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.


Friday, November 24, 2006


6 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (78-91) - March: Year-day 78 What once was clear is clear no more, yet shall be clear and unclear again, rising up and falling down, now dark, now light. A shell which holds the sounds of waves, yet not, holds us. You come to me; I, you: each into each, wishing to be as two transparencies, films of substance in intermingling reach; willing/ only to give/ in slow degrees. In our hearts: dunes, mountains, rivers, old skies revolve, and birds, through the eyes of gazelles. In our skins: words of spies and counterspies dissolve, and laughs, with the ringing of bells. In our minds: every dream that mystifies or solves/ chases us from (or into) hells. - March: Year-day 79 St. Joseph the Worker's Day, and the swallows, ensconced again at Capistrano, we, forced to see our reasons are/ full of hollows for the trillionth time, mordantly agree when a letter from an insurance rep cites me liable for an accident I never had, and sends us out-of-step as that sold orange van in Beaver Dam sent. High on a mountain or skyscraper, much can be logically fixed on clear days, though not all, and certainly not all ways. And on clouded days or in caves and such, little, if anything, with reason, stays, hiding and changing as models' toupees. - March: Year-day 80 Guilty? Oh yes, we all are: in this; in that: railing against pollutions of water, air, land/ while ignoring where our selves are at, sickened by fear and hate and lack of care, and alcohol and nicotine and hash and marijuana and the dust of death's angels, and vallium and stolen cash and gambling--all/ impoverishments of breaths. Not taking time for proper exercise is one of the pollutions I allow. You? Prostitution? We're so worldly, wise. If ever once we truly gathered how our furious desires pluck out the eyes of our weak, endless spirits, we'd change: now. - March: Year-day 81 Gods o of laughter, of sorrow, your voices here we hear, rolling across this round mountain with the cool fog from the sea, the old choices, the old commands. Goddesses o of fountains, of fires, your changing shapes we see, escaping from earth with the dreams of sleep, the old dances, the old paralyses. Dressing, undressing, obeying, rebelling, we stake our chances. Yet verses we approve, however rough, however ragged, obstacled, should be somehow acceptable to those concerned, should follow the curves of feelings enough/ they both enclose & magically free that space and time we've honorably/ earned. - March: Year-day 82 (for Sandy Troedel) Kumquats and boysenberries and the edges of love. If who I am is less than who I might have been, less than you, clouds and hedges still scare and please us both. And as I grew, you grew too; and as I grow, you, as bright and frail as shafts of wheat, as today's breeze, each to her own fullness. So, though wrong, right, or neither, we can smile and hug with ease. That is why, mom, this afternoon, I smear our bland white bread with exotic preserves and chant incantations to frighten fear from the gray, the bush, to compose our nerves. Come, mom. Come sit. Come play, come talk, come hear. Oh! how from bark and pane that robin swerves! - March: Year-day 83 We are strange: mammals of sleek consciousness veined with darknesses, irised with light, damp as a root cellar in our bones/ but less warm, flowy as a gown, stuck as a stamp carefully placed so whatever it is it's stuck to is sure to get where it should, tired as an arthritic dog poised to whizz through flamed hoops, sharp as an ax/ killing wood. Confide in us; sooner or later we'll be sure to let everything out: inks from their pens, bulbs from their sockets, decay from their teeth, just as/ we allow a heel/ out for a walk, sly (and obvious) winks/ out for approval, seeds out/ for a jay. - March: Year-day 84 Again it comes, close, riding the prevailing westerlies, crow presence, hard to believe, huge as a house, dreamless, caught in a wailing that joins, yet/ mocks ours. What butterflies grieve but the dead leaves, this morning's wind so strong we can see it do as yesterday, drive an empty box near perfectly along the steep curve to our lot, passing alive? So Janet Gilles Araoka, away in Japan mothering two boys, returns from that confusion into ours, and we-- not at all expecting she'd come/ to stay, or come so soon, or, as she has--bring ferns, and bonsai yews, and roses, and a plea. - March: Year-day 85 The problem with death is it stops the voice, but not the artist's, the maker of light; the fires in him are so limned they/ daze night, Tiresias him in the realms of choice in his awareness of his place and others' as they speak to the edge of his last word inthe manner in which he is best heard, he with his/ starred fathers, and sons, and brothers. The fern in the mirror, droopy yet strong, sending with no visible pause arced shoots through the stodgy air (in this bedroom), rates a double of praise for its green-rayed song as, when, expectantly, flared from their roots, Earth's visionaries rise: to end Man's dates. - March: Year-day 86 Thank you, Harold Bloom; A Map of Misreading springs my bones, freshens my blood, strengthens me, forcing me to struggle with thoughts exceeding my extended abilities to see until I have met them over and over. Nothing is better for a lazy spirit, However sweet/ resting/ in stingless clover, than to enter theory, and never fear it. Milton in England--where did Shakespeare go?-- Emerson in my United States: seeds from which more seeds still darkly form and grow, belated as we are, our hopes and needs most difficult to fill, and fulfill, so beset with anxieties where/ light bleeds. - March: Year-day 87 Sleep: the body's balm, or so one's led to think: the shadow-time rejuvenation comes; those moments highly active brains can sink from their jittery waves, buzzes and hums, draw inward all their energies, for needs that in their daytime states cannot be met but merely, sometimes, recognized as seeds whose potencies will sprout and blossom; yet require darkness and quiet for their best/ development. Eight hours today. Eight hours I find I quail to admit, in my quest (however foolish) for eternal flowers, are not a waste; that by denying rest of such an order/ I might strain our powers. - March: Year-day 88 Up from the left, ahead, a pickup pulling a boat approaches the freeway, disturbs my being, primal lakes/forests/times bulling to awarenesses, nouns becoming verbs; then recollections of Chicago: yards & yards of people from the Tri-State seen rushing to unite, bless polar regards, show how airiness replaces the screen consciouness stood when insights manifest archetypes, and time collapses, & places, and one's insignificance radiates with one's significance so that the jest of the world, the glory--we; all our faces-- dances, alive with gratitude; elates. - March: Year-day 89 Such darknesses, such searing lights, Lord, jam my simple attempts to see these last few days. It's almost as if from not enoughpraise (or too much) I could forget who Iam, what little of me I have a grasp of; that amidst those changes within, without, my rankled mind drifts about and about, trembling, between the ports of hate and love. Maybe so. Maybe always so. Whatever, I need You now to walk with me across the hilly fields and through the fallen branches in the ice-stript woods, and along the clever alleys and streets of this chill sense of loss I live with, and its plethora of chances. - March: Year-day 90 The stubby tough potentate shouts and drums, swatting the wind with the back of his hand, throned where the Lake Michigan thumbnail comes to its inside top in the promised land; and all the king's horses gallop and ney, gathering the votes at the polling booths, and somewhere stuffed on the dark side of day jesters are glowering with strips of truths. Yet clearly this long-lived limerick king limericks his peasants and knights quite well for all that/ in his limerick-exciting manner. His realm does thrive! So one who'll bring his power to put down those who would spell "liberty" elsewise/ may/ not be inviting. . . . - March: Year-day 91 Cry out, my spirit says, cry out to God, or The Supreme Being, The Primal Rune; the world gives but a condescending nod, hearing the strange inflections of your tune. Cry, though it only does you/ any good, keeps death from your bones, each day on the run, helps them to swerve precisely when they should yet doesn't do/ what you'd rather undone. Rabbit, forever, in fear of the wolves, hummingbird having to cross a great gulf, man, different, on the side of the small, cry, though it hurts, as if trampled by hooves; do as you do, though it isn't enough; pray for those moments that will better all. - 6 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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