Not coated, covered or dipped in but enrobed.  Synonym, neologism or archaic?

Off we go, and our first stop is MW Third Universal:

1:  to invest or adorn with or as if with a robe; broadly :  attire;

2:  to cover (confections) with a coating (as of chocolate) .

All synonyms refer to clothing or dressing, and the noun is one who dresses, an enrober.


verb (used with object), Imageen·robed, en·rob·ing.

to dress; attire: The king was enrobed in velvet.


1585–95; en-1  + robe

Also from D.com, questions related:

Enrobing Food is when you are Coating one product with another” Chocolate is a popular one when you cover a biscuit, for instance.

An enrober, according to Wikipedia: machine used in the confectionery industry to coat a food item with a coating medium, typically chocolate.

Cambridge Academic Content Dictionary:

“We do not have an entry for enrobe.”

So, what is it?  Vanity?  Pretentiousness?  The wafer cookies are produced by the Loacker family on a mountain in Sicily, and perhaps they are royalty or wish to be so enrobed in the garment sense.

But wasn’t this entry about a word?  Mostly.  Entries about words (mostly) will appear as things of many things.


Broken Reasons

I understand how double talk makes sense

When spread across some contradicting thoughts

To give to faltered reasons a defense

Against the urgent meanings I had sought.

Now double back against some matching terms

Conflicting as attacking something new

So either way to reach for something firm

How could my broken reasons now be viewed?

Answers now to questions I had sought

As muddled morning mix of murky thoughts

A catalog of reasons asking why

Of what beyond whatever I was taught

Till all I can express is just a sigh.


Little Signs

You should not ask me what I think

If yours should be the frailer strength of mind

What horrors I experienced and felt within

The blunted instrument comes down, or else a nasty sting.

I build my thoughts from consequence and change,

Confronted expectations, Madeleines and hints,

The words, of course, the kinds that open worlds

And selves, how interesting syllables spell change.

Was that me who wrote that what it was?

The earlier versions of a self reflect

As passing shadows of the dimming past

The current me I am,

So who will I be next when new words come?

I wish there were a catalog of selves,

Defined precise the very jerk and twitch,

The same as in the morning as the night

Unless a something breaks the afternoon.

So can I hand it out, what only I have had?

I made as an exhibit thoughts of grievous pain,

But could you handle being where I’ve been?

I never meant to moderate my thoughts

Or memories that strike right through the brain.

This what I meant by what I wrought

And now I laid the reasons out as clearly as I could,

Placing little signs that spell beware.


I am reading my religion in a book of sacred texts

A Talmud-like compendium of existential thought

The who am I and what the what of them

And can I see myself as seeing them?

An agonizing middle class may need such kind of thought

With breakfast on the patio, where

They could see the street but not the world

And answer what is being but croissants?

I know of the absurd because I am, of 

numbers, constructs several means of thought

The factors played aligned so they cohere

But all amounts to just don’t give a damn.

I am among the poor, Alber, Jean-Paul

Here we needn’t wonder what is real. We are.

Absurd, our quality of care,

Absurd indeed is poverty and health–

Not health–the lifespan hangs on wealth

So we can measure single lives by cost,

The meaning of existence not of lives, 

While time itself is dole day to the next.

Phenomenal indeed how we survive.


Song Of The Dole

That day is coming, few days next,
When all emerge from gloom, no longer vexed.
Perpetual privation wears us thin—
Until the monthly dole kicks in.

We poor reside the bottom of the heap,
That shaking tower of bloody-minded wealth,
We struggle over scraps of what relief,
And never mind what danger to our health—

And can we live as long as those above,
Maintain our health erect on cheaper food?
Can we survive on sugar bulk and crud?
Can we survive the ones who do us good?

We often hear such paeans to the poor,
As had so many righteous selves proclaimed,
Conditions that they made they now abhor—
Then turn again that we are all the blame!

Contradicting Ends

What brewing madness bubbles in my brain

Those manic thoughts too fast to catch

But leave enough to carry a refrain

Though every time I write I meet my match

In battle with my contradicting ends.

I draw upon whatever meets my face

Or taking special clues from special friends

But all aside, I sometimes feel displaced.

Concentrated Signs

Now see how I am bending off the lines:

The consciousness divides and so it breaks

Thus leaving scattered pieces undefined,

Just fragmentary bits of subtle aches.

I claim a mandate out of concentrated signs

To understand that feeling of the mind

That seems to fight against its own design.

A clutch of broken thinking trails behind.

Idle Guesses

Expectations muted or achieved

To fill whatever purpose or to fail

Till we wonder what it was that we believed

Until we see our precious dreams turn stale

Chaos and confusion make a joke of what to come

And we can only guess at what goes on above our heads

Now making idle guesses as to where it all comes from

And can we see the truth or lie in what was said

But who could have so fine a special skill

To break from all concerned or prejudicial thought

To answer either question, good or ill

I clear my mind of what I had been taught.


The Bum Squad

by Alan J. Blaustein

The best of us handle what most would not touch
And plunge into places where most would not go
A rollicking ramble through low rent and no
What I partly achieved although never so much

.When down at ground level I fitted right in
A member in standing of the sadly displaced
In others I lived with I saw my own face
And heard as their minds my own inner din.

Beware of the Bum Squad at Grand Central Station
Know where to shower, find rest and free food
We who were failed see the false in the good
While platitudes rain with no hope of cessation.

Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature

My mobility issues sometimes turn up in my poetry. While searching for ‘Zines I found Wordgathering, and I saw that I had more poems about that issue than I’d thought.

 About the ‘Zine, from the Welcome! Page, 

“Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature is a digital, Open Access, quarterly journal of disability poetry, literature, and the arts, with two interconnected purposes. First, we are dedicated to providing an accessible venue for featuring the work of emerging and well-known writers with disabilities (disabled writers). Second, we seek to make available and expand a searchable core of this work for interested readers (with and without disabilities) who are committed to disability poetry, literature, and the arts.”

These three poems are published in the March 2020 issue.



Today the focus is my hips.

What lies beneath the calcifying bone,

What mystery of movement will be known?

Those secrets that an X-ray plate lets slip:

The why it is my walk is turning slow

And keeps me so securely here at home.


Sick Poem Two

I laugh with greatest glee at all the pain,

My own, my legs are screaming as I walk,

Gone out into a world of such delight!

As best of all the agonies: insane,

Of all the varied tortures: best is talk,

That makes the conscious mind a sorry plight.



I walk by carrying my legs

Put up with whining protest calf to thigh

What tries to pull me back from where I want to go

Arthritis here might have the edge

But contradicted by a warmer, better sky

So I can laugh at all the what of what I feel below.


Baby raccoon


My last post was this past June 2020, someone else’s poem. With the situations keeping me off here done with, I’m back to normal chaos.

As I’m looking for ‘Zines to submit to, I see that many are WordPress Blogs. I have my own Blog right here, so why should I submit to someone else’s? I don’t understand why a Blog entry should be considered already published. Has any ‘Zine gone under because they published a poem that is also in a Blog? It seems that a poem published here and elsewhere would draw interest in that ‘Zine and draw more readers to it. Whatever, I might as well post my poems here and not be concerned about that “previously published” stipulation.

Now, here is the world’s cutest bat.

The orange coloring is enough like a former President’s hair, so a relative called him the Trump bat.

New Bat Species With Orangutan Hue Discovered in West Africa

Article by Rachel Nuwer, NYT Jan. 13, 2021

By Rachel Nuwer

/science/new-bat-species.html?ref=oembed(opens in a new tab)

January 13, 2021

Scientists hope the rare discovery could be a catalyst for conserving the region’s biodiversity.

The new orangutan-hued bat, Myotis nimbaensis, lives in Guinea’s Nimba mountains, a verdant series of mile-high peaks rich in biodiversity “just plonked in the middle of this otherwise flat landscape,” Dr. Flanders said.

The team managed to re-catch the original animal, a male, and also captured a female. Dr. Simmons combed through the extensive bat collections at the American Museum of Natural History to compare the two specimens with known species, and she traveled to the Smithsonian National Museum in Washington, D.C., and the British Museum in London to do the same.

The researchers also conducted a genetic analysis, which revealed that M. nimbaensis is at least five percent different from its closest related relatives. They described their findings Wednesday in the journal American Museum Novitates.

Now that the new species confirmation is official, the next step is to learn about M. nimbaensis’ ecology. “The more we know about it, the more we’ll know how to protect it as well,” Dr. Flanders saiwhat we know about it the more we all know how different

And here is the bat.