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


4 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (47-60) - February: Year-day 47 Whippets. Dogs of war. Flashes of delight. Tricks of the mind. Deceptions of the heart. The charged astrophysicist's starry art. The quickness of the swimmer, lean and bright. Arrows of exertion. Missiles. A night for the making of deserts. The wrong part. Bean soup floating a world of termites. Start today tomorrow. Be kind to your sight. If apple blossoms give peach blossoms fits, perhaps the cherries will tear out their pits and the oranges burst into umbrellas and somewhere in a pineapple preserve a banana with a kingdom of nerve will detonate, you lucky gals and fellas. - [ Since today is 2006's Thanksgiving Day, this prayer interlude: Lord Jesus, through each this moment along the way, thank You for Your gifts today. ] - February: Year-day 48 Back to the usual, then. Not because it's easier but because it is calm, and calm is what I need now. Not a bomb. There is no future in chewing what was, or at least so I sometimes must believe. Oh well, there are Green Stamps of the emotions to save too. I can't always live in oceans, skipping ropes, cheering, crying on my sleeve. That is the matter, isn't it? Too much unsanity tends to disintegrate the experiencer of it, abort in sections his protected growth, steal crutch and sling and medicine from him, deflate his sense of being, force him/ to cavort. - February: Year-day 49 Question: Will I actually make it through this year, writing a poem a day? And if I do, will I end up old, bored, and stiff, and have more deadened than enlivened you? I hope not. Oh, I won't be going boo around every corner, or paddling a skiff through every marsh/ you walk near; but don't whiff by unnoticing; I am somewhere, new. You'll sense, just as you have before, the warts on the great umber squash, the hummingbird coptering near moss phlox, the crazy bat yipping out of the mouth of night, the courts of hard decisions. Everyone knows, word, image, play; everyone's a poet, a cat. - February: Year-day 50 D. H. Lawrence knew it: (there is no "I"); and Buddha. Yet jailed Christianity has led me otherwise; now Robert Bly corrects that through his Leaping Poetry. So the "I" then is physically three: the reptile brain, which fear of death turns high; the mammal brain, which foetal sittings free then pass; and the new brain, which lights the sky. Out of black comes white; out of white comes black; out of both, or neither, the bows of dew. As we find ourselves going back and back let us also grow delightfullly new. Cold, warmth, light: to survive; to make love, whack; to spirit. Learn each. Let the last imbue. - February: Year-day 51 Numbers all night, words all day, my brains work harder than most people would care to have theirs work, and auditing isn't a salve or vitamin for any decent quirk I have, not near the ways poetry is. I make a living from it for my wife and myself; and signed-for future goods knife gently enough from it; but I won't fizz in my three brains, or my spirit, or heart, nor bubble, nor least of all suddenly gusher--as I do when words form the base I apply or swallow; from which I start: to heal what sores and cuts appear on me, to strengthen from within/ my persons' face. - February: Year-day 52 How many images have been lost, friend, like the carrot of existentialism, the cauliflower of discontent? Send those to me you remember. There's a chasm here worth exploring, I'm sure. Let us make our ways into it, stubbing our soft toes on wild roses of granite, thoughts to shake our dreamings, dreamings of heavy snows to bury our thoughts, to insulate them/ so they can germinate at/ the far end of winter, wending up a leaf, a stem, a flower for us somehow to befriend, to inspect for a thorn, a bee, a small hem of difference, to walk new from, to lend. - February: Year-day 53 (#4 of 15 I removed earlier this year) - February: Year-day 54 We die a lot before we have to die, trying to choose the sunlight or the shade or that nuance of these which suits our eyes as we play the games from "real" to "charades"; trying to stay alive while our hopes dry and the directions of our movements jade and questions and answers tumble and rise, changing faces until our shocked flesh fades. We die a lot before we somewhat live, meaning to take less than we have to give, thinking our thinking right/ when it is wrong/ as aftersight proves foresight did not see we could not become what we ought to be without hurt, once tricked by a sucker song. - February: Year-day 55 Walking with Janice to our car, Powers of Mind by Adam Smith in my right hand with Jeane Dixon's Yesterday, Today, and Forever to titillate a few hours my future-tending, in-and-outing mind; talking about the balmy air, and how it moves the snow better than the truck's plow, we crook to geese intruding/ from behind. Two hundred about, I guess: as I'm asked why they make so much noise--but then am told questioningly, "Are they communicating?"-- and why their V formation: as they basked in sight in the minus Celsius cold, thrilling us with their ancient ways of dating. - February: Year-day 56 No idea today; so here's a line and here's another, closing up, preparing for a third one running now as far and fine--. Line four already, when three was just airing? Why, we'll be out of the fifth before we've had time to taste it! And as for six, it's gone! What! What shakes here? What's up this guy's sleeve, anyway? Seven? He's giving me fits! Eight? Sorry, too late, I'm number nine. Oh, heavens to lime'n'rum! I suppose ten is eleven, and the twelfth rat will show somewhere inside the thirteenth ship again-- that bad luck phantom--so we barely know where fourteen floats, or how, or why, or when! - February: Year-day 57 Those who die in battle I long will honour. Under the cedars, I will honour them. Under the palm trees, I will honour them. Those who die in battle I long will honour. Those impaired by battle I long will honour. Upon the sidewalks, I will honour them. Upon the highways, I will honour them. Those impaired by battle I long will honour. It matters not/ that I label them fools, that war to me means someone lost his heart, that pools of blood are never more than pools when hearts could have ensured they did not start; they too required courage who honored rules made from the first to tear people apart. - February: Year-day 58 War? I have spoken on it, but once more. The only revolution worth Earth's while is one the Proletariat are for; the only revolution worth their while is one of refusal, refusal to, for any reason, bash a skull in, knife a heart, blast to coral or burn to goo another human, castrate someone's life. The pleasure of the rich, the pleasure of the politician be cursed. In the wood a thrush in song, a trillium for love; in the air, terns, spearing the wriggling foam. Jonathan Kozol writes; his words are good: The Night Is Dark and I Am Far from Home. - February: Year-day 59 After all is said, nothing's left to say, and saying that takes all the words there are. And if to answer means to throw away, then throw away we must,just as a star. If I, or you, or you, incant a dream where every line's a masterpiece of breath and every shade shakes passion out of seem, the emptiness so filled will bury death. And creatures of intelligence will grow and (through their need to love) communicate. And rightly felt, those triumphs garnered so will join with all their elders who create. And each of these bright wonder forms of know will spin deep worlds of being/ beyond date. - February: Year-day 60 So this is Sadie Hawkins Day. What fun! Yet, what disturbance! How shall--? We call this leap year: the year, one would suppose, we'd miss-- by leaping, I mean--a day, not put one in. On the other hand, the ladies leap on gentlemen this day--are allowed to, that is--though I doubt there are many who now, if ever, such a tradition, keep. At any rate, we go about enjoying it, as we can, making a feast of little, or so its seems, although we're not quite able to much explain--perhaps we are employing a mystery, a special kind of riddle, or symbol of--our clasped hands/ on a table. - 4 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

No comments: