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.


Saturday, November 25, 2006


7 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (92-106) - April: Year-day 92 Tomorrow President Ford will arrive in this badgered country of beer and cheese, political hype, political jive, political shots at a passing breeze, mixed with an honest spice or three, performing for us. O the man himself is concerned enough; that won't change his bothersome storming where, after the ice, so much must be burned. Spears that were limbs with intricate ends, fanned to graced benevolence, rupture us coldly who watch, watch/ for the hibernating green to camouflage the wounds wounding the land, and skies of spirits that would strive more boldly to conquer loss/ but for// reminders seen. - April: Year-day 93 President Ford, I am not on your side though here and there we may find we agree; wheeling around in this "land of the free", there are too many times I'm pushed to hide with my thoughts and desires; bury my pride because laws condemn me for being me, and some folks imprison me when they see I am not like them in the deep and wide. So today you pass through wealthy West Bend, seeing how ice can despoil and create where this small writer, and his smaller friend, in a world too small for their energies, may have learned the best what greeds they must hate. - April: Year-day 94 The ways I love are dangerous, concealed as they are under disguises of care. Erase that. I'm not really so congealed; or, from the other side of sight, so bare. The problem is, the difficul--, the truth, if you really want to know, is that I'm lonely, like a hawker in a fair booth no one stops at; pirates, without a lime. Oh, what a joke this whole thing is! Who knows-- maybe I am a devious twerp, armed from the heart with snaky designs, a man out to get you (whatever way) with shows of false impressiveness; with small words, charmed to bursting; with looks that/ win what they can. - April: Year-day 95 Which hour was it I first learned who I am: this hour, this hour, where my dreamings begin, or an hour passed, where my dreamings began, or one to come, where my dreams willswim; or will I never learn, or always learn, whether in or out of a given form how here I am loose and here I am firm, or how well I'm sewn, or when I am torn? Ulysses, old, clambered out of his ship; Adam, old, driven from the Garden/ slumped; Satan, old, fire-eyed stretched/ against his fall. I, what I know, will know, making this trip where clouds and roots and animals are clumped, accept from the past, and/ change in my call. - April: Year-day 96 Closed in this bedroom, the sun hidden west, a lavender haze to mock me behind, I do what I can with the light I find from the shaded bulb on my crowded desk and the still blue air my windows impress as I pick and order out of my mind the imaginings there that best shined when they first sparked in my synapses' clasp. Weeds, timbrels, diatoms, bells; houses, docks, offices, slips; a goldfinch? warbler? alighting near a crow, then coastering shallow back from the oak: a warbler, I'll say, this writing; a goldfinch some other, when autumn rucks. The crow? It's really a starling I'm sighting. - April: Year-day 97 Touch me not; sleepless, I am weak as fluff of dandelion, only to be kept in the camera of memory, rough and dusty, and, as recalled, to be wept over, smiled at, held in a thought, and sailed on the waves of the air; or in the frame memory of a camera/ curtailed for us, where we love, to name and rename. If yesterday I felt I'd embrace you, today I feel more I could do so still; tomorrow I hope I will still feel so. Yet what I feel/ I probably won't do, today or tomorrow, fearing the chill of a lost friendship I'd rather feel grow. - April: Year-day 98 On the average, we American voters line up for hits; our ignorance cheers hell; in our voting we flounder as sailboaters who've never sailed, yet try to, though the swell we should have begun on does not exist and we/ go down with our votes in wild crests because of feelings we could not resist, believing those (believed too late) were jests. Time on time, without end, doing our thing, the slithey truths we are gatherers of, learned and forgotten, we opt for the sting of the viper-tongued, thinking that there love of country is the most sincerely shown despite how wickedly the winds are blown. - April: Year-day 99 When the universe ends, what beyonds? Hell? Purgatory? Heaven? Dimensions only dreamed of? Or not even a nothing lonely and afraid? Who can any way now tell, or could ever? Of what importance are these questions? Blinded by a middling sun, awed byauroras, winds--on this sheet, spun, here, I still write these words to reach: how far? Deep in a city's yellow night, shrunk, lost; rooting the elements with a coarse word hard to appreciate,hard to transume, I tweak the eternal; ignore the cost, a rose's fragrance on my fingers heard, and the flames surrounding an icy plume. - April: Year-day 100 If I weren't forcing myself to make rhymes and worry about the syllable count and the argument of the first eight lines; the denouement closing each sonnet out, it wouldn't be so difficult to fill as if quite naturally from inside this form approved by my persistent will, this challenge to my implacable pride. Then, even if I should somehow fail, though gallantly striding along the rail to make our attentiveness most worthwhile, I at least should there have spoken to you and gotten us somewhat pleasantly through on the form and meaning of that frail style. - April: Year-day 101 Each of us hews a life unknown to us yet I wish here to represent us all: disheveled, vital spirits who fly, fuss, meditate; who doctor each other, brawl. So we're not the same. So I can't be you in particulars. Common realms remain enough that/ shows of me are enough true to intrigue and charge through their joy & pain. You know how it is: there are things we've done that we keep secret, and there are things we strut, though we sometines/ bring into the sun/ things we should not; neither you nor I see perfectly, roiled as we are by who's won, by time, by things. Poems cage perfidy. - April: Year-day 102 I hate time, having to bend to it, aware of our existence in each other, of having grown/ from a father and mother; my trying constantly to make things fit within the tick-tocks that won't quite because the durations of them are longer than I calculate against how fast I can experience them from coming to was. A sparrow hawk pulsing over a field, a tall friend yelling good-bye from a door, the holy leaves waiting/ to be revealed, each land-and-ocean-watching sandy shore; my eyes by yours magically touched, healed: voices out of stones that stretch and sway; soar. - April: Year-day 103 Tomorrow, Jefferson, man of the farms, whose intellect surpassed our constitution yet who hid in the country of its charms a salience (for fear of) diminution. And what that secret value was and is I'd like tosay, and say and say again, but go ask him as, lovely, it was his whichrounds and deepens/ flat and/ shallow men. The point is: Intellects can not get stuck in one pinched way of going/ if this Earth of conscious being is to long survive; so Thomas, while the rural ease and muck both were delights to him, still knew the worth of ranging/ far around, Bucky-alive. - April: Year-day 104 Relax, it is past time, past time, past time. Your uptightness has gone too far, too far. Though softly you reflect upon a star, you much too nervously jostle to rhyme the details of your day-to-day existence, mourning the lack of this, surplus of that, wanting swift light magics out of your hat but getting nothing for your strict persistence: nothing other than headaches and tight bowels and burning blood and trembling flesh and bones and thought-aches setting consonants and vowels and metabolic tics choosing tunes, tones that indicate to those who care/ who owns dreams to jerk the eyes and chuckle the jowls. - April: Year-day 105 Desires--hear them, drumming across your windows-- leaves, rains, air; moths, June bugs; fingertips; birds: the ragged i's of blocked dreams; the thinned o's of throats shouting coarsely understood words: the sun that cannot quite get/ through the cloud: the pale shoot delayed/ by a granite rock: ideas lost in neural mishaps: cowed motions: chances slain because of a clock. Last night five plus lines came to me. I tried to keep them in my head during my sleep and till after midnight at work. Three died, or have seemed to, leaving something we'll bleep for now. Explorers in my brain have spied with their hearts before, and will, what caves keep. - April: Year-day 106 For several days, warm sun without clouds; today, clouds with just fringes of sun. Cool in the wind, my organs boil; I can't fool anyone. Yes, such weather rules me, crowds against my limbs and thoughts, jacketing their frenzies; but it also arouses frictions under my skin, setting each of the dictions vying for prominence in amazed air. I didn't want the clouds to come trumpeting their grayness against my frail off-white life. I wanted more sun. Why suffer a sting from depression again. For me, the strife of merely getting on is enough. Weather like this? Oh, at least I have a long tether. - 7 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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