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.


Wednesday, November 22, 2006


3 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (32-46) - February: Year-day 32 When a soft rain in a rolling wind's whim stops my eyes, I picture grassy hills, dew shivering the pores of my washed-out skin, the peace a slightly curved thing holds, & you: woman who is to keep my compass true; & you: man of my fantasies, kind, thin: & me: tilted, torn, sniveling a blue fit, choosing neither you, nor me, nor him. A heliotrope's effects on the sun couldn't be more devastating, its stare peaking that fire's curiosity till at midday fear takes over, makes it run from that eye as rapidly as it dared to toward/ and return tomorrow/ until. - February: Year-day 33 (#2 of 15 I removed earlier this year) - February: Year-day 34 I love the sonnet, so blustery free, laughing in its chains, strong in its voice full of icicles, steam, crocodile eggs, me, voluptuous, concerned, impregnable, expecting visits from monsters, roots, gods, terrible in their urgencies, cold tides harrowing boats, docks, doctrinal frail clods, enterers of exits: we: race of prides. Such contrivances we envision, putting one over on ourselves every time, yet nimbly enough for our limited view, not needing true perfection, faultless footing, even if we don't let rats/insects get tomorrow. I hate the sonnet. Don't you? - February: Year-day 35 "Nobody's gonna save us from us but us." Not even an angel or a sauceroid. So there's no sense in our stringing a fuss because we're ridiculed and unemployed or conning our way to the tippy-top of a "good life" dream. Spirits that are blacker than any soot or any skin, that stop love, won't rescue us no matter the lacquer. Unless there is a shining from within, we may as well shift our Cad's into passes and stuff our green in our ears. Unless there's a warmth/ that's death to what's/ well called sin, perhaps we'd best/ drown in/ pools of molasses, whose wants just as surely are a sweet mess. - February: Year-day 36 Honesty in the sequin snow, the cold, brings corn on a snowmobile to feed deer, and trails the deer walk on, and care, to hold what in season he'll kill. Somewhere, in fear andtrembling, sometime, I also may, bugged too long by images out of my past-- we all have been--to avoid being hugged by the one with whom love will deepest last. What love I give and am givenis good, but not enough. If there really is one I can happily love, I'd like to know, but--I perceive I am a complex wood, needing to share with several kinds of sun. Am I sad? Am I a fool? Maybe so. - February: Year-day 37 Melancholy, what a black horse you are, carrying me now to lands without light where I'm more like shadows caught in a jar than a being who bleeds, whose dreams are bright, who for all his sadnesses learned to fly! Stallion, don't so lead me to more regrets. I'm in rags already from more than I could rein through/ when we crossed/ your briared lets. If my flesh and bones were to disappear entire, and I truly became that dark I feel I am, how could I take it, horse, black, black horse; how could I handle the fear when you, the world, I/ are but shades apart, substanceless, in the curled void of remorse. - February: Year-day 38 (#3 of 15 I removed earlier this year) - February: Year-day 39 Listening to Ron's invisible guitar and Mark's laughter as he bruises the wind, no wonder I wonder whose dreams we are where the crowds have thickened, the crowds have thinned. No wonder kings in their perma-press suits have nothing to do with people in rags as the poets playing their lyres and lutes look absently at the costs of their tags. No wonder we wonder wonder through tears while winds roll & whisp and whistle their songs and the various guitars talk and chime to the voids in our stomachs brought by years too easily stuffed with "impossible" wrongs that have slashed, jumbled, and corroded time. - February: Year-day 40 Whim is the master of youth; order, age. Both of which are present in works of art. One, of the intuitions of the sage; the other, of the leapings of the heart. The coroner's report let no one doubt the creature we had captured truly died, but as we smile it streaks again about, mystifying the kettled countryside. So, yes, my camera catches charmed views of mermaid wheat swimming golden, of guards changing at Arlington beneath the dome of South Bend's Notre Dame, of the white hues of Niagara through Schroeder Hall; of yards, especially the one/ surrounding home. - February: Year-day 41 Save the universe. Replace Man. The things of this world! How they move us! make us them! my vanto be wagon, my pendants, rings! And who knows who or how or what could stem this power; who knows how or what or who Man should be replaced by. Things of this Earth! "Dilemma": our real name for sure, to do with as we wish, hope, must/ from before birth. Do I talk too sadly? Give me your hand. It only takes one to destroy us, and, one only to keep us alive. For all our insignificance, through air and land and sea, we are significant who stand/ who've not forgotten/ we once had to crawl. - February: Year-day 42 Flick. Today is the day we celebrate the birth of the man whose thirst witnessed light electrified in a glass bulb, whose great intrepid perseverance lit the night for good, more perfectly than candles, whose relentless genius heard a sound machine lift voices from spinning, needled discs, whose insight flashed to images/ on a screen. That such amazing beauties should have grown where we must recognize them as our own are blessings to hold even as they run, even as they fly past where they have flown, even as they enter the charged unknown to use so as to bless/ Tom/ Edison. - February: Year-day 43 Tall and ascetic, with a screechy voice, striding out of Illinois--who'd hate, spare: he chose his wife as if he had no choice; he chooses words with empathetic flair. Once by a soldier with a fatal wound he sat, and wrote to his mother for him, and talked, and listened, and, gently attuned, stayed for his comfort at his young life's brim. So, now, in that house back in Illinois, he remains for our comfort to the brims of our lives, knowing pain and knowing joy, and our Bicentennial moans and hymns; now, through those words/ he/ was blessed to deploy to bless our troubled zeitgeist/ oddly swims. - February: Year-day 44 A time for quiet and simplicity. You and I on a long summer's walk. You, and I, passing under a maple tree, kissing, breezes bandying in the blue; sparrows, grackles, robins, swallows, and doves, like visitors from foreign nations, come to a sort of resort to know their loves; you, and I, opening, more than the sum. In the stream, a flower, living, dead, sails through our memories, here, there, catching fire, breaking old incidents out of their jails, renewing each, like a phoenix from its pyre of unrecognition, show us what fails fails not with the right touch of fate, desire. - February: Year-day 45 Happy Valentine's, if you wish. The sky is: fair and breezy. The graying snow changes and disappears, unable to/ feel why. Near Eden, a sharp-shinned hawk rearranges oursoft perceptions as we travel home in our Big Sky Blue Volare: to visit our parents and bus bumMark,who would roam the world. Isn't this Valentine exquisite? Why, even the dove that--on our way back to West Bend--was really a sparrow hawk/ puts diamond light here. I, too, would attack and be brilliant, an "evil" cupid, stalk the hearts of strangers to assuage my lack of/ contentment, killing with: more than talk. - February: Year-day 46 Across Wayne Road, steel wheels: kids on their skates. On this side, for most of the afternoon, four girls play, bug, before they pull up stakes and I'm under cover, too late, too soon. Some want to fly kites! How 'bout a balloon? A daydream or a nightdream is all it takes. Have you ever heard the cry of a loon? If these verses aren't mine, let them be Kate's. Or yours, perhaps. This language isn't mine alone. So the words appearing here, line by line, are born from my gray. When God cleans His gray-on-gray carpet tomorrow, Joe, we'll all be treated to the dustball snow and the thunderstorm. Come. Enjoy our scenes. - 3 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

No comments: