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

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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.


Sunday, November 26, 2006


8 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (107-121) - April: Year-day 107 Aftermath: warm weather still; a Good Friday too good to believe, seventy-six and climbing/ with just a light haze for this high day this morning to indicate the hour hand on reaching three will catch us watching rain again, will catch us on our silent knees asking false forgiveness for all the pain we've caused and cause/ between our/ rosaries. Golgotha, ground of our spirits, the thief of jeers; the thief of blessings, let the sun shine, despoil our looked-for symbol of grief, our Linus cloth, the vacuous relief we get/ thinking a sign that says we've won has been given us, who founder, undone. - April: Year-day 108 Holy Saturday; I finally finished John Ashbery's "The New Spirit", poet of self-imposed isolation, diminished desires, that I am, knowing how to blow it, yet not even doing that very well, writing a meagre sonnet a day, half- expecting to be killed soon, marked for hell, forever unable/ to rise, to laugh. "The System"? "The Recital"? I don't know when I'll get around to reading them. Death would certainly cut my chance. From the dark I now am in I would just have to go to that dark as I am, without that breath of Ashbery air to give me more spark. - April: Year-day 109 Easter dawn, light strawberry sherbet striped, I sit here at my parents' dining table, remembering a child's stained fingers, his hyped nerves, and hearing geese I have not been able to see, the folded linen, the rolled stone returning and returning, as the dawn smoothes to lemon-orange, and the long known flame-behind-trunk, egg, forces to the lawn. Will be going to church this morning, sad though I am about it because I've got to complain there to my rife Rune God, grim through His followers toward those who have had hours/ unblessed ways. Ought a condemned man not join/ in Communion with those/ against him? - April: Year-day 110 In my left forearm an off-and-on ache disgruntles me, makes me look to my heart, wondering whether for anyone's sake I'm wise to expose my feelings and art as I do, showing isolation's flesh and bones where they're lodged in me; howthey claim my attention, depriving us of fresh outlooks, so that we wish/ I had no name. Yet Gail and Noreen made an Easter basket for me: a pack of Trident bubblegum, a Nestle's Animal Bar, and who'd guess-- an egg with my face. I would never ask it of them, any of it; but let it come. A body can't take too much loneliness. - April: Year-day 111 Emerson, man, your courage, verve astound! Such body your thought has, such power, I'm convinced its rising in you/ many times rose you/ gesturing, eyes intense, the sound of your voice stopping the books in your den just as now my reading your "Self-Reliance" moves me to quote to my wife; my defiance to lift me "upright and vital", this pen in my right hand, this red pen, chasing yours, pressing signs on this waiting looseleaf sheet so that it too rises (verdured with strength enough to embarrass the Supreme Court and the President and Congress)/ & speaks flowers/fruits that excite lives all their length. - April: Year-day 112 To rhyme is to punch the eyes of an owl; to attempt to mend days with threads of wind is to think you have found a rhythm. Scowl, look nonplussed, titter. I don't care. I've pinned them anyhow, the truths of these delights, these pains. To rhyme is to bite moons in trees; to make a rhythm is to stanza nights with the punctual passing of scared knees. So the leaves fall on all the shores of Earth, and the blood beats through arteries and veins; and doors close and doors open and hills climb; and whoosing, crackling fires affirm rebirth; and the ashes of summer build new gains; and the Black Angel greens with fame and time. - April: Year-day 113 Time crumbles like sand drying in a palm when memory makes presents of our pasts and unexpected turbulences cast terror and confusion into our calms; but so it is, for neither you nor I, however we build cities in the sand, can long build anything which strongly stands against winds and suns beating rainless skies. So new gives way to new gives way to new, and known gives way to known gives way to known, and always we are infants coming through, and always we are ragged to the bone; and if we must dig well to see what's true, we must, with understanding, build alone. - April: Year-day 114 O yes, "It is we who wither away, not the state", Randall; & yet we who grow strong and jouncy also. Imay not know enough to choose well the course of my day but that won't stop me from trying. Let's say our say then, vocally or as we flow otherwise, despite the angers that blow from us, the frustrations, regrets; so pray as caringly as we can, thankful for each moment we pass through, allowed to fill and be filled by: surgeon, patient, nurse; teacher, student; decadent; fireman, victim, store detective, policeman, guard; driver; mill/ mine/foundry worker: each a/ mystic creature. - April: Year-day 115 And so, when Chris Peters came to me smiling with excitement because she'd seen and heard Gwendolyn Brooks, my envy started isling me, and I acted toward her like a turd, happy for her, but stinky with complaints, irked at feeling a garbage island, cast from thought, my own included, the brown taints of hurt pride excluding me to the last. However, this same morning, more than I am worthy of, to be sure, I've been blessed with the duty of checking Mrs. Brooks out of this inn I audit for; so try to work and still chat, get good things expressed. My feelings pirouette behind my looks. - April: Year-day 116 If we kill each other, do the crows care? The male robins puff their proud orange breasts and trill their pleasant mating songs. Who shares? The spring birds mated/ weave their/ holy nests. If this rich nation fights with that for more/ befriended so positioned to be raped, its psyche shaken . . . even if its power breaks its attacker's holds, neither's escaped. Though Rune forgives; though Rune alone can judge, knowing the best the circumstances and/ the ways they've tangled, each (stuck in a hell) still has himself to fight with: forgive, nudge-- however painfully--toward health; demand some sort of restitution from; love well. - April: Year-day 117 April: turn; turn about: yet sweet; yet cruel: the hornets of mad weathers sting and sting, the daffodils of gentle light blow cool, the naked dancer wriggles off his ring. Inceptions chocked with death designs stretch forth. We meet ourselves/ remembering passed years. Our dreams from east and south and west and north, however deep with smiles, are deep with sneers. Your hand, now touching mine, now by itself, has fortunes in it only you will know, as dills and honey waiting in their jars, each one yours, each; each on its given shelf; and I will rest and work and watch and grow-- within, without--toward fruits and hearts and stars. - April: Year-day 118 What sorrows come upon me with the dawn, the brightness of its airs chiding my death; what spiteswhen I for safety view the lawn and a red pepper Stingray stops my breath! Oh, hu, hu! Can you believe? What spins? Please, I should be singing glories at my wake, be sharp and teasing asa lakeshore breeze, not a dumpy toad/ for-- for humans' sake. Everything in its rightful place: the world given, the world we make: towers of steel, towers of glass; mountains, sequoias, skies. Everything in its fitting dance: spots curled in an afternoon sleep; hood crest, mag wheel, eagle, CB; incense, songs, cuddling eyes. - April: Year-day 119 Conditioned reflex. A sonnet should rhyme; but not too definitely, so we're able to guess the word each line will end with. I'm serious! My words are/ all on the table. I will give one here, take another back, keep trying/ to shake my opponents, even if it is an imaginary stack I'm using. Don't tell me what I should leave in. I am only trying to do my thing; more, honor the charge to play life whole; I won't always seek to trick when I sing, slip you a seven you think is a king. Let's not argue about body and soul. Care about So Human an Animal. - April: Year-day 120 O--give the world away. We'll buy it back tomorrow. We haven't been using it very well, anyhow. From our sweet lack of understanding--it needs a rest. Sit. Maybe if for ten thousand years we let it whirl on its own, it will improve some, enough at least so we can rightly set our creations on it; be wise. But, come, I want you to see something. This rare Earth, blue, white, brown, grandly spinning in the light of its star, has only limited worth without us, even if we are fools, quite obviously, too often sure the birth of wisdom in us/ wields/ sufficient might. - April: Year-day 121 Lord, when the death frame's near, beam that belief I'll need to/ enter Glory, be that child You said each must. But what of now? the leaf turning. I seldom live as though--. Tossed, filed, I Am Who Am, yet/ pleased to be/ alive, move me, alive, to please, who so hard fails, who tortures himself: inside, outside; thrives not/ well; despite intentions, thrashes, wails. Peripatetic philosopher, Son of Man, my Brother, my spirit's one hope, I swear I'm so ridiculous: cocked dung, strutter of worded attitudes all spun from love, sincerity, but forming tropes more praised than acted on. Make virtues tongue. - 8 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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