is a tiny wandering imaginary dinosaur which migrated from AOL in October of 2008.

Thinking Lizard

About Me

My photo
Rhodingeedaddee is my node blog. See my other blogs and recent posts.


[6-16-2009 Update Insert: Most of what is in this space is now moot. I found out what I was doing wrong and have reinstated Archives and Labels searches. They do work. However, in certain cases you may prefer Labels to Archives. Example: 1976 Today begins in November of 2006 and concludes in December of 2006, but there are other related posts in other months. Note: Labels only shows 20 posts at a time. There are 21 hubs, making 21 (which is for 1976 Today) an older hub.] ********************************* to my online poems and song lyrics using Archives. Use hubs for finding archival locations but do not link through them. Originally an AOL Journal, where the archive system was nothing like the system here, this blog was migrated from there to here in October of 2008. Today (Memorial/Veteran's Day, May 25, 2009) I discovered a glitch when trying to use a Blogger archive. Now, it may be template-related, but I am unable to return to S M or to the dashboard once I am in the Archives. Therefore, I've decided on this approach: a month-by-month post guide. The sw you see in the codes here stood for Salchert's Weblog when I began it in November of 2006. It later became Sprintedon Hollow. AOL provided what were called entry numbers, but they weren't consistent, and they didn't begin at the first cardinal number. That is why the numbers after "sw" came to be part of a post's code. ************** Here then is the month-by-month post guide: *2006* November: 00001 through 00046 - December: 00047 through 00056 -- *2007* January: 00057 through 00137 - February: 00138 through 00241 - March: 00242 through 00295 - April: 00296 through 00356 - May: 00357 through 00437 - June: 00438 through 00527 - July: 00528 though 00550 - August: 00551 through 00610 - September: 00611 through 00625 - October: 00626 through 00657 - November: 00658 through 00729 - December: 00730 through 00762 -- *2008* January: 00763 through 00791 - February: 00792 through 00826 - March: 00827 through 00849 - April: 00850 through 00872 - May: 00873 through 00907 - June: 00908 through 00931 - July: 00932 through 00955 - August: 00956 through 00993 - September 00994 through 01005 - October: 01006 through 01007 - November: 01008 through 01011 - December: 01012 through 01014 -- *2009* January: 01015 through 01021 - February: 01022 through 01028 - March: 01029 through 01033 - April: 01034 through 01036 - May: 01037 through 01044 - ******************************************************* 1976 Today: 2006/11 and 2006/12 -- Rooted Sky 2007: 2007/01/00063rsc -- Postures 2007: 2007/01/sw00137pc -- Sets: 2007/02/sw00215sgc -- Venturings: 2007/03/00216vc -- The Undulant Trees: 2007/03/00266utc -- This Day's Poem: 2007/03/00267tdpc -- Autobio: 2007/04/sw00316ac -- Fond du Lac: 2007/04/00339fdl -- Justan Tamarind: 2007/05/sw00366jtc -- Prayers in December: 2007/05/sw00393pindc -- June 2007: 2007/06/sw00440junec -- Seminary: 2007/07/sw00533semc -- Scatterings: 2008/08/00958sc ** Song Lyrics: 2008/02/sw00797slc ********** 2009-06-02: Have set S M to show 200 posts per page. Unfortunately, you will need to scroll to nearly the bottom of a page to get to the next older/newer page.


Tuesday, November 21, 2006


2 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (16-31) - January: Year-day 16 Today I begin my thirty-sixth year, expecting I'd know how I want to say I am looking forward, happy I'm here, and can think and write for another day, hoping with the pull of the weird full moon our creativities will rise and clean our soiled small emotions and reasons soon so we won't be burnt or blown from the scene. Humans we've been; humans we shall remain, if we finally see/ these are the times of "Mankind at the Turning Point", of breath, or corpses, or the wise machine, the sane among us/ knowing that/ of all our crimes/ greed--compassionless--best promotes/ our death. - January: Year-day 17 Everbody likes me. Haa. Sure seems strange! I'm no one special. Just try to be fair. Still, much of my person is out of range for most. Something's hot in the West Bend air?! "Can you call the fire department?" "What's wrong?" "Gail's car is on fire!" "Where is it?" "Out front!" "Okay." Was only warming up. Too long? Red-hot manifold. Shouldn't. Civic punt. Everybody likes me. I have/ a way with words. Sometimes words/ have a way with me. Sometimes my image-maker gets the runs. I'm no one special. Follow me a day. I'm a lot of specials. I told you. See. You didn't ring? Didn't pay a cent? Sons! - January: Year-day 18 Veils. Veils. What we see, we see but in part. From the beginnings of vision/ this truth has stood before us. Each thing has its heart, even the airs, in their moods, mean and couth. As closely as we inspect a brown leaf, as perfect as our eyes and other senses may be, we'll never end that humbling grief imposed by our natures' walls and fences. Walk with me to the back of the house, sit. The apple trees will moon with apples soon. If rightly we can't know the half of it, come row with me through the padded lagoon. So what if neither of us sings in tune: our creations will, if we have the wit. - January: Year-day 19 Out of "the mouths of babes" come--tinker toys? Yah! Pieces themselves they have tried to swallow or, other, to the wonder of our poise we thought so solid turned suddenly hollow by wisdoms beyond what we'd realize in a thousand trips, of whatever kind, tangled as we are in winning the prize, each of us nastily out of his mind. Thus those born before us, chidren with time, being younger than time and we are now (though still quite young as a planet's age goes), destroy and delight us with their sublime imaginings, words which/ venerate how only he who's humble/ transumes and grows. - January: Year-day 20 Sometimes living is spiny hard, all hooks and concrete, no empathy, no June grass, and with nothing that I do does time pass equitably. Act at act (that is/ the crux of it) like beasts clawing each other's throats, or circumstance at act: so that I die a little but don't grow--what, where, how, why, and all else jammed together, damned & choked. Scraping snow from my van's windows, I found a "Hi!" in some, & softly chuckled. Still, I'd wanted to cruise Milwaukee/ the night before; but the drifting winds kept me bound, furious, and out of care, trying to fill a dead time--writing, reading--in a poor light. - January: Year-day 21 It can take so long to create a poem as this one, so image-connecting long, the maker's nearly wizened by the song/ he finally sings, he gives a small home. One watching him might think he'd rather roam through cities and countrysides, beat a gong, or jingle a tambourine for a throng of dopes than wrestle words that slip & foam. How odd a decent place of residence for words/ must come through a kind of defeat of them, that only as the user pins/ each/ for those moments when it most makes sense, when its powers and his/ properly meet, does he quicken a lodging/ where spirit wins. - January: Year-day 22 (The next sonnet is another in this sequence that is politically charged. I make no apology for it, but it does remind me of a position I have long held: The separation of church and state/ is a fantasy. Still, I am simply presenting what I believe, and I am not attempting to test my right to speak freely. Besides, I could easily write more harshly/ about myself, and have.) This is a banner for the Red Rose Sect, for this is their day, the day the White House will be blessed with red roses that reject our allowing unborn humans to blouse in the air: bloody, mutilated ghosts damning us, that reject our stark presumption which treats these as/ mereparasitic hosts to kill as we please in our gross consumption. This is a banner. Wave it, wave it high, that it may crack the coldness in your eye which preserves your right as woman to choose when your body may abruptly deny lives as sacred as yours, pushing them by as if they are trash you can't wait to lose. - January: Year-day 23 There should be no end to the thanks I show for being born and allowed to remain long enough in my ragged flesh/ to glow in this world/ and beyond, a sunshine rain. Flowers climbing, rising/ from a mountainside; waters slowly entering Earth's thick sieve; rhythms of wind carrying melodies pied. There should be no end to the thanks I live. Could there seem no beginning, middle, end to my gratitude, my freedom to be, you would note a kind of balance in me you would smile toward/ as a friend to a friend who is glad the other is near to spend a spectral moment with, or two, or three. - January: Year-day 24 And the delicate powdered-sugar snow, sifted by the winds, floats like memories, full of haze and distance; pulses like trees on a hot afternoon; forms what I know: In a three o'clock music, soft and slow, I am a long-wintering hive of bees; and the gossamer swallows at their ease sparkle in the waves on my radio. If I were to tell you again today that tomorrow I would be leaving here, what light would it gift you, though miles apart. I had left you in a similar way before, and later come back: pleased, tired, queer, as curiously as: I do in my art. - January: Year-day 25 Before, the past was presented as myth; now, it is presented as human. Feel. Before, the past was for the few, the "pith"; now, it is explored for the many; real. Being so, it's no longer kept alive but deftly uprooted, denied/ at last/ until what was once extolled jungle jive becomes, as it's Plumbed, The Death of the Past. Hooray in the streets! Hoorah in the halls! Now the past is dead, history can live, and there be no ending to what we give to each and each as each fabricant falls that will be in our lives gifts well worth giving and gratefully plied by the future living. - January: Year-day 26 Yesterday, heavy snow, to bring us wonder, seeds that will blossom into water, and-- words you may think ought to tear me asunder who lives not by logic but sleights of hand. Yet, though I'm no Whitman, seeing the best, nor a Jeffers from his Tor, seeing the worst, but an Englanded Salchert, of cooled zest, for both fine reason and magic I thirst. If apples fatten against me, and birds tremble my confidence, the game of math at its rough frontiers makes my nerve-ends dance; and the game of myth unbuttons me. Path, trail, highway, street, certainty, and chance: synthesis,the direction of/ my words. - January: Year-day 27 Too much to think on, and with Shelley dead, Percy, stormed under in the gulf, the strength, madness, genius we need seems somehow fled; and with Paine and others gone, lost at length. And with our technic capabilities postindustrializing us at rates that presage clarity but form clouds, these moments passing, passed, strange, feel ancient dates. Composing here a linear thing when life about is circular, I would conclude the answer's there I darken as I do with a lashed world, a gulf in storm to ride, were I not of those adventurers whose flattest confrontations/ breed fending styles. - January: Year-day 28 Don't question the insanities of writers thoughtlessly. You may plummet, clutching spaces; from the claws of words you may dangle. These lighters of the caves of our ignorance turn faces-- in their inkings that ooze and build--to charm/ worlds/ in the air. Let them also charm yours. Then castigate these shamans courting harm. Without them you could never win your wars. Poor self-poisoned Chatterton, genius thief, and Mayakovsky, slit by politics, and haunting, humorous Poe, worn and guttered, and Plath, who ovened/ her head out of grief, and Hemingway, letting a bullet fix: these--muft, & all--through truths/ beautifully uttered. - January: Year-day 29 If you still think you can flippantly spawn a fishhole of arguments, you had better close your mind. It's too late, friend. The light's gone that would praise your opinions. In the fetter of darknesses formed by tyrannies, one of which has chased the good from your once needed union, carpenter, those warm days won freeze, and threaten those/ differently seeded. A free man's only free when he can move with comfort in his necessary jails while letting others likewise move in theirs. Sure, moguls kill; sure, governments lose love; but aren't there times when other spirits fail? We pass each other dimly/ on the stairs. - January: Year-day 30 Spirit is a music no one can hear but can often see the results of: hands mending a gown, dervishes of dust, lands in the shapes of knolls tranquilizing fear, strawberries dyeing fingers. If a man wails at The Wall, or a woman; or looks an arabesque through; somehow out of books changes; more easily charms his life's span, nothing in the spheres is heard, in the heart seen; only elsewhere. Castles: reachings for the ultimate. Malachi Martin's art ofinsight.  Yours.  Mine. Worlds from which we start; stretch toward. Peering in/ or out of/ a door. Still/ on a mountain. Waiting/ on a shore. - January: Year-day 31 The year of the dragon supplants the hare's, or forty-six seventy-four by 'five. The one by its wits avoided Time's snares; the other by meanness will live and thrive. So I, friendly Westerner, lightly see what brings those of Chinese culture long joy; yet honor, knowing a loved mystery, secular, sacred, gives weight to its voice. For I in my culture, too, celebrate one year's dying with another year's birth in ways happy meetings gently accrued, unwilling, unable, to explicate how customs so formed are of special worth to me and mine who are through them renewed. - 2 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

No comments: