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.


Sunday, November 26, 2006


9 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (122-136) - May: Year-day 122 The self-winding watch of the poem ticks on so long as it's read, its readers held and charged and changed/ by what they// look upon/ and hear/ as nowhere are emotions quelled or the intellect left without designs to ponder, place, be pleased by. That is why while a good ode, sonnet, free verse piece mines its varied ways, it spells the ear and eye. That is why this first of May can indulge both Catholics and Communists and still tick finely too, opening our mouths, bending our recalcitrances, flattening the bulge of our self-importance, used by each will-- and using in turn--toward times without ending. - May: Year-day 123 Have you ever felt badly about things you have done? I have. So badly that I cannot stop thinking on some, and shout bleak condemnations continually at myself inside: so much so sometimes they confuse my necessary thoughts with their furious echoings, thunderous grey in a spirit whose skies ought to be fair. If God forgives me, who I believe does/ and has, who then am I not to. All you I've wronged, I know I cannot change what was-- however much I'd like to; know it's true// apologies/ are not enough. Because we're as we are, we're best when winds are blue. - May: Year-day 124 Confusion pervades. The moral designs formed in my psyche when I was a child still haven't dissolved enough for the wild in me to become act easily. Vines, bushes, trees/ chopped down, trimmed to formal lines of such preciseness I have often smiled sadly. Viewing them, I retreat beguiled and testy, my fingers/ playing your spines. Give, and take, though. All wildness wouldn't be acceptable either. Oh, incidents occur requiring more of the one than the other, the artist-woman must see-- having spoken, as I have, of balance-- must see it's relative to what's at hand. - May: Year-day 125 Killing time's one of my proclivities for sure. I do it best when deeply tired, letting my pen squiggle grey creeks where trees have laid down; my imaginings getmired in the swamps of dreams, the rem caves of sleep; and somewhat well at a dance floor's edge, gazing at lovers while into them daggers leap and the blood from their spirits spurts, amazing. The hours we force our beings to endure the exigencies of ill-bred desires! You'd think we'd had it with human manure and the hard smoke of malodorous fires! You'd think I'd have found an effective cure in the face of tombs and sinewy spires! - May: Year-day 126 Passing through, a salesman of pots and pans, of services, of words, trying to catch you off guard, get you to buy--my plans for doing so preconceived, set to match your wants so/ you equate them with your needs-- I work a little magic before you which (if done well) plants in your senses seeds of must have you nurture/ before I'm through. Then, whether I stay to see them bloom or hurry off to plant others, I relax somewhat, smiling to myself, because one who enjoys what I have to sell, whose door isn't trained to crush feet, who'll pay the tax of effort and time, is better than none. - May: Year-day 127 In Japan, yesterday was children's day. In America, another'll be theirs. Childless at 35; likely to stay so, still, I feel I understand their cares: that though they jump and roll and scurry off and seemingly want to laugh and dance past any rule or need, turning just to scoff when they're called, come home, anyhow, at last. Of course, there are the unusual cases: those, for instance, who run away for good, withdrawing to more salubrious places; those who/ run for a time/ to learn what/ should be done/ so they and others like their faces; those who suffer, can't run, but wish they could. - May: Year-day 128 Desolate, a dead leaf on a rough rock island in a swirling river, my stem anchored in a crevice of that rock, shock troops of water and wind tearing my flesh, shattering my bones, I wait for the knock that will snap my stem and set me adrift, a wish I constantly chant as the clock of the elements rudely chimes and ticks and tocks my disintegration. The moon gores the cape cloud passed by the night. The sun blinds a spread-eagled air. Too soon changes wrong what changes again will right. Someone/ flicks a match, and its moved flames prune/ to brilliance and ash, wisped from sight. - May: Year-day 129 So many poems exist, and will/ and will, leafing into sun, their small voices pressed against the wind, their bodies seeming still in the turning dance for whichthey are dressed variously--mounds, hills, mountains--as seasons touchand are touched by them. So many beings traveling out with their feelings and reasons momently caught for whomsoever's seeings. So, likewise, this embodiment of me, cracking open, uncurling, stretching: shape displacing sky, transformation of air, transformation of earth, of distant sea, the enchanting and enigmatic rape that fire is, dancing, still, taking to share. - May: Year-day 130 Give me the grace to forgive myself, Lord, Life, for my too quick tongue and too quick pen though I fear even that will soon be ignored by circumstances: again, again. Give me the grace to give of myself, Truth, Way, and not just for solace before death but moreso that Death as Rude Icy Tooth die/ because I and others honor breath. This moment, next, allowed to flash, alive in a world rife with splendors, sorrows, loves; or taken from it, the matter of me shed, left behind, compressed to dust, to thrive in trust, whatever new beyonds, aboves I work to move my spirit toward. O see! - May: Year-day 131 The world is full of recipes I'd just as soon forget, and full again of others I'd just as soon remember; let the dust hide, or not, whether grandmother's or mother's or Aristotle's or yours or mine. I'm told there are large carnivores and small birds dying out; that somewhere too soon in time die this Earth's needed elements, and words. The usual, usual: Synergetics, pyramid strength, Findhorn and Lindisfarne, the double helix, cloning, cybernetics, cryogenics, black holes, painting the barn, tush, Steps to an Ecology of Mind, exobiology, things left behind. - May: Year-day 132 Stopped to see Tom Montag last night, and learned it's time to get back where I started from, to deal more directly with what we yearn for: a United States where we can come and be comfortable, whatever forms our chattings take. And so the history of our nation must be rewritten: storms flavor its bland skies; songs nest in its trees. Oh, I know Tom may find it hard to praise this sonnet path I've decided to walk, it being too formal, too civilized: its borders too perfect for storm cloud rays to fall on with pleasure. But let me talk so; even here blood and thorns exercise. - May: Year-day 133 Expansive journals of Lewis and Clark, of Jefferson, or whomsoever we in this blessed country of the supposed free are privileged to use against the dark of the many stories sold us to mark our patriotism: thank you wells the sea in us under the moon;thank you each tree of our good wishes from its budding bark. Brought here, born here, let's recover what's true beyond where George's axed cherry tree rots and old dark Abe's vaunted honesty grew, knowing historians' redolent plots may not be the ones to hold ourselves to if we're going to abide, loose fear's knots. - May: Year-day 134 It's about time we let those who so hate that they'll kill willy-nilly where a foe is visioned have the days of the mad fate they apparently want/ so that they go to their deaths quickly and happily, leaving the rest of us to end our differences in peaceful ways, and avoid the false grieving of those heroing those/ who tossed their senses. No need to spout what revolution is; that it's sometimes right to die for one's thoughts; that this nation was born in violence; nor even to say your rights are as his, or his less than yours. Fight only soul droughts. When they kill in Boston, they make no sense. - May: Year-day 135 The words: "Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God" require no fancy philosophical support. No blank quiz of questions either. We needn't get antsy. What's true in its heart/ is true. Or, at least, we might say: "Obvious is obvious." When somewhere out of the brush a crazed beast attacks, detering it is up to us. So the king of England wearing his crown as if he were sovereign of part of heaven had to have that crown knocked off his cocked head/ to learn what's poorly built must crumble, down to its last weak brick, the incessant leaven of truth infusing it until it's dead. - May: Year-day 136 Common knowledge it is/ too often we/ make what is simple complex, leaving death outside the window no more than a breath of cold air designing, so what we see enchants us better than it frightens us who in artificial warmth think our lives cannot be suddenly nipped. Who survives? Anything can be blanked without much fuss. Today the air is hung with rain and fog, and the long flocks of ripples migrate south again/ on the asphalt flyway; our thoughts likewise, if we let them, sucking the grog of this weather too long. Pleasure your mouth with the liquor of light, and warm breeze draughts. - 9 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

No comments: