"swaddling" poems
#*Feasting table under a shading tree
Swaddling robe that warmly cleans
Mirror beautifying while it reflects
Sword that pierces yet never rejects
Light penetrating the blackest hole
Water filling and healing the soul*#
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
As a blanket
Her hair swaddle's me;
As the universe serape's
The pinlight's of God.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Jolly old St. Nicholas,
lean your ear this way.
There’s something to be said
for the Santa role you play.
You bring happiness to children
with bikes, and dolls and toys,
and instill the Christmas spirit
into grown-up girls and boys.
But you know the greatest gift
isn’t found upon your sled,
and it isn’t all the sugar plumbs
that dance in children’s heads.
It is not one brought by Dasher,
or by Donner, or by Dancer.
It came wrapped in swaddling clothing.
Even Santa knows the answer.
The greatest gift is Jesus Christ.
The Savior of the earth.
And Christmas is the special day
we celebrate His birth
Christ was born into the world
and taught us all He could.
He knows if we’ve been good or bad,
and hopes we’ll all be good.
Santa, we’ll enjoy the gifts
that on Christmas come our way
but it’s not gifts,…It’s Christ the Lord,
we celebrate this day!
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 10:24 AM UTC
My Darling's eyes:
Embers of molten gold,
An ocean of stars nigh,
Mine eyes dost behold.
My Darling's eyes:
A pulchritude cauldron
Akin to the skie's lanterns
Yet are but of chalcedony.
My Darling's eyes:
To be on the mark
Are but diamond dunes
If not a fountain of sparks!
My Darling's eyes:
Effulgent stars in a cluster
Swaddling velvet night skies
With celestial shore luster.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
20th September 2016
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
My mother groand! my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mother’s breast.
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Above, beside and way below
Who are we but men to know?
Of three quite strong yet treated wrong
By The Sisters Three, and cruel was their song
The first, the second but not the third,
Mother's love finally bore hard
In solemn jest, she did what need be done
Lest all were lost, leaving her with none
Hædes the first entrée to Khronos
So was the *second of "The ****** Foes"
Then came Zeus, the third and last
Favoured was he in the days that pass't
Mother Rhea quickly thought out a plan,
She fed a rock to the cruel Titan
In swaddling cloth she wrapped the stone
Then in it went, to Khronos, unknown
Of age came he with rage and wrath
Poor was Khronos, who fell in his path
In awe, he gasped, "How could it be???!"
Then Zeus replied, "Oh yes, 't is me!"
And as per the prophecy, triumphant was he
To then save his brothers and be all he was meant to be
And now we know of Zeus above, Hædes below,
Posseidon with us and together we'll grow
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
The donkey and the ox
what a racket they must have made!
Munching on the straw
from the crib in the manger.
Such thick headed beasts!
How did our Savior survive
with all of His toes -
His swaddling free of slobber?
Imagine, if you will
their warm grassy breath forming
little clouds that were filled
with His radiance.
And pity poor Joseph
asleep, off to the side, and Mary
completely exhausted.
For, while resting, they missed
what soft brown eyes sensed -
that before shepherd or angel
or wise man arrived, a feast
had been set for the taking.
(For Sherry Smith)
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
NURSE
Our mistress bids me with all speed to call
Aegisthus to the strangers, that he come
And hear more clearly, as a man from man,
This newly brought report. Before her slaves,
Under set eyes of melancholy cast,
She hid her inner chuckle at the events
That have been brought to pass--too well for her,
But for this house and hearth most miserably,--
As in the tale the strangers clearly told.
He, when he hears and learns the story's gist,
Will joy, I trow, in heart. Ah, wretched me!
How those old troubles, of all sorts made up,
Most hard to bear, in Atreus's palace-halls
Have made my heart full heavy in my breast!
But never have I known a woe like this.
For other ills I bore full patiently,
But as for dear Orestes, my sweet charge,
Whom from his mother I received and nursed . . .
And then the shrill cries rousing me o' nights,
And many and unprofitable toils
For me who bore them. For one needs must rear
The heedless infant like an animal,
(How can it else be?) as his humor serve
For while a child is yet in swaddling clothes,
It speaketh not, if either hunger comes,
Or passing thirst, or lower calls of need;
And children's stomach works its own content.
And I, though I foresaw this, call to mind,
How I was cheated, washing swaddling clothes,
And nurse and laundress did the selfsame work.
I then with these my double handicrafts,
Brought up Orestes for his father dear;
And now, woe's me! I learn that he is dead,
And go to fetch the man that mars this house;
And gladly will he hear these words of mine.
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He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
Hidden in the shadows
In the light of the moon
Is a secret born in the inception time
The whisper of legends
The Truth in the tale
Alive within dreams
A reflection of souls dancing
Diaphanous in the rays of the sun
Like lingering cold
As mist succumbs to the warmth of morning
Never to be found when looking
Unseen in plain sight
Wrapping its equal
In a swaddling of peace
Only to be known as two become one
A whole felt before
Only in the shadows of dreams
Eternal by design
Known in this realm
As a myth, as magic
But this is the only truth
Created as one soul
We are all that there is
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
Summertime on Broadway
in Spanish Harlem.
Wide sidewalks glinting
with mica, as I walked alone
up this hill in our neighborhood
for the very first time.
Flag Day, my parent's anniversary,
and a wish to give them flowers
I would buy all on my own.
Inside the hushed florist shop
the flowers and plants
seemed ready to interview
any potential new owners
who wished to take them home.
A dignified, kind woman,
spokesperson for their domain,
looked down at this earnest
little shrimp of a girl in a
striped T-shirt and shorts,
who wanted so much
to be taken seriously.
Respectfully, she opened heavy
glass doors where the roses slept
in orderly, long-stemmed rows.
Heady, chilled. Their fragrance
enveloped me, and still does.
I chose one red rose, and one yellow,
and the woman solemnly wrapped
them like a baby in swaddling clothes,
adding baby's breath and fern leaves.
Cradling my paper bundle, I walked on home.
Something deep inside of me had made that choice.
It felt as though the flowers knew what I wanted
to say to my cherished mother and father:
*That this life they were creating for us,
was abundantly full, and balanced.*
Time flew by, and one day I learned
from a holy and compassionate sage
that my heart had chosen an ancient
symbol for fullness of life:
Two flowers, one red,
one yellow, whispering
the secret of life
to the heart of a child
who wanted, more than anything,
to actually hear it,
who wanted to know,
above all else,
what was really real.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
When the wood touches
my lips
my whole body trembles--
triplet trebles drip quickly
out....
In my head,
I sound nothing
like the spheres surrounding
the guitar's melancholy,
mellow below comes above
and I WAIL.....
sailing these sounds
swaddling the drumbox beat
to a crescendo
exercising all the ills
I've swilled and spilled--
FILLING
the house
FILLING my self....
radiating away all thoughts
of doubt.
a reminder of the Bird 'Tranes
a reminder of the names
I used to sing......
Silence
seems like such a foreign concept again.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
Let others look for pearl and gold,
Tissues, or tabbies manifold:
One only lock of that sweet hay
Whereon the blessed Baby lay,
Or one poor swaddling-clout, shall be
The richest New-year’s gift to me.
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Wrapped round in swaddling clothes,
I saw her bright beaming face.
Lying helpless, still in a trance,
I sensed her soft soothing touch.
Warm it was when huddled tight,
Glad it was to be held close,
Pleasure it was to be lifted up,
And Heaven it was to be in her lap.
She took me in her gentle hands,
She fed me with her nourishing milk,
She made me sleep with lullabies sweet,
And kept alert on day and night.
As time slowly glided past,
I grew myself into a tiny tot.
Crawled around in sweeping haste,
Reaching out to all I could touch.
It left my mother so hardly pressed.
She never had even time to sit,
Cut down she, her afternoon nap,
Cast aside she her rest and respite.
My teething time – a real hard time!
For reasons none, I grew so irritable.
Itchy – fidgety, I cried on end,
Futile it went all her tricks to tame.
This made my mother grow jittery.
Consulted she every quack and doc,
Administered she every harmless dope,
And interceded to all divine help.
It was only a passing phase,
With consistent care, I grew to a buxom babe.
My childish pranks delighted all.
Too glad grew my mother to see me fare.
Soon I learnt to steady myself up,
The Toddler placed the first faltering step.
It was always with bated breath,
My mother watched my growing up.
She ever remained a pillar of strength,
In whom I saw a never failing friend.
She led me through the devious turns of life,
Always there to lend her helping hand.
In complex issues too hard to solve
Wise it was to seek her counsel
Sane and sound, she ever remained.
To trials of life, she never surrendered.
She taught me the quintessence of life,
She showed me the route to tread,
Her zest for life, never once cease,
Her trust in God ever on the rise
Now my mother ceases to exist,
But sure she will continue to live,
In my hearts domain, she reigns supreme.
No force on Earth can cast her out.
As I look back to days of yore,
All I wish is to conjure up the past,
To be reborn a second time,
To be my mother’s darling child!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
Peace? and to all the world? sure, One
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His nativity.
His restless mother’s called away,
And not delivered till she pay.
A tax? ’tis so still! we can see
The church thrive in her misery;
And like her Head at Bethlem, rise
When she, oppressed with troubles, lies.
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam’st from heaven to earth, that we
Might go from earth to heaven with Thee.
And though Thou foundest no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy court, and when
Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men.
They were Thy courtiers, others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast
Which lodged Thee first did give Thee rest.
But stay: what light is that doth stream,
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee.
Behold what mists eclipse the day:
How dark it is! shed down one ray
To guide us out of this sad night,
And say once more, “Let there be light.”
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My room - womb:
Self-furnished surrogate;
Protective and exclusive;
Umbilically attached to the Other
Via electrons and electromagnetic waves,
Stimulating half-dead neurons;
Nourishing; pseudo-social life.
A womb - my room:
Self-imposed cocoon,
Refuge and retreat;
Amniotic psychic cushioning,
'Tissue-like; apathetic swaddling
Absorbing impacts of buck-shot cultures;
Allowing light mixed darkly - melancholy.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Like Breugel's Icarus
my brother Michael
dropped into the depths of the sea
unnoticed
Born at the bottom
of a crater of the moon
the sweetest foundling
since creation
His swaddling clothes
were denim and the blues
his pillow
a bottle of rye
This sweet soul
lived half a life
in halfway houses
and cheap motels
reeking of cigarettes
reeling from the *****
When he punched his ticket
on the midnight train to eternity
no one was surprised
I arranged the cremation
a fire that burned
more than one life
I gathered his ashes
and set out
for the crest of the Sierra Nevada
Alone
with my memories,
his ashes
and the cold stone
of those adamant heights
and then east
through the wastes of Nevada
the endless expanse
of the basin and range
A pilgrimage, of sorts
dedicated to nothing
and no one
Just the upthrust range
the solemn and self-absorbed peaks
the dessicated pine
and a wind
that scoured the soul.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
Holy Child Parish had seen better days
in the century recently closed.
The passage of time and societal change
had emptied out each wooden row.
The caretaker moved, a little bit slow;
The empty church echoed each step.
There! From the manger; a weak little cry:
A sound he would not soon forget.
A babe in the manager, a live baby boy;
A towel was his swaddling clothes.
His mother had left him, believing him safe.
Safe as anyplace else she supposed.
The school nurse was sent for, to care for the child
who was otherwise healthy, just cold.
Parishioners called him a miracle baby;
found asleep in the crib of the Lord.
The Press soon descended, the media Magi,
to give homage like Pilgrims of old.
On tape and in print the good news went out.
The story was told and retold
It made people smile, for the times now are grim
and good news has been in short supply.
They’ve named the boy John, for the prophet of old;
In the wilderness hear one voice cry.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
The night cupped sadness into its hands
swaddling it like a newborn babe
gently promising to never let go
But the night quickly fell to its ending
while the morning rose for its beginning
and the sun smiled gleefully in return
Sadness cried for night to come back
for sunshine was not a language it knew
so it retreated to its hole and waited
because only the night understood its tune
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
he came spitting fire
on a day like no other
tried to hold you near to me
i heard him passing over
he made a banquet for the stray dogs of the air
he put our love in clear perspective
blue, red and green plumage
trailing behind him now
swaddling the sky in its aftermath
the last day coming down
he made a banquet for the stray dogs of the air
he put our love in clear perspective
rising, rising, rising, rising
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
The Cannibal’s dream and the inverse conclusion
Twist of the seam, sunken scattered illusion
Shouts of the spy fastened tight to the pylon
Sacrifice sweating; bygones can’t just be bygones
Mustard gas moans, whip lashed in the fire
Cunning glass masters burned alive at the pyre
Miscarriage minister delivers the sponge-bath
Alive at the eve of divination, the wrath
Blasphemous cries vindicate putrid powder
Sweet crystal cradling, swaddling sheets on the shrouder
Arcane sessions in the cavern deep
Turbulently righteous ideas to reap
Divine purification at an alchemy flame
A zenith of nostrums, bad medicine, blame
Strip off the layers and chant benediction
A hand, from the mind, reaching out for conviction
Sharp swords of lead, heavy, shifting to gold
Sentient beings search for truth to behold
Excavate, deviate, a stranger to demonstrate
Colloquial séance with panic to elevate
Head leads body, a path of insurrection
The soul and the mind at war for correction
The crotches of branches, slits of the eyes
A crevasse of lonesome; wedged in, we writhe
Anticipating the sting that comes with the change
Of transforming the cave into a mountain range
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
Things out of perfection sail,
And all their swelling canvas wear,
Nor shall the self-begotten fail
Though fantastic men suppose
Building-yard and stormy shore,
Winding-sheet and swaddling--clothes.
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Your innocent eyes lightly closed
Your tender limbs partly stilled
In swaddling linen’s comfort wrapped
You sleep within your mother’s girdling arms.
Away from all care you drowse
Away from the snares and sorrows of the world
With Heaven smiling from the heights
And swarm of angels keeping guard round
Fresh as the freshest vernal green
Lovely as the loveliest summer bloom
Soft as the softest silky fleece
You rest, a priceless gift wrapped in grace
Blissful is your sleep
Envious is your state
But weep not, when you wake
Bursting this cocoon to the chill and heat
For on your sides, colorful wings will sprout
With iridescent shades, curves and spots
To carry you over frost and snow
And to feast on the dew served in floral cups!
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC