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.


Sunday, December 24, 2006


19 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (275-289) - October: Year-day 275 October, month of changes, touch, change me who so reluctantly displays his fire fearing he isn't full enough to be worth seeing, fearing his truths won't inspire, fearing what can be harvested from him it would be better to let rot; to hope next year his form and substance seem less grim to his brown eyes than now / more charged as trope; that imagined rejections he expects will come/ not come, or if they do, not leave him shrinking into hardened ground as though he harbored some disease/ one who inspects would hastily confirm; so ought to grieve, waiting for the saw's screech, the masking snow. (5-29/30-80) . 25+ ?! . (2006-01-23; 2006-12-24) - - * 09.23.06 note: Be on the watch for the before-1976 October sonnets. - - October: Year-day 276 While some hearts wither, have acutely dried, mine moistens, no matter the dust that dunes in my veins. Without faith, nothing is tried, not even the musics portioned in spoons, not even caryatids holding glory, not even the movement that sadly wounds. In each of these sonnets winds of a story mixed with light and the smell of rain and sounds sometimes off-key swish, sprint, loll through your rages and ecstasies. Take to them if they take to you. I write/ out of need and desire; and as much as I cull from other sages, each work of mine must carry me or quake; yet be itself, however/ purged of fire. (2-9-78; 3-4-78; 4-13-78; 12-24-06) - October: Year-day 277 (#9 of 15 I removed earlier this year) - October: Year-day 278 Here's what I wrote when I turned twenty-four, still unaware: There was I child I knew Who ran with deer and was admired; yet two Alone had pierced his silence--two with more To give than most. And when the spring was floor And ceiling coming green, the trio grew, And time would flow through summer like the coo Of distant doves, like water trembling shore. Yet soon, too soon, Earth's children die, and still The round of flakes and apples sweeping down From four and twenty boughs to twice my days, From four and twenty winds of twice my will Must wither me. But child, I shall not frown On those who wonder wonder at my ways. (1-2-78; 1-16-65) - October: Year-day 279 Mistakes, regrets, pending dilemmas, death. Catch yourself/ in the middle of a breath. On bare twigs balloons pop. Winds/ squash on walls. One never knows who a mockingbird calls. When leaves leave their trees, silence hangs behind. Our Earth's protected by its cloudy rind. Nothing's separate as we think it is. Even a pebble isn't merely His. Gregory Bateson can mess up your head, but better that than a vision that's dead. "Ecology . . . the study of the inter- action and survival of ideas and programs . . . in circuits." Summer, fall, winter, spring. The immanence of God. Released fuzz. (9-20-77; 2-9-78; 2-10-78; 12-25-06) - October: Year-day 280 Now, while each delusion and illusion dries, like those roots in abstract order near my pond since the bulldozer snapped them at the skies and axe men sliced them free with glinting wands from that Chinese elm the children climbed in, beating its thin, dead branches down; yelling for fun at me: now, I come with a grin-- thinking of all that redness and swelling. Still, never something I thought I might enjoy, the roots are hard to gather; but since that tree, always just half alive, has, like a lame boy, been forced from strength, my need is to be fearless in removing. To admire what I grow is easy; to destroy it, not. (circa 1965) - October: Year-day 281 Homer has/ stormed through all. And so they say: "Pull down your tents. Forget it. Douse your fires. Why should we fight with shadows? Why should we stay, trembling in snow, because we have desires? Pack up your knapsacks, friends; it is no use. Why should we cringe from snakes, battle with flies, or wonder all night if a peg is loose? Why should we starve: to be syllable-wise?" Dante and Shakespeare--they felt that storm too. And did they run from the terrors? Did they swerve? Let us keep our fires; keep our tent ropes new. Words, life, love: if it seems foolish to serve to some, let them pull down their tents; go then. He's thundered round our heads, too, and will again. (circa 1965) - (Line two in the following is more situational thanit is dogmatic.) - October: Year-day 282 Let others use their minutes as they wish, but I will keep mine close to what is old; like Keat's Grecian urn or Yeats's fish, my minutes shall be crafted: For if rolled as on an anvil or as on a wheel-- if hammered and so dented with a shine or blessed with figures bright that seal us to the gods--each, heat will refine: each, whether static in its performance or animated toward an end and filled with what half-world people clamor for, will be set upon a table to build, to destroy (as imaginations see): united acts to bear or/ bury me. (circa 1965) - October: Year-day 283 Yew-honored soul crags (over life roars, cold with death, that mock him who runs in a trance up there as some naked fool come to dance through the moon) measure their immortal hold on life by all creative motion's told Earth's children where a poet's inward glance ignites inhibitions to topple chance from their regions of salt and air and fold: those marginal zones where our Shakespeare roamed imponderable storms, where Keats employed their frangible tissues with Merlin powers; where Frost, calm master of the white and loamed, gardened a poetry our ears enjoy: those coasts I praise, into eternal hours. (circa 1965) - October: Year-day 284 "Sonnet to Shakespeare" O master of keys, of treasures, lord, A billion crowns in praise upon your head. No, more, since tombs cannot in secrets board Your play, let Hamlets ever hear the dead. Did I say dead? But bones alone must be. What Prospero could die, though buried deep His rod? Yet tempests must on rocks roll sea To wash the world and round it with a sleep. O golden globe from whence our day takes life, Spill warmth, throw light for us; unlock your heart Forever, so those jewels will soothe this strife Man bears because his body lacks in art. Sing, bard on Avon born, no songs of death, But pour your poems pure with each man's breath. (12/14/62: on a flyleaf of an "ancient" Hurst & Co book entitled Shakespeare) - October: Year-day 285 "To John Keats" Brave spellstar, child of magic beauty, arc Eternal of triumphant truth, soft-send Those lyrical effusions we attend-- Owls who pursue the melancholic lark. Wand our sweat into dew. With suns embark, Renewed Olympian; from night unbend Men's hearts. You are th' explorer of his end; The shepherd's flute that stedfast casements mark. Far wing soul's satellites, commuters bright; But yours among the farthest glows, like Ruth, Desiring only that it loves. Unstilled, Majestic; more than mortal, you are light, O ageless youth with aged wisdom filled: In all things Beauty is; in all is Truth. (1962) - October: Year-day 286 "What does it matter, friend, how much we dream? A poet's eyes are neither bulbs nor moons. They do notgrow, or shine, more than could seem; or pull the green and dying from lagoons. And though his ears may hear, his fingers feel, his tongue may taste, his nose may smell--ist gut-- they do not guide, or teach, or make things real; his heart, if anything, is bitterroot. And what does it matter if he stays at home to nurse a brother lost to blood and phlegm; a poet dies in every worthy poem: and travel will not lessen a one of them." "No, Rome cannot change beauty. You are right. Give Tom my best; and John: thank you. Good night." (circa 1965) - October: Year-day 287 What scope I have; what promise yet to prove, my present dreaming only can surmise: If I will struggle down a nettled groove or shake the string to kite a zone of skies, a dozen years, at least, must make their rings around the fevered jerking of my pen; and words must rise from peasants as from kings to tell me if I live or die, and when. So in the now--which passes to recall-- I run and swish and stumble like a boy against the gully on a hill with all his sparkle burning through his fingertips and up the curve that holds his diamond joy until its flight's applauded, or it/ rips. (circa 1965) - October: Year-day 288 I journey unexpected, Venus bound in writing as I do. The clocks may break before me, fall, spring seconds away, ground. I will publish their graves; a galaxy rake with treble staffs. Time masters me not! I play with time, toy of my ever-youth. I swing it on my wrist, and watch it rot in snow--end of a relative truth. Day falters on the plains of coming night, and nights die weakly when dawns arise from beds, mightily dressed. But neither rite is truth enough for me since solar size makes no difference. All-time is truth, but none shall stop my pen, whose song of will/ has won. (circa 1965) - October: Year-day 289 Mysteries of the mind: Entire designs, nuances, descriptions are sometimes dropped unconsciously when a work's set out, stopped for a while, its time, colors and flexed lines considered complete: defined and defined. "A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state of mind by means of words," ValĂ©ry has said. Keen. The mind is a desert challenging rain. Joint by joint the syllablesrace and brake, turn upon each other, hum in the brain; yet I'm often a shelf for its own sake. Put on me what you will. Empty, unfinished, I'm nonetheless here: rough, but/ undiminished. (septet: April,1978) - 19 of 25 - Brian A. J. Salchert

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