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.


Thursday, December 28, 2006


21 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (306-320) - November: Year-day 306 If you, like me, are a dreamer, beware; there are other dreamers who do not dream as you; and it won't matter you can share and they share back, for neither they nor you will ever/ accept each other. You may seem, & hopefully will, and they may be ready to seem, also, to understand just who, what, and why; but such meetings won't be steady. Where women love men and women, and men . . . respectfully--a loving that depends constantly on the cares of those involved-- I enter/remain/leave praising again the God who creates differences, and sends weak me strength to do so/ and be resolved. - November: Year-day 307 It's before sunrise on Election Day here in Bethesda. I can feel me sitting nervously on a bed high and away in Innkeeper Hewins' Holiday, knitting a soft scarf of words for the coming cold. Down Rock Creek Parkway we'll take a short drive, pass Lincoln and Jefferson, bought and sold, before we turn north, bright, blue, still alive. Going out is a goodly tribulation no different from returning it seems when people are persons and each relation, wherever formed / however long, redeems. These united states form a deep, broad nation: they have oaks and sparrows for all our dreams. - November: Year-day 308 & what the hell's a good poem anyhow: one whose lightning ruptures its learner's heart, that thunders its curves of emotive thought the range of human hearing; veils its scars? Must dogma be shunned, & bleeding reproved; unique technique & flair given/ the green each age; few besides those gardeners/ approve leaf & blossom from their diligent seeds? How fashion rules/ & the kings of the past, sanctified, condemned! What it takes to last? I've had it! It just doesn't matter now. I know what I've done/ and expect to do. If you enter my words, you'll measure how/ I am, was, stay, bounteous with/ me / you. - November: Year-day 309 Sunrise, discussing possibilities, the indifferent beds in one twenty-two spread with green, Janice and I, seeking ease, eat, andleaf through our heads for what to do. Back in this West Bend Holiday Inn, we've got to find a place to/ move to today. Bless us. It may be long before we leave this city again. Comfort our new stay. Losses beyond recovery we've had and have, to points where laughter won't cover them. Still our state is merely oddly sad, much as my search for a Camelot lover. Neither I nor we sincerely have cared who consistently explore/ half-prepared. - November: Year-day 310 Happiness? an Eden I/ have not felt enough of, and at this rate, never will. My forward motions are too close to still. My tires spin & spin till their rubbers melt. I wear my corduroy to keep the chills from shaking me. Why is it/ I do not/ strip down & fight, defeat this present lot I've fallen into, cure my sloth-formed ills? Can I not rush as a mountain stream rushes, changing the rocks, glittering in the eyes? Can I not feed the animals and brushes, provide a sustenance that births surprise? Who understands what on each of us crushes, and what joys lighten/ for each who defies? (1976 and 2006-12-29) - November: Year-day 311 Destiny: Judas; chance: Matthias. One, my God, my Rune, inscrutable some ways, communicating love where the whip flays, faith / hope me, clean with sustenant sun the dirty spots of my being/ that light as well from me may flow who on his knees so often in contrition feels a breeze inspire him, yet drinks fear, though he'd tell spite: Burn my makings, each one; I still will praise my Rune Supreme for gifting me to please myself and others so/ with sounds that raise intelligence and feelings, spirit trees. "So live"--"You're a dead man"--too late--toil; toy. Live "one day at a time." "Share in my joy." (11-6-76 and 12-12-76) - November: Year-day 312 Forgive me, Father, Rune, my being's Life, for all the times I've turned from You and so from others, myself, things; thus, through their strife and peace, I pray that those who've come to know sorrow because of me/ also forgive; and I forgive. Tangled wonders, we each, however inconsistently we live, need that deep strength which holies his/her reach. Farm drives, crazed streets of a metropolis, busy but dream-light avenues of towns; marshes and hills and lakes and woods and fields, rivers of white bass, alleys where lips kiss and whistle and/ blow smoke; trench diggers, clowns on floats, batboys, tractors. Be of love's yields. (octet: 2-19-80; sestet: 2-20-80 & 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 313 O, the inventions of Man, how they move! what jobs they end, begin, change! what needs fill! what wants! what dreams create! and things produce! and acres heap! The designs on the quilt you snuggle under: let them patch you off, intrigue you from your sense of where you rest so even a familiar voice is lost on your ears, even a friend's touch not felt. Each able to elide the flesh and be rapt in the Being with Whom we are one-- the prof no more than the yardman can see battering each other gets nothing done that couldn't better be done elsewise. Arms. But we/ who transcend, descend. Rise. Flout harms. (11-23/24-79) - November: Year-day 314 Grandfather Salchert / Grandfather Morse--one a railroad engineer / one a G. P.-- the former's John Joseph, his second son, and the latter's petite Seviah E., joined in the fall of 1933, lost their first before his first year was done; after shattering grieving, parented me, who by Alden St. Cloud wills to be known. "God is pale doubt, the devil bright denial" says Laura Riding, distubing a poem. When humans ponder, justice/ rarely lights (not even when strengthened by jury trial). In one state an act leaving one one's flights, in another traps forty/ years from home. (1976 and 1978) - November: Year-day 315 I cannot help it, and do not want to: I am an immanence of my Rune God; and when I best shine, I love all of you. So am I trussed by the Way/Truth/Life's rod. Each living ring/ hugged by a living ring, still I'm a man finding himself in pieces where/ his being steps; lost, drooping on things strange, a fool whose hurt/ fecklessly increases. How sad is sadness over sadness then, shaking a belly until its sides ache? Wagner was a megalomaniac. To Ben Jonson and Walt Whitman, miled men, I dedicate these shadowy lights, knowing only/ the Last Sphere exists/ beyond growing. (2-1-78 / 2-22-78 / 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 316 Because they do not understand my silences, they do not understand my sounds: I'm buried in Boise. Philosophy. Charms. Sentences. Yes, yes, tree: extend, share yourself, be married to the universe no matter the deaths wealth and a falsely defined "need to survive" continue to give birth to, rottinghealth, the still cruelly organized human hive perpetuated. Money/ controls God. Survival has come to mean/ isolating each from each/ so to the cleverest the spoils, as far too many of us nod to fear (however sane at times that mating may be). Swans circle, rise, out from my chest. (2-1-78 / 4-14-78 / 11-11-03 / 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 317 "Poetry had always been dying of something as far back as he could remember." Simpson on Pound: a special kind of love, the kind one looks for--alive in November. Too sentimental? Too objective? Always too this, too that? The beauty's in the chances taken with truth (out of our alleys & hallways) that pleasure us who get into their dances we most appreciate. Chains. Changes. Rooted skies. Capillaries / nerves. Thunder of thought. Lightning of emotion. Rivers of coal/ diamonds swim in. Passageways to the luted stars. Fragmented voices blessedly caught in a mending song. Worlds of/ felt control. (2-1-78 / 11-13-03 / 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 318 People just won't let people/ be themselves; and I, alack, just won't let me be me. Am I a fool? Over & over shelves of anxiety & sadness say, "Be," while my thought-needs keep screeching in me, "Do"; and I can't cease/ questioning answers/ I survive/ who hopes for perfections; yet, who-- in faith and love so little--fears to try. God knows my being, doing; fights with words, ideas, time; how I bug & bug, sting my heart, head, soul, and yours; yet want my name, however I write it, honored; how birds excite; knows, too, my virtues; that/ I'll sing His Will, repent; that there lives my best fame. (11-25/26-79 and 11-13-03) - November: Year-day 319 "Good morning" I impress with my pen, and: "Good afternoon"; and: "Good evening" as you read & listen. This is how/ I come through. It is a thing with me: the way I stand. If you should find me with my urges crammed in my critical sense, my magic glued to/ dry on/ my soft soul, don't come on rude & righteous, labeling me lurid, damned. Don't call me an anti-poetic slut, a dreamer without vision. I don't tell what I tell because I can't stop from wringing my psyche before you, because my gut & heart have been killed by my head. Style? Dwell. "Good day"; "good night": I'm a sky of grave singing. (? and 1-30-78) - November: Year-day 320 Robert Lowell, for us, everto vie, I praise your tent/camp, though I am not free here, though it shouldn't matter I am oddly queer; though an artist's the only gal or guy who always employed may yet have to buy food stamps, & beg for a bastard career to save each of those "officially" dear from degradation, not formed to deny. But so it is, Robert, from time to time for some of us; yet, though you didn't have to wait until your middle years or after for strong approval, wondering if time might waste you, or how you could prod & salve a rebuffed self, you hallowed/ tears and laughter. (1-11-78 and ?) - 21 of 25 - Brian A. J. Salchert

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