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, December 23, 2006


17 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (245-259) - September: Year-day 245 Opening and leaving, lightening: trying to prepare/ for a necessary move, puzzled for the moment by one I'm eyeing eyeing me like the Mona at the Louvre/ it seems, I've marked for sale my Panasonic unit, and my file cabinet, and part of my/ chicken heart/ freaked by the chronic disease of being/ afraid to depart. If you are able to appreciate how rodents of doubt bore tunnels in souls, you'll extend your heart to this heart of mine to tell it again it's never too late to build the confidence that meets one's goals and carries one in to where birds recline. - September: Year-day 246 Popcorn and swizzle sticks. Who can I trust? Not myself, certainly, a proven fool, having walked the wrong halls in the wrong schools and darkened my days in these times of dust. Do this! Do that! Hurry! I must! I must! The typewriter ribbon slides from its spool. I'm seldom at ease with the simplest tools. If I don't quit talking, my fork will rust. I know it's a pity bears haven't found where I hide my honey-filled dead tree head even the bees are preparing to leave. When I'm empty, dry, and the only sound I make in the wind is an orange-red spouting smoke, crackling to ash, none will grieve. (9-2-76 / 9-24-76 / 12-23-06) - September: Year-day 247 Time is, was, will be, gets away, yet holds all each of us is in his going: soft, hard, obvious, imperturbable, scoffed, applauded, puzzled over/ looking golds, even silvers/ right in the eye and buying leads, tins. Perfection simply isn't ours to contain, recognize well; knowledge sours more rapidly than we can know, caught sighing. Still, we can somewhat remember, draw, sing, and in other ways record beauties passing mixed with uglinesses of leather wing, pterodactyls against the future massing while speeches and bells and conceptions ring, and pain greets the mouths of children caught sassing. - September: Year-day 248 Meet by intermingling, centered in care, so trilliums as well as rocks appear; the pleasurable with the painful share; the moments of courage, moments of fear. Some/ shadows/ tag behind, some slide ahead, some stretch out/ from your left, some from your right; your senses catch and draw/ from Earth's wild spread, and enter you and others/ day and night. I thus/ am not/ more important than you, nor you thus less important here than I. Each town and field someone you love walks through, humanized and deepened, is blessed thereby: a fist tight with dandelions, a brew of old Red Zinger, a mackerel sky. (lines 5 through 9 revised before or after the midnight point of July 29/30, 2005) - September: Year-day 249 The idea is to be a tone master, a beau regard of the interstices, perfectionist in banded alabaster. Where whitecaps bloom in our warm spirit's seas the trick is to be a king of the weather, the blood in a leaf not sufficing. Death, keeper still of imperishables, feather, bird, the need is to feel the nth of breath. So let them contend with you as they will, a beauty imbued can never escape, and nothing they attempt destroy your heart; and along their spines an abiding chill will constantly chide like a peeking drape as its rod announces each stop and start. - September: Year-day 250 If what I write strengthens your spirit, peaches! Each of us leans on his inner resources. So if what I write/ by enchantments reaches and fortifies your life against remorses conspiring to end it, sunlight and breezes you let down your hair or take off your shirt to enjoy. Pain dissolved by touch that pleases, sound and sense right, is anyone's desert. Sure, we would all like to be more aware, not miss the need in the tone of a word or a laugh or the movement of/ a finger, walk with a friend through cresting white warm air saving each other's life; but truth's deferred often from us/ though we thoughtfully linger. (4-11-77) (circa 09/06/03) (The virgule in line three; and further on, the italicizing of "more" and of "walk" were added 06/30/05.) - September: Year-day 251 Sometimes a man doesn't know where to start, confused by events into leaving them for others to experience, his heart choosing what's easier to do to gem his uncommitted hours: staying at home for the words of another or his own (concerts, funerals, games too far to roam), his energies half-asleep at the bone. Winds announcing the approach of a front, stars announcing the hiding of the sun, words dissipating toward distracted ears, the full-faced moon near the top of its hunt. It's a dream a man gets anything done when his body's so fogged his thinking veers. - September: Year-day 252 Civilizations: reaction formations of guilt. I murder them. In the rem sleep of my imaging, I end them. No nations. We have a human world to learn, to keep. Diversity? Yes, I want us diverse; but not perverse, not slitting out the hearts of each other. Too long has that mad curse enslaved and stunted us. I bring new arts. The lemon sun tastes good. The herbal snow cures a multitude of ills. Put aside your clothes, your eager weapons. The soft air tingles with delight. Your honesties show/ your dancing heart/ where openings glide for you to enter, pass through. Blossom there. - - (I think my poems ought to be voiced by a British butler; yet, perhaps not.) - - September: Year-day 253 It might be nice just to write this and give it away, Lord, as what it is in me that creates this comes from You who lets me live moments as these wanting them just to be used as the Father wills / the Spirit moves / the Son's touch strengthens for. You know my trust, although I pray, is weak; that it behooves me to pray all the more before I'm dust. Guilt, fear, and revelations: zeitgeist that this century's ending quarter in these states, curiously united, appears to show. Holy Job, holy Macabees, so fat am I, so rich, so desperate/ who waits for inspirations for--ain't fit to know. - September: Year-day 254 West Bend to Oakland City, Wis to Ind, one small relative journey out of state. Flick, peering through the flick flick blades, my skin flick glints in the flick flick flick sun as I flick undulate. We turn each other in; we eat each other; scream the other's sinned. When we shoot to kill--zip--we rarely sigh. When we shoot to kill--devaw--eyes ignite. Turning the wrong way in a river town I merely needed to pass through, I slow with my wife to the ash end of a street, worrying about the young gang around as we asked some beer-clutching men which road would track us right/ though we'd find/ two who bleed. - September: Year-day 255 So many of us are so unaware our protoplasmic natures will not do, have not what it takes to carry us through. We think our soft bodies beyond compare no matter they/ cannot fly, or repair themselves as starfish can; and look to screw more often than love, not caring much who it is that gets it, its soul bloody rare. Are we anywhere sure/ what we're about? (2006/12/23) Born of us, the computers bide time, grow, preparing for the hour they'll shove us out/ of our beds, laughing as we whimper, pout, and (raving naked) plunge headlong in snow as if only we had the right to know. - September: Year-day 256 The longer I live, the larger my view; the larger my view, the deeper my acts; the deeper my acts, the more I am true to the man I weave from fiction & facts: the spirit I weave in the woofing day; the body I weave in the warping night, dreaming of evil with good on the way; eating nutrition with fortified fright. Simpler and simpler what's too simple now, a man in his skin preparing to dive, preparing to swing from a supple bough as if he were o so blithely alive! Experience sane, innocence divine, the tighter I'm yours, the tighter I'm mine. - September: Year-day 257 Remembrances / fantasies: Mt. Tam-- the fog-massaging valleyed trees; the young intruder--no, the old naked "I am" trying to assert worth/ through something sung/ though the slow tongue's entangled. Bodies souled, created to transcend/ this place, this time: we humans: we are constantly controlled by mysteries, drawn deep/ by/ the sublime. Still, anxious for our lives/ protective of our goods/ disoriented by the powers our strivings gain & dream, we let a gloom envelop us who/ thought we were above each other (leaving/ the death merchants hours) who/ need to give each other/ growing room. - September: Year-day 258 (#7 of 15 I removed earlier this year) - September: Year-day 259 If war is insane--and it is, the only answer is for each human to be wise enough to refuse to fight/ though the eyes shrivel and the spirit is starving lonely. Charging numbly with your tattered flag struck at the proper height in violent air just doesn't make it though your underwear/ stays clean/ while your blood warms idiot muck. Bite off the heads of flowers, stick-pin bees, bury the mightiest redwoods in flames, petrify the oceans, strangle the land. There are nowhere more foolish bones than these who to prove their primacy tomb their names and leave their footprints in a wisping sand. - 17 of 25 - Brian A. J. Salchert

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