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.


Thursday, November 30, 2006


15 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (214-228) - August: Year-day 214 The prosaic and poetic truth is: a world-class athlete should not be controlled by the government of her or of his flag country, or else world games ought to fold. Money and power ruin everything even as they build everything anew. In the waves of starlight the life sperm swing wending orbs (circling their stars) green and blue. To be of and compete against the best in one's class is a hardship filled with joys no human force has the right to curtail I repeat/ because of my soul's high zest for the women from the girls, men from boys who so grow, regardless which win, which fail. - August: Year-day 215 Censorship? Feed 'em hell, the brilliant little things, mother, father, who in your God-fearing ignorance/ fuel hate. Let 'em toss your brittle responsibilities against rocks, sneering. So what if empathy withers, compassion and understanding drop, and respect never grows as each body grows. What deaths we fashion because we're insecure! What heavens sever! O complicated creature, answer chaser, who needs the solace of a place of honor; who cringes at his faults, extinction's arms! pray for discernment, that sacred eraser of generalizations that cast on her or him brute spites. Heal. Spread each/ other's charms. - - Note: Just after typing the above, I said to myself: "You're not to be believed." And then: "Don't believe me. You fall in hole." Take this for what to you it's worth. For myself: I am not quite sure what it means. - - August: Year-day 216 What's remembered last is remembered worst may not be as true as at first it seems; as everyone's blest, so everyone's cursed no matter the tints of actualized dreams. My body refuses to give and give; my spirit likewise implores me to sleep who/ with his allergies and else/ must live as . . . the athletes who jump and hug and weep. So I mark this page with signs you may read if you know the language I'm using here; I plant this garden with rows of good seed you may name and eat from/ to help kill fear; I touch prayer. Happy birthday, sister two. Strong grace for each soul, however dark, cruel. - August: Year-day 217 Noises in the park, nighthawks screeching peace, the Great Bear watches from an open field as corn, wheat, alfalfa crackle to yield. I'll give you a spirit shorn of its fleece that yours may be warm while pleasingly dressed. The rivers flow backwards to lay their eggs. The stiff teetotaler's in his kegs. When your eyes are closed, your vision is blessed. Handsome as the grasses and trees may be, as the flicked clouds and invisible gales, the night makes ghouls of the movable world. Mirrors invert what of me I may see. At the height of its beauty, a rose fails. In our hearts' caves/ who knows/ what awes lie purled. - - Note: A hiatus is upon me. I have been spending much of this day readying for it. Saturday I expect to be moving. Tomorrow I will be dismantling and packing my computer system. Am not sure how soon it will be back up. PM 10:05 Thursday 2006-11-30 - Brian A J Salchert - - It is Friday morning. - - August: Year-day 218 Being Supreme, Rune, thank You for my life; as harried as it is, it is much blessed in the mind I have, in my special wife, in the lands my emotions/ pop/ redressed. Maybe some choices I have made were wrong; maybe some choices I am making now are not the right ones for that or this song; still, here, I can make them, can even bow. Ha ha! Ha! Ha. Ha-ha, ha, ha! What fools prance the towns and countrysides of my heart! What wise men ride my spirit beyond schools! Sometimes where we finish is where we start. Whether or not I hold the/ proper tools, I hew and play contritely/ each learned part. - August: Year-day 219 Lord, let your great ones/ rise up from the poor, for their numbers are greater and more true, striving or waiting, depending on You, fronds light & airy, fronds bouncing with spores. Lord, let the triumphs that/ render men whole march through the humble and seemingly weak so the tongues of waters constantly speak peace and strength to the source, the ragged soul. Lord, let violence built by the false prides in a man, whatever his color, bury him, though I, certainly no matter my strivings, my victories, my grand asides, won't believe I'm holy enough to tarry with the saints. Precision, Lord, each man's eye. - August: Year-day 220 The end has come; the end willcome again. And always I will find a way to go. It does not matter how, or where, or when, or even why, or what I do not know. Down paths erasing in a shifting snow or7nbsp;trails of blood dancing/ from murdered men or into spaces where whipping rains blow, I prepare fordeath, and was, now, and then. Though entire worlds can pass without a trace or suddenly appear as from no source, apocalypses wander through your face with unremitting pride and long remorse, another time we'll enter at this place, welcomed; another, reached/ only by force. - - Note: I am back up. It is Sunday, 2006-12-17. - - It is Thursday, 2006-12-21. A belated note follows: - 2006-12-06 (after 3:33 AM) - - - Before I go on, there is a field of concern I must write about. That field of concern is sexuality. This is what I believe. - - - Sexual persuasions (sensitivities) are innate (are inborn). They reside in one's psyche (in one's spirit). As one matures, one comes--by means of reflection (of self-examination)-- to recognize them, at which junctures one can either deny or accept them. Any attempt to change one's sexual persuasions is a form of denial. - - - Sexual expressions (activities) are the results of choices (of the use of free will). They reside in one's neural- muscular constitution (in one's body). Any thing can be a source of sexual arousal. Examples are: the trunk of a tree, the smell of a flower, the wink of an eye. Wisdom is the monitor of free will. - - - One's sexual nature is highly complex. However, one's sexual persuasions may seem quite simple. Nonetheless, to say that one must adhere to a specific vision of the human condition is blatantly irrational, and can never be more than a matter of faith. Note: I do not mean to imply here that faith is silly, is without value. - - - Getting to me: Due to my low sex drive, I am essentially nonsexual, afterwhich I am primarily an autoerotic, and secondarily a homoerotic, and tertiarily a heteroerotic in both my sexual pesuasions and expressions. As it is, I am my own monastery. AM 4:22 - Brian A. J. Salchert - - August: Year-day 221 The weary traveler rests his bones. Oh yah? The weary traveler lets his ashes blow. No--the weary traveler leaves ma with pa and trundles out/ to catch the bounds of flow. When one dreams alone, one's dreams remain dreams; when with others, reality begins: to paraphrase a priest. Leaving, it seems, requires returning. Nature/ correctssins. The BigThompson, a part of its course/ changed, churned insidiously past the swank homes raised on the landfill it blithely had owned; the buried bed (from which it was estranged), insidiously also--waiting with its gnomes for the night now done/ when the canyon groaned. - August: Year-day 222 Hurricane Belle is ringing up the coast, whirling toward Long Island, my sister says. So what if/she's not one/ likely to boast. I'm not one likely to put on a fez, at least not today, happy as I am my ears won't be hearing Hurricane Belle, my meek bones feeling her toppled trees slam, even if she hasn't surged up from hell. There are certainly better things to flee and face/ though often we/ can't pick and choose the encounters we want/ or where they'll be/ or when or why or how. None want to lose. It's a rare spirit that keeps itself free, though violated by merely soft screws. - August: Year-day 223 "Still to this world its wondering beginner" o Howard, I too trim, elide my reason, endless desire to supercede the sinner; rejoice in those changes that shape each season. Tutelary poets, abstractionists, desperate at times, faced with mysteries, it does do us good to learn of & list rocks, minerals; flowers, insects, birds, trees: butter-and-eggs, snapdragons, foxglove, phlox; monarchs, even cabbage moths, sugar ants; barn swallows, robins, goldfinch, meadowlarks; elms, willows, birches, cedars, maples, oaks; myriad other others in our camps who whiff skunk, savor bass, feel dawn winds lap. - August: Year-day 224 Wladymir Cieszynski: deep poet, seed, whose V-bug veering into a parked truck sheared the growth of his enchantments, struck a fortune that froze the fires of his need: read. Death, I should appreciate you well, often enough beside you in a nod; left wondering why I was kept by God from Atropos' scissors within that spell: To live to die; to die; to die to live, exploring, so/ one's words will smile and cry and laugh and sing and hold; that where they give no one will have to seek the reasons why; no one will mind/ much flows/ through reason's sieve, the rooted man below/ leafing our sky - August: Year-day 225 "Hell is other people" said Jean-Paul Sartre; and the young and old in Lebanon weeping, and I, and perhaps you, forced to depart from who we are because of the hate leaping from the spirits of others, feeling, know. We aren't even sure Antarctica's free of the grime ofour conflicts, the soiled blow after blow by which we raise misery. Yet heaven is other people, too, hands sincere with food and clothes and comfort, lives willing to give even themselves for us. How dark are men's attachments to their lands, how glorious! Each of us, where he strives, should learn: "We are all Bozos on this bus." - - - (Regarding the words in quotes in line 14 above: see FiresignTheatre.) - - - - August: Year-day 226 Conflicts of the spirit. Life against life. Whether it is holier one's own breath remain, or be sacrificed: for a wife, a child, a friend, a stranger nudging death. Rock candy, sugarless gum, soybean oil. Somehow in a garden an aster strikes its white pose at a leafy breeze, the soil stands up for rain, enemies/ set their spikes. The life I've lived against the life I missed: Have no regrets I'm told, for regrets kill, but I do: people who asked me to stay, people I maligned, left, but might have kissed; the high school I attended on the hill, the high school I didn't, my dreams astray. - August: Year-day 227 Many of these sonnets many may say are but fair rhymed prose, sing-songs for a nose to snub; will not see here any repose of light or wall-shattering, sharp foray or honest, caring touch; will mark the day each was written for/ among the lost. Those, however right they are, let us suppose these sonnets will outlive, as thoughts we pray. How fervently I dream a perfect love is entering my life, not just a wisp of beauty I'm barely/ able to see; how darkly I likewise dream/ others shove me into death/ with poetries more crisp. When I tell you I'm insane, believe me. - August: Year-day 228 America, you crawl, walk, run, leap, fly, fall down. In Idaho they ride past groves of apples, tomato fields . . . dream of stoves hot with crackling pine, slopes numbing the eyes with the sweet smoke of snow. Wisconsin, I extinguish you, light you again, the droves of Chicago / New York not yours, the coves of Maine, the grains of Kansas not; yet my our beings thrive in each other: your lakes refreshing, shimmering my blood / my nerves; my images ghosting your waves and weeds; the streets of West Bend / Fond du Lac, the takes and shots they spawn, cutting us/ as they serve. Always/ work to grow/ regardless the needs. - 15 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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