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An empty sack can't stand up; a full sack cannot bend.
Virgin Islander proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm gonna give them the advice that I always took myself, that it's better to get to know somebody before you jump into the sack with them. Because then if you jump into the sack and fall in love, and you liked them already, you're home free.
quote by Pia Zadora
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sack Owoe
Always screaming cause Im suffering so
Lifes done never such a terrible blow
Thing Im in is just a sack owoe
Misery company and Im feeling low
Trouble follows me wherever I go
Thing Im in is just a sack owoe
Trouble one thing I understand
Seems to be a part of me
Misery and me go hand in hand
Never ever let me be
Sure as Im born one thing I know
Thing Im in is just a sack owoe
Repeat first and second verse
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Consumed by love
Thanks to the hundreds of you who daily
are so eager to enhance my life
and that of my partner
with pills and extensions
giving night-long passion -
now, do you have a cure
for arriving at the office in the morning
exhausted?
It's a tale of two sacks -
hit the sack, or get the sack...
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Plea
Writers of baseball, attention!
When you're again on the job-
When, in your rage for invention,
You with the language play hob-
Most of your dope we will pardon,
Though of the moth ball it smack;
But-cut out the 'sinister garden,'
Chop the 'initial sack.'
Rake poor old Roget's 'Thesaurus'
For phrases fantastic and queer;
And though on occasions you bore us,
We will refrain from a sneer.
We will endeavour to harden
Ourselves to the rest of your clack,
If you'll cut out the 'sinister garden'
And chop the 'initial sack.'
Singers of words that are scrambled,
Say, if you will, that he 'died,'
Write, if you must, that he 'ambled'-
We shall be last to deride.
But us to the Forest of Arden,
Along with the misanthrope Jaques,
If you cling to the 'sinister garden'
And stick to 'initial sack.'
Speak of the 'sphere's aberration,'
Mention the 'leathery globe,'
Say he got 'free transportation'-
Though that try the patience of Job.
But if you're wise you'll discard en-
Cumbrances such as we thwack-
Especially 'sinister garden'
And the 'initial sack.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sack Full Of Stones
(Travis Tritt/Marty Stuart)
I used to be the kind of guy
I could laugh as well as cry
With a heart feather-soft and summer-warm
Since you've left me I've been faced
With emptiness that's been replaced
With a heart that's hard and heavy as a sack full of stones
I never thought I'd ever see
The man my mirror is showing me
Lord I must have aged ten years
Since you've been gone
The longest mile you'll ever crawl
Is the one after you fall
Draggin' around a heart that's heavy as a sack full of stones
With the world upon my shoulders
And my feelings on my sleeve
Every time I close my eyes at night
All I do is watch you leave
But by far the biggest curse of being left alone
Is draggin' around a heart that's heavy as a sack full of stones
Well I tried turning to a bottle
But the bottle turned on me
I've tried everything
But nothing sets your memory free
I'm serving life here in a prison
That we once called a home
With a heart that's cold and heavy as a sack full of stones
With the world upon my shoulders
And my feelings on my sleeve
Every time I close my eyes at night
All I do is watch you leave
But by far the biggest curse of being left alone
Is draggin' around a heart that's heavy as a sack full of stones
Yes by far the biggest curse of being left alone
Is draggin' around a heart that's heavy as a sack full of stones
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Falstaff's Lament Over Prince Hal Become Henry V
One that I cherished,
Yea, loved as a son -
Up early, up late with,
My promising one:
No use in good nurture,
None, lads, none!
Here on this settle
He wore the true crown,
King of good fellows,
And Fat Jack was one -
Now, Beadle of England
In formal array -
Best fellow alive
On a throne flung away!
Companions and cronies
Keep fast and lament; -
Come, drawer, more sack here
To drown discontent;
For now intuitions
Shall wither to codes,
Pragmatized morals
Shall libel the gods.
One I instructed,
Yea, talked to -alone:
Precept -example
Clean away thrown!
Sorrow makes thirsty:
Sack, drawer, more sack! -
One that I prayed for,
I, Honest Jack!
To bring down these grey hairs -
To cut his old pal!
But, I'll be magnanimous -
Here's to thee Hal!
poem by Herman Melville
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ton, Torn, Thorn!
This ton of the cocoa sack is now torn at the side because,
There is a thorn in the sack;
However, it is just a minute for the minuet! !
Because, you are on the road to nowhere.
I am in the dark and very hopeful,
For the light will surely come to me one day;
Because, i am interested in the muse of love.
Ton, torn, thorn!
And like breaking rthe spell on you;
Because, the condom is no defence to you my brother! !
And, it is leading you to hell than closer to heaven.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sackcloth
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. Sing. 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 Brooks Haxton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why Does It Make You Weep
Take what you value,
And put it in a sack.
Leave it where it's at,
And don't look back.
Why does it make you weep?
When you made it were you sleeping?
Take what you value,
And put it in a sack.
Leave it where it's at,
And don't look back.
Look around and see what's on the streets.
That reality you made to keep.
Why does it make you weep?
When you made it were you sleeping?
Look around and see what's on the streets.
That reality you made to keep.
Why does it make you weep?
When you made it were you sleeping?
Take what you value,
And put it in a sack.
Leave it where it's at,
And don't look back.
Why does it make you weep?
When you made it were you sleeping?
Take what you value,
And put it in a sack.
Leave it where it's at,
And don't look back.
Look around and see what's on the streets.
That reality you made to keep.
Why does it make you weep?
When you made it were you sleeping?
Take what you value,
And put it in a sack.
Leave it where it's at,
And don't look back.
Unstrap and remove those shackles.
It's an addiction you've got to detach...
And avoid interaction.
And avoid interaction.
And avoid interaction.
And avoid interaction.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Apache Rose Peacock
Sittin' on a sack of beans
Sittin' down in New Orleans
You wouldn't believe what I've seen
Sitting on that sack of beans
Lunatics on pogo sticks
Another southern fried freak on a crucifix
Hicks don't mix with politics
People on the street just kickin' to the licks
Yes my favorite place to be
Is not a land called Honah Lee (MI.)
Mentally or physically
I wanna be in New Orleans
Oh good brother just when I thought
That I had seen it all
My eyes popped out
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers from Blood Sugar Sex Magik
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What the Ghost of the Gambler Said
Where now the huts are empty,
Where never a camp-fire glows,
In an abandoned cañon,
A Gambler's Ghost arose.
He muttered there, "The moon's a sack
Of dust." His voice rose thin:
"I wish I knew the miner-man.
I'd play, and play to win.
In every game in Cripple-creek
Of old, when stakes were high,
I held my own. Now I would play
For that sack in the sky.
The sport would not be ended there.
'Twould rather be begun.
I'd bet my moon against his stars,
And gamble for the sun.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out Of Work
I'm the out of work builder I love to work and create
I'm out looking for work early mornings
Theres always a man by my gate
He asked me to come to his office
He's from the Mr. Brown
Maybe he's got nothing better to do to me he's just a clown
He said your cut early morning
And most times your out all day well I was just trying
To explain but he just wanted to stop my pay
So when you go out looking for work keep looking to ou back
Because Mr. Brown is watching you I wish he'd get the sack
To watch him every morning, I'd watch him every day
I'd even give him a job so I could sack him and stop it's pay
poem by M. Whitehouse
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Worries..Get Lost To My Mind's Corners!
Straining my every nerve
I search every nook and corner
and pick up and bundle up
all my worries in a huge sack.-
loading it onto my back
with extreme effort
and panting breath
reach your temple!
O..what is it?
a sack or a mountain?
who carries it on his back?
who totters in temple corridors?
Yes-
it is you.my God!
is it the worries of all peoples of this world.
which breakes your back?
O my poor God., rich with our worries!
I pity you!
My huge load of worries!
get lost to the corners of my mind!
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Check it up......
Break the leak and take a pick, hold on to the
end until the whole grain fall to the sack and
repack; always full your strength ready for
another cup for rain to drain
look the sack is empty ready to be pulled, bag
to full standby in the corner, as the needle
wait to sew the fully boggle sack of grain in the
ground
check your face and look up and see the log
in the different eyes, and always believe that its
easy to tell, dirt’s passed in the swollen face of
an enemy
be not like the falling star, thousands and
millions of eyes watch it fall from the heaven,
shouting its beauty, balls of fire reflected in the
tail, waiting to sink in the ocean of the universe
it display
now the moment of the falling star, has started to
glow check it's shine, fun until it become full and
bring it back to shine in the foreign land where
everybody can see
give to no one and leave it not, but take to
every one for you to go and shine; a real star
never evade only it fades.....
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Widower
She left him in death's egg,
the bone sack & the gunny sack,
the bag of down & feathers-all black . . .
Somehow he couldn't get back.
It was night,
a night of shark-faced jets
winking brighter than blue stars,
a night of poisoned cities
mushrooming beneath the eyes of jets,
a night of missile silos
sulking in the desert,
a night of babies howling in the alleys,
a night of cats.
She left a death so huge
his life got lost in it.
She left a bloodstained egg
he had to hatch.
poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Parchman Farm
(by mose allison)
Im sitting over here on parchman farm.
Im sitting over here on parchman farm.
Im sitting over here on parchman farm,
Aint never done no man no harm.
Well, Im putting that cotton in a never-full sack.
Well, Im putting that cotton in a never-full sack.
Well, Im putting that cotton in a never-full sack,
A twelve-gauge shotgun at my back.
Im sitting over here on parchman farm.
Im sitting over here on parchman farm.
Im sitting over here on parchman farm,
Aint never done no man no harm.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Third Generation
The old man in the square sells trinkets and balloons
when he has got enough money to buy a little dream
and he enters the market town's only saloon.
By the bar thinks of his lemon selling father who had
a mule that had white as a duckling's plume, and
fruit as yellow as only Gunter Grass can paint them.
Remembers his grandfather a cobbler who walked
around town with a sack of promises given to him by
people who were never around on pay day.
Every Christmas he opened the sack and let broken
promises fly up in the air and forever disappear, liars
and cheats should not feel guilty of telling fibs.
Outside the old man's balloons had flown away, free
of strings filled the air with jubilation like errant people
who had once again been let off the catch.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing can come out of a sack but what is in it.