"swaddles" poems
Borne forth from darkness into light
A child is born this Christmas night
A Mother’s pain is turned to joy
as she swaddles her little boy.
Their habitation is the place
where beasts of burden spend the night.
Their bodies' heat the only warmth
on this cold and bitter night.
This child shall be called many things:
A fraud, a Myth, the King of Kings.
But Mary’s heart, a secret minds
This is the son of the Divine.
This night is born to us a King:
A true judge of the soul’s gain and loss,
whose wisdom will enflame men’s minds.
whose arms embrace us from the cross.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
The windowsill frames
each passing morning
It speaks in a language
only stillness hears its say
Anchored to the wooden studs
of fortress walls
that bind solitude,
enduring all that
autumn's curtain call unveils
Distant towering evergreens
look back with taller eyes
than yesteryear
As these timeworn eyes
look beyond
and wonder why
they've not grown of age —
Time passes away
so quickly
while waiting
for season's change —
and I, wistfully dreaming
how the trees bear
the weight of the sky
Fog lays below
the fir boughs,
blanketing the drowsy
near valley fields
Where deep roots repose
in the clay of truth
that swaddles all
abiding mother earth
carves in stone —
A monument
to all forbearance,
just a mortal human
could never hold
Pensively envious
how long they hold
their eminence,
patiently suspended beneath
the nimbus rafters stay;
remaining transfixed
without a ray of sunlight
— searchingly leaning
into each fleeting moment
of unclouded sight
harlon rivers
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 1:11 PM UTC
Darkness swaddles moonlight,
Bamboo groves sing lullaby,
Love moves the still air.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
The cube of your quirk
swaddles the malleability of each
gap, whistling bones in your mouth
sensing each flicker of the tongue,
where the start of commas halt,
and periods huff their first breath.
When you pause,
the temperature of Chicago's
bittersweet icing shivers once more,
good-bye's of sodden mittens
lacking any human warmth.
Let me tremble again,
an aura a sense of plowed gratitude
that reaches the confinements of
wingless teachings.
If your pupils would embark
to the shameful crumbs of soil,
passageway to mass of mind,
I'd delve deeper to blinded chambers,
the cooing a menacing siren.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
Engorged with night sky
The fire supersaturated your eyes.
Warmth cocooned me dizzy as you whispered slowly.
My skin lustfully shivered from your deep vibrato.
A migration of monarchs erupted in my stomach.
Sunlight dimples the floor like the freckles under your eyes.
Surging electricity burning, tingling spastic from within.
Revolutionizing the way my lungs fill with oxygen.
How the blood pulses through the veins in my body.
Waves lip grainy sand
Making love over and over again,
Married to the moon's tide.
But my desire is not periodic
It incessantly permeates my being.
Lucid like soundless motion,
Distance blurred what tumbled from your teeth.
I knew what your tongue spoke,
But I, masqueraded as fool.
A breath caught in my cheeks.
Bright cauliflower moon hanged over you.
I swallowed it all whole,
Struck by our elephant fluttering erratic heartbeat.
The sky swaddles swollen in sunshine.
Clouds soothe mountain peaks.
But you drift irrevocably across my atmospheres.
“I love you.” So buttery on my tongue,
Such a waterfall set at an astounding height.
Watch my words pour over the edge,
Glistening in the reflection of the wildfire you have lit across my skin.
Darling, there is something remarkable in the way stars kiss the blackness
Of midnight, endlessly forever.
This is you and me.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
The Harbour quakes as we break your Boom,
The Nemesis Sails-Harbinger of doom,
A New Chapter - the Sly Celt Raptor,
Bain Shi proceed us-Scream in rapture
As The Bodhran shakes your eardrums shatter,
Lightning rakes- your defences Scatter,
It's raiding season!-Take your Oars!,
Boats filled to the brim with Ores and ******
our targets-fat Merchants waddle,
Crimson seas as the Forces Battle
The Morrigan Swaddles our mind with the caul (call)
no Mercy asked(None Given!) SLAY ALL
Widows scream as they're dragged to the Ship
Towns burn to ash in our wake as we rip,
A Blood red Swathe Through the Dawn in the east,
As the Nemesis Sails,The Harbinger Feasts...
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC
The egg decends from the pillowy sky and sinks to the blue-green ocean to be rolled a-shore by fish. It is swaddled in seaweed and remnants of aquatic flowers. The doves come to hatch the egg. From out of the cracked shell comes She, The Queen of Heaven. The swaddles are now like garments. The rabbit becomes her sumbol, for She is the Great Mother who brings with her the season of fertility.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
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Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
As summer air swaddles me from
ear to waist, the most benign of all sounds sets off a biological riot in me &nights; like these
take my breath away enough to stir up in me the awarenessthat
I
am not
what they want.
Neither Satan nor Substandard
could beg more than what I've been aching to portray.
Both less than and less than
hold their finely tuned scopes and too-broad knowledge to every detail I present.
Neither more eager to please than the other, I blend
devil's advocacy with indifference, but I still can't make either pair of eyes
lips or
fingertips
meet mine.
Oh & Satan,dearest when you take my hand I melt,
I'm desperate to stitch it toyours. But you've no use
for the doppleganger I'd become
to coax approval from the masses.
With that, I crane my neck to see the tower that you are, Substandard. Pleading indecency
and
scoffing at regret, I could almost
mistake your saccharine tone
of voice for the alluring Song of Satan.
I gather up my sins into a bundle and leave them by your side while I plead with fate to condemn my
soul,
elicit a wisp of affection from you,
something for me to hold onto
until winter returns.
What sort of discomfort can coerce a girl to pray for madness just to win inadequacy over?
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
The moment before I fall asleep
It's hot and oppressive,
Like a down comforter in the summer
Which simultaneously swaddles and suffocates me
Unti I succumb to my subconscious
It's a nervous trust fall
Where I kick back my heals and close my eyes
But sleep catches me
And fills my mind with nothing
So that I may consider everything
It's heavy and gentle all at once
A push and a pull
A relief
A release
s.v
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Through soft static,
the silence hums,
as a steady tide,
where chaos succumbs
and white noise swaddles us
in its soothing embrace
drowning out the clamour,
creating tranquil space,
tuning into the comforting drone,
as peaceful slumber finally comes.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 3:47 PM UTC
You are the sunshine
That pours into my car
In mid July
I have always savored
Your feverish embrace
That swaddles my
Anemic bones
And while I sometimes
Catch myself getting burned
By my steering wheel
I would rather kiss
The hot asphalt
Than return to someone
Who feels like January rain
Oct 27, 2021
Oct 27, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
Sweet with his eyes
**** with his body
Tat my 'Gummybear'
Cuddles me with care
And kisses me with Love
Tat my 'Snuggle Wuggles'
Hugs me with protection
Makes me laugh
Tat my 'Sweets'
Melts me with his smile
holds me within his heart
Tat my 'NukaNuka'
Swaddles me with his careful thoughts
Whispers me calm with his voice
Tat my 'Austin'
And I love my 'Austin'
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Happiness
Happiness is a yellow spoon, floating easy, A white dandelion seed in wind.
Driftwood swimming to the surface gasping after
a storm's roiling rumble rolls over.
Breathe
in deep the ice lemon smell
of relief.
It is
honey sick sweet sunlight seeping
through a broken home in shambles.
Its golden glue for the ones who mourn.
Torn,
no longer by the harsh cold rain, I feel warmth inside!
Take a breather kid, is what you are,
a wise one comforting heavy sin, saying
It's all right, I'll save you lovely
as your tears dry with mine
let our hearts me covered in dryer wash swaddles still warm
from their fresh wash, out!
Free from the rain!
The smile on the homeless man's face with a new pair of shoes.
So simple.
Her apple cheek sweat soaked relief expression
of a mother with a babe in her arms,
fresher than the feeling after church on Sunday.
Happiness is a yellow spoon.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
.
Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Oh, I can't - can't you see -
witness such things as these
and stay entirely nonplussed as waves on the seas;
as the sun sets and swaddles
the canvas of clouds
in her shadows and shrouds, while the stars come out
peppering & salting the night sky
we meanwhile lay by
and get baptized again and again
'til we both die and rise to the heavens
of rich conversation
alive in the wealth of ourselves
But there's no Saint Peter here.
These celestial bodies maintain what can only be seen
as an esoteric echelon with humanity eschewed
and no regard for our whims and wiles.
This is where our verse breaks down.
Here is where.
We don't have words to fuel their fires,
make them burn brighter,
send them our life - we can only admire
and pray that our subjugation is enough
to appease these pocks against pureblack.
These rebels mirror us in some manifest destiny
blended with beautiful blasphemy
that they presume to appease God
by simply not being human.
Well this does not bode well for us, I dare say.
I can no more avoid abusing the air for a day
than I can embody radiance.
I've learned my place.
Here beside you, I've collected myself,
my thoughts, my things,
and I can swallow mortality as its own punishment.
I cannot allow myself to go unnoticed, though,
so I'll show myself out.
No idea where I'll go.
You are welcome to stay still, lay on the grass.
I'm certain keep watching and some comet may pass
but I'm off to find somewhere the sun won't set
and these hands can be bathed in warmth of work and wealth
and these bead-eyed bodies can look down through ozone
and I...
I can simply ignore
and carry on my merry way.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.
Paper casted with doubts on intrepid limbs,
Bleak as the innocent page is scribed black,
For all crowned hands have writ but whim,
To this, their epitaphs reign what pages lack.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
Her amare
Swaddles me
Into her soul
Madeth into her womb...
Her hair throttles me
It's dark dusk
Her voice musk
For God I can die for her now!!!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Lady melancholy tiptoed delicately through a coast of pearls
Abroad this foreign land,unearthed a valley of intruders
A excursion into the map of my mind
Borderlines swaddles width and magnitude
Interconnection deficiency
Mothers peace fearsome journey
Discovering hidden truths
Rituals, rites and symbols
Opened by lighting the temperance of truth
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC
Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.
Paper casted with doubts on intrepid limbs,
Bleak as the innocent page is scribed black,
For all crowned hands have writ but whim,
To this, their epitaphs reign what pages lack.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
Once winter dissipates into the ocean,
And spring’s benevolence swaddles New England,
I am lured to Boston Commons.
There, while reclining on a grassy incline,
I like to watch the pretty people pass me by.
Women,
With flowing hair and designer jeans,
Gracefully amble through the park.
While men,
Decked out in pompadours and plaid shorts,
Smile and give them the eyes.
On days like these, love’s glamour is on full display.
Two pretty people identify each other,
Wink, nod, and then exchange telephone numbers.
Within minutes,they become entangled in each other’s arms,
While seemingly a fanciful occurrence for some,
Relationships present themselves to pretty people with ease.
As I immerse myself in Boston’s spring animation,
Waiting impatiently for my love’s nativity,
I cannot help but envy the blessed few.
Sometimes I resent them,
But on days like today,
I respect them.
What it must feel like to have the world in your hands,
And to be among perpetual love.
What it must feel like to be truly alive.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
.
Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.
Paper casted with doubts on intrepid limbs,
Bleak as the innocent page is scribed black,
For all crowned hands have writ but whim,
To this, their epitaphs reign what pages lack.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC