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

Thinking Lizard

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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.


Thursday, November 23, 2006


5 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (61-77) - March: Year-day 61 Lionizing the lamb, making a lamb of the lion, stuffing the groundhog back into his hole, March can spring an attack of apoplexy on who I am, was, wish I were, with the way it dumps the full dish of yesterday or fills the empty one of, say, today, greeting me with grayed sun, then blistering with sharp snow I damn, dam. However, I have decided to stay inside, not because I'm afraid, but rather because I've no need to face such a spate of meanness to feel it, and disarray, to deal with it. I know its guises gather praise, and where; I will not capitulate. - March: Year-day 62 Say the worlds we face are as black and hard as anthracite, as promotive of fear and chaos as a soon-to-explode star, that nature and artifact and those weird transcendors, spirit and mind, cannot be made to fully demystify themselves, we, as minute as we are, ought we not weigh our actions still, determine what is meed? Brontosauruses trapped in tar: dead ends, of whatever kind--even if, we, too, should fail to be diverse enough to hold our own, or being diverse, still lose friends, enemies, selves/ let us more than chop through the laminations of wind, wet, and cold. - March: Year-day 63 West Bend, the prison arrived at through years of foolishness. Like most, I too have bumbled seriously, bent, broken off, split under the freezing rains of desire/ as the trees, so many of the trees, here have/ this Ash Wednesday. Had I not sought what I have I would not have had to suffer as I right now do, though my suffering invites laughs. West Bend, insipid necessary prison, gained through my constant buying of new cars, my failure to use enough healthy reasons for doing whatever sharpens my hours. Denial by denial heals now this run impresario's too familiar powers. - March: Year-day 64 Little White Lady, the Alloy's cat, found this morning beneath their bed with three kittens, so carried Cindy to her happy wits' ends she phoned the inn to tell me that, and drown indetails my tiredness before the rains and the sorrowing ice return, our hearts withering as power lines snap, writhe, spark, basements fill, graces crack, death comes again. Crouched here in a county of isolation; saved from cold by the nature of my work, linemen in transparent desolation leave barely a word to this poet clerk waiting days for a day's inspiration to mix meows with a wet weather's quirk. - March: Year-day 65 Can't think, my lights going brown and brown, black, the toll of the ice storms mounting past thought while hands reach anxiously for candles brought from a storeroom somewhere, a dead bee's sac, fires for each hall providing us a track of vision, a sanctuary charm, caught as we are without electric, distraught yet giggly, so suddenly peeled years back. First I, then Mark, turned the register's crank: room charge, tax--the x read of zeeing out, then the z read, and the x read again, zero after zero, proving the bank, the mechanical day, was full about, balanced to nothings by the hands of men. - March: Year-day 66 Determination wins the day for sure but, more importantly, enchants the night. That's why we favor our invented light; that's why tomorrow it will be more pure. So, whenever you think it's too obscure, just wait, it soon enough may be too bright, may even for a moment blind your sight, this shielded fire that can rupture and cure. A seed that germinates under a rock may, in its struggles, split that rock to three. We, at a door, continuing to knock, may at last be greeted, by someone dead. So the splitting greetings of land by sea, the human waters of romance and dread. - March: Year-day 67 So, now, electricians/ swarm through the house, their antennae, live wires; their wings, hard wood; their nerve centers, transformers; and I, mouse, my gestures soft static, guess where I should escape to, but don't, knowing I must run the columns of figures as rapidly as circumstance allows as one and one and another employee assists me. Audit. Audit. No time to fret about small out-of-balances. No time to finish each day's report, imagine each day's sonnet, the early-morning / late-night crush of stout linemen more than enough to quite diminish my energy for the torn land's . . . beyond it. - March: Year-day 68 Coming as rain, the beasts, layer on layer clung to what they could, e.g., grasses, trees, telephone poles and wires until each mayor in his little town cried in his head, "Please, your heavy, brilliant bodies have destroyed already too much, branchesof trees popped-- I hear them yet, poles splintered, unemployed; flames arcing from bare lines; work patterns stopped." This morning, in the fair and cold, the sun (glinting what it kisses onswallowed fields and bushes and trees--trunks, limbs, branches, twigs too often spiking their pale insides up through the careless winds where the hard beasts' needs have bit them off with themselves) cringes, licks. - March: Year-day 69 I have never had his experience, nor am likely to, this lineman who dares to bring us power, chancing his; who stares the shocks of death heart to heart for the sense of comfort we have come to demand, dense though most of us are to the hard repairs he must make after a storm, and the cares that move him both to drink and maintenance. Oh, each of us lives his own kind of life somewhere between circumstance and desire more or less dangerously, pain and joy as in the pregnant womb of a good wife or the eyes of a birthday gal his fire or his climbing of poles/ to keep the boy. - March: Year-day 70 Hi, Thatcher Lane Gearhart, born yesterday! Welcome aboard! I can't say you'll like this decidedly stuffed with injustices domain floating along the Milky Way Galaxy's edge, spun in a universe we may never know the ends of; but be strong and healthy in the heat of the curse, the blessing; and become, through land, air, sea more than you or anyone might expect, however situations, heritage, and nurtured abilities to make new limit you who (from a had-to-be checked civilization) will learn to please, nudge, help see another: through more sacred hues. - March: Year-day 71 Happy birthday, sister and brother. I'm sorry you cannot watch my scribblings here but--with intelligence men about--time is of the essence, as they say; a fear- toned man, anti-abortion, anti-Ford, must be quietly careful these nights, these days: especially me: poet ignored, shadow in waiting, sun in a wombed breeze. Yet, the gates of time will part for me, hie me a mountain throne--thirty-five now, I mind much less being a rejected thing by those of current importance--the sky I grow toward will not pass, and I will sing, influences and all, and be a king. - March: Year-day 72 Still, sister and brother, each in your frames, I here, alone, sadly meandering, depart from glory a while, dreaming names, stories, for my condition, reduced thing I have / by my desires & dares become, feeling the need to cover what thechild in me would leave exposed because I've some / inhibitions against the pure, the wild. To walk where I walk I decline to ask anyone to do, though I'd like each to follow now and then, while Istep from/ change to change; just as for a lineman, each given task left by a storm or accident in hollow, on height, deepens me as/ I rearrange. - March: Year-day 73 Today the power men woke up to leave and, sister, brother, the old airs relaxed in this hard-pressed inn; for few of us grieve when warm lights rescind what has overtaxed as the ice of double-shifting had done; so we and the linemen, not being sure we'd last another day--despite the fun easing it, though forced to--welcomed the cure. Enough is enough, as you sometimes hear, and we all concurred; and so the men went rolling home from their interrupted year, the long hours gone; and the rest of us bent toward cleaning up. The torn trees wept. While near, sad, not two weeks lived, one flagellant Lent. - March: Year-day 74 Starships to Andromeda. Warps of time. Wherever there is emptiness, we fill and fill. Even black holes will learn the chill of our intrusions. Creatures/ so sublime, we suck a planet dead with such deft tongues, swarming through its airs, it's hardly awake by the hour we've swallowed enough to slake the top of our thirst, collapsing its lungs. "Bless us" we ask an eternalized God to bolster our mad insecurity, the fuel of our power, the reason no sensible reason is needed to prod our devastations of this deep orbed sea, this Eden of the fish of fiery snow. - March: Year-day 75 Now the storm is over, the linemen gone, and poems I meant to write still somewhere hid beneath my consciousness, I now go on, determined to fill the blanks, seal the lid, even if it does take till fall, or next year. When faith weakens, hang to hope: The trees-- though so many by the vile ice were hexed-- did, frozen to earth, spent, trunks split to knees. And so, when what is sought is found, and shown, budding all over with flowers and leaves despite their wounds, which cannot/ be removed, I and you will be happy we had known the man who struggles rules the man who grieves, raising in sunlight what persistence proved. - March: Year-day 76 Knowledge is the hemlock of innocence, and that is why old Socrates was killed. Innocents of Athens who heard hissense ought not--thought those in power--be so filled. "Keep innocencealive" they whispered round, "else knowledge will destroy what we have won. We mustn't let a manwhose thinking's sound ask questions that will leave our frauds undone." Through the alleys moves a shadow of peace, nodding to the winds and wandering cats, adding to the enchantment that is Greece, ducking/ a wife's flexed yells/ as if they're bats, teaching as if teaching could never cease nor human learning/ move slower than rats. - March: Year-day 77 (#5 of 15 I removed earlier this year.) - 5 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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