shattered visage die
A wrinkled lip, a sneer of teeth
and leering eyes
Of boundless bare thighs
a hollow sun flares
Along the level,
as the sands stretch far away.
Ode to Ramesses in Poseidon depths lie…
After Jonah got out of the whale, he went to the city of Nineveh and warned the Ninevites.
He told them that God was going to destroy them because they weren't doing what was right.
God was going to destroy them in forty days because of the evil they had done in the present and the past.
The King heeded the warning and he and everybody else covered themselves with sackcloth and began to fast.
The Ninevites turned from their evil ways after they were warned.
God saw that they had changed and he was no longer scorned.
God spared the Ninevites because they were no longer unfit.
Jehovah isn't a harsh God and that sure did prove it.
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.`
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
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
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!”
Who doesn't dream of dashing knights, nobility and power?
Fortune, fame, and glory are the ornaments of the past.
What family would not trade the humble cottage for the tower?
To shed the wretched sackcloth and sleep in silk at last ...
But hear me now, you spineless scum, my fathers were all peasants!
German and Czech farmers without a hint of kingly clout.
Generations passed; they toiled in the presence,
of dark, and grime, and poverty, and cold, and fear, and doubt.
And like the age-old Ithacans, they managed to survive,
How are you not jealous of their simple, quiet strength?
While kings and queens were stationed so as to greatly thrive,
My fathers and my mothers had to travel o'er great length,
To continue my ragged family tree down to when I was born.
I kiss with pride the gnarled roots, to which my fate is sworn.
Written for Ancestral Roots contest, sponsored by John Hamilton
Joel is my name
I am neither jovial or jocular,
I am an intense siren of scorn
strident with shouts of locusts and sackcloth sorrows,
for in my scroll I see the scourge of an army
come to ravage what remains of avaricious folly
their legions surrounding the lazy and licentious
a nation become drought of delight and diligence,
and when justice has lost it's appetite
with our People's brittle yoke
the Lord will return us to our fruitful foundations
while splitting the swords of our aggressors
and scattering their sadistic seeds into unloving lands,
this I view with a straining heart
as the cherubim bicker about my ears
reviewing the records for belladonna's bells...
J.A.B.
LONG LIVE THE NEW FLESH
The secret blood of a crucified man a god born of flesh, bone, a righteous soul, so long live the new flesh, the sacraments of stone, upon burnt offerings fold….
Watch the nine inches of iron pierce the flesh, the flesh made whole holy and insane the immaculate ejaculate or the fantastic flight of fantasms made flesh and bone…
Blood and stone the arcane born of the unholy holocaust, choking on ashes, sackcloth and lies watching the blade sharp, the razor keen slicing through flesh, angels cry...
The spill of seed, the muscles of crimson, tendons of white, the unholy sight of cruciforms and crucifixes line the hills of Adams first sight, his unfound reign… denied…
So long live the new flesh, the artificial blood of the synthetic intellect, the cybernetic systems, nano gears replace the natural, the forsaken and profane…
We destroy and dissect to make a martyr to the new flesh, of nanotech and tachyons from unknown space, a forgotten god from a dark region in eons greater depths dwell…
So long live the new flesh of suicide and sycophants and silicon…
So long live the new flesh the acetate blood of crucifixion, a man, a god born of the flesh, bone a righteous soul…
So long live the new flesh the sacraments of stone upon burn offering fold…
Watch the nine inches of iron pierce the flesh made whole holy and insane the immaculate ejaculate or the fantastic flight of fantasy made flesh and bone blood and stone…
The arcane born of the holy holocaust, offering of the burning flesh…
Now science has replaced all the rest…
the hollowed be thy soul, hallow be thy name:
“Holy is the new flesh!”
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.