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.


Friday, December 29, 2006


22 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (321-335) - November: Year-day 321 " . . . you need not be a victim of your shame . . . but neither should you boast about it." Right between the eyes of my soul, Stan. Your aim mortifies me who'd shake days/ with the night of his sexual deviances, kill care, sympathy, and tolerances with too much bathroom leveling. Only the will of God prevails: trust none, trust all; His do. Even if I lived in a bubble, Stan, of shatterproof glass; even if my heels couldn't be hurt, I am become a man who, because of experiences, kneels in his heart. Sunrise! How mysterious its pastel lights can be! How pure to us! - November: Year-day 322 Keep 'em tight, like the icy winds, your bones and vessels: soil for the blossoms of trapped water that will enter the seeds that will blossom that will enter the eyes that will blossom that will enter the spirits trapped in icy winds of worry, the sad bones of the fate of living in progress-killed places: that is, for want of good blood killed. Keep 'em loose. Things happen as they happen and no man has the power to change their course no matter his ambition captures the world or gives a fuller music to his life, short as it is in the body. Still/ lightning carries knowledge, God to like, and again. (? and 4-8-79 & 4-10-79) - November: Year-day 323 The leaves are screaming orange, yellow, red. (You say this is June! the leaves full of green!) The damp air chills; the sky rolls ghost-grey dead. From gouged sand/ hare bells rock with cuckoo bees. (That!? anniversary twelve of our marriage.) This 18th day!? feast of Petri et Pauli Basilica Dedication! The fair edge of the weather is lost; our windshield's crawly. To a creature of words this creature's ringed, the faith he was born to limping beside, and you, his woman, supporting his glide, you wanted/unwanted feelng his wings and the whole of his body who moans, sings, must bear his frustrations, his orphan eyes. (6-12-77 and 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 324 For all the pains, being alive, Rune Lord, is more than any of us deserve.Still, You breathe us into existence who/ will ever & ever desecrate, and see as important only/ how best to hoard fame & wealth & power, tromping until our spirits stiffen where the waters drill and cage themselves under ice. Drag the tree of Your death. Fall on Your face. We don't care. Beneath the leaves of marigolds an ant negotiates cigarette butts and rich nuggets of humus. The trumpet vines flare for the bees and hummingbirds. In a scant simmering breeze miniscule flies sway, twitch. (8-17/18-79 and 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 325 All things of the moment pass; so, this line-- the face of my disposition, sharp, dull, in the vacuous center of a lull, in the fiery core of a riled spine. So you needn't ask me if things are fine; my body will show how I laugh or mull and rise over fences with a soft gull and hang my spirit with a piece of twine. Today isn't Ever, though it seems so when a person's trapped in the fire and ice of his melancholy--it too will go. And the times one would have today come twice? His mind, for its failings, will have to show, and with signs and speech be his meat, wine, spice. (11-23-76) - November: Year-day 326 After the leaves fall, a throwaway life, or a life wisely pulled into itself. A man can destroy, create with a knife. The root of all evil? It isn't pelf. Don't try to console me. Don't sympathize. You aren't responsible for my split dreams. O, yes, I am pleased you would empathize. Still, it is I who should check, mend my seams. Isn't life wonderful? Far in. Beyond. A glimmering elm, graceful, strong, august in the largesse of summer, inlets sparking with newborn pike, fields from which kids abscond with pink fingertips and red tongues; and trust and twirlings. Gunshots? Paranoias barking? (? and 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 327 Slowly in his hand the tulip glass swirls the Chateauneuf du Pape, and the wild girls wrestle in the garden and will not stop while the fire in the hearth shrinks into pearls. As fast as he can he spins the blue top and opens his ears to its whirring furls while the peasants dance and harvest each crop his dreams invent in their easy chair shop. Oh if a man could stand and sing and be unto himself a universe, the sea of others he'd need not touch nor once curse nor slantly vow to for better or worse, but simply be terse and enter a tree and drop all his money out of his purse. (11-23-76) - November: Year-day 328 A whole year of walking?--if it takes five? Mercy, mon frere, bon amis, we'll have died waiting! Haven't you heard how the jails sighed when the king's evil dictums blew? Survive? Oh yes. The droplet of water (I've climbed with last) spread down my tongue in mid-July, and thank God for that. Oh well, so I lie. The droplets I do get are sweetly timed. Yet, my body breathes, my spirit desires; I still am healed by the crisp apple's snows; and painful as it is to gawk at spires, especially on days when the furnace shows, I am playing again my flutes and lyres, and tickling your sole and teasing your nose. (slightly revised 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 329 Clogged air filter, too clogged to be blown clean, laugh, chide, you fooled me well though my car coughed, coughed, & coughed, would not run, got mad, mean, chugged the gas I bought it. How dumb! how soft! me, putting up so long with an ill car, not caring enough about it as if it was only fitting since my own star is ill, its gases wasting; my will stiff. And some say: You must give yourself to Jesus; humbly, constantly: joys, beliefs, doubts, downs-- pray, sacrifice; it is through these God frees us. Yet I say: You must/ eat the sprouts of hope; let your loving/ be the works of your growth; come to faith as one who/ drinks to be sound. (octet: 3-11-77; sestet: 2-5-78) - November: Year-day 330 " . . . you can say anything as long as it is true . . . but not everything that's true is worth saying." Stanley Kunitz, let's commit my future to your truth. I am no wiz, no comet soul; still, with each passing day life becomes fuller and death closer. I, however stoop-shouldered over the sway of my inadequacies, press on, vie. Yet, I've told, will tell, things of doubtful worth, however baldly true, lacking the strength remaining mysterious takes. When death divides me, though, I pray I'll leave this Earth nearer to God than now, my days' willed length, harshly or gently closed, purer in breath. - November: Year-day 331 Alive in a world I do not arc with, I must make my lights harder than rock. In the realm of the human, everything carries/ its curses and blessings: lifts, socks. Spring, haltingly, comes, comes/ out of the pith, Venus remembered diamonding the moon in the frozen dew/ glinting on the swings of green & gray that will have their own soon. Slow summer soft with robins nesting twice/ & the lightningsof speedy summer & vice. The yellow leaves of ashes leading tall through the gathering warmths of crinkly fall. "Night and winter approach like the end of the world--and nothing matters." We dread love. (1977/1978/1979/2006) - November: Year-day 332 Words I've sung through, rejected, and rejected again, I am left to read the old masters, and wonder. Perhaps they will be inspected once in a hundred years, the stains of asters found on them, and none ever speak aloud from the reader's mouth, catching there, the heart; none ever shine within/ this Earth's word-crowd; none ever live/ once its page breaks apart. That inventions elsewhere allow me now to roughen the air with my cracked high sounds eases little. Breathe Eliot. Chaunt Yeats. Words earned will sing me as they best know how, my frail soul in them where they light their rounds. We will practice patience among the greats. (3-4-77 and 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 333 Strange world, and I am one of the strange things in it: Emotionally, I'm a nitty sort as well as a guy whose dreaming brings/ lovers & jeers, who's somewhy/ pundit witty, guilt-badgered erotic; mentally, I'm a universalist, moved by, jealous of/ geniuses; spiritually, I see there's constantly more than any can tell us. I know I'm boring you with my defining and redefining of/ my self, that you've long concluded I am sadly obsessed with minority, inferior shinings; that I cannot relax unless I prove I'm lovable. I know: We're all depressed. (2-26-77 / 5-19-77 / 12-29-06) - November: Year-day 334 A mouth full of agates. On the kept walk an occasional leaf. Should we look, listen, touch? Argue about when loose or tight talk perfects a poem? Learn why images glisten or don't? Your red scarf slips, catches on thorns. My desire to kiss you heats. At the back of the daydream/ floating through/ the Bay of Scorns, believing his guts like gyroscopes track, a sailor laughs at the chopping waves, stretching importantly over the railing, sabres of thought lopping them, when suddenly retching from the root of his stomach, his proud labors buckle/ and he/ recovers himself fetching land to stand solidly on/ with his neighbors. (1976: 11-29, 12-01, 12-12; and "diamonds" to "agates" 2006: 12-29) - - It has occurred to me/ it might be an interesting exercise to iterate only the rhyming words/ in each of my sonnets. - - - November: Year-day 335 Lo, my RuneGod, ruined God, rued, roomed God, Your present of faith confuses me, seeming a gift favoring ignorance so/ dreaming and wondering sicken, drenched in the sod. The lilies of the field; my talents: how can theybe reconciled? How can I strive and not strive, not worry when I'm alive but empty-handed, sweating/ just to bow? And what is this business anyway where facts urge humans to shuck logic's shells and enter gatherings of dread beliefs that make it easier to fill each day because many join there on what repels, and succor themselves in each other's griefs? (2-26-77, 12-4-77, 1-17-82, and on 12-29-06: "the virtue" to "Your present") - 22 of 25 - Brian A. J. Salchert

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