is a tiny wandering imaginary dinosaur which migrated from AOL in October of 2008.

Thinking Lizard

About Me

My photo
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, November 30, 2007


The Undulant Trees Cherry Mars (for Stan Apps with a nod to Ed Dames) I wonder what, deep in their planet, the Martian robots think when they see Cadbury chocolate seeping into their hoary caverns? (11/28&30/07) § Trussed Invader (for John Latta) Latta, I love the way you write poems and prose of spiked delight. If only I had a proper brain with which to un- derstand your rain. (11-30-07) § For your chances are incredible, cutting as diamonds, relentless as beets. I'm almost afraid to finger them. But, as you can see--well, behind the scenes--my fingertips are deeply red and freshly sliced in the scars and scabs and in between, you have to laugh, possibly. Still, I still favor your anteFitts appearances despite "The Wheelchair Butterfly" and "Poem to Some of My Recent Poems", wanting (in my fingertips) the soft coral color and the tell-tale etches to be more visible again through the lightning scars. (circa 1984) ------------------------- - Friday, November 30, 2007 - "Success Comes to Cow Creek" - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings A Cardinal of Consciousness So I, as Adam, am namer, if I accept Adam, as with so much else. Yet what I name, giving sound to percept, a trope of a trope, will never thereby be yanked from the mystery of its shining essence however splendid and human-catching each name I choose. Still, aware of my intolerable solitude, I eye and ay, out of my brightnesss drawn to a brightness difficult to view, praising and damning it and my inadequacy in my voiced need to do in you exactly what had been done in me in spite of how well our differences impoverish that. Heliacal, sun of a sun, reality wrangler, complexity of complexity, paradox of paradox, imager, I scream "Rahg!"; thump my chest; zee my name. (circa 1985) - Brian A. J. Salchert


Sent an important email to the Social Media blogmaster. If I do not get a response, either directly or indirectly, I am going to post it. - 4:32 PM -- Here's part of the response I got: . "Thanks, Brian. We're working on a huge follow-up post that addresses the many concerns and questions that people have had." . . . . "Re: Journals page. We know the lack of Journals are there, but we're working on fixing it." - For me this is satisfactory, but every AOL user needs to be aware of it. This blog, being what it is, does not attract many visitors. Yet, this is top-now AOL news. 12.01.07 - See Magic Smoke main message about journals. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Thursday, November 29, 2007


an AOL blog my other blog poet Gustaf Sobin In the Social Media Blog under "Welcome to the New People Connection" the comments worth reading (in my opinion) are: #6 from Joseph Manna / #19 / #34 / #68 / #72 / #103 / #114. § I have a Blogger Blog (Rhodingeedaddee) I am using for special purposes. None of my poems will be posted there. Today I'm going to begin posting an abridged version of old autobiographical pages which were in another Internet space for about six years before I started my current blog here. - The first page is up. § On page 317 of Paul Hoover's Postmodern American Poetry is information about a poet born in 1935, a poet I had never heard of: Gustaf Sobin. Was surprised to learn/ his poetry aesthetic is at base the same as mine, but I prefer his description of it. ------------------------- Gustaf Sobin - Brian A. J. Salchert

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


Autobio Had another one of those dreams shortly before I last woke/ in which I am the main character, but in which things are all in disarray and I am constantly frustrated; but the setting in this dream was not some motel or hotel where I was night auditing, it was the house in which I was raised, but during a time some years after/ when it was going through another renovation. My vague at-a-distance wife made a minor connection with me at a time I was supposed to be about to leave Wisconsin and go to Idaho, but I was unprepared. I had forgotten things I needed. I therefore went back to the house, where I immediately became lost. At one point several women, who seemed to be servants of some kind, passed by me. Then two tall men showed. I felt threatened by them; yet, every few moments they would kiss each other deeply. That's where the dream ended. ------------------------- Stanley Kunitz and - illusions, delusions, hallucinations - Skanky Possum founders - Brian A. J. Salchert


Found another interior way to get to my blog. The steps are: Click Community, then Journals. If this takes you to the Blogs page, enter one word in the Search Blogs space that relates directly to your blog. My blog's name has two words. The first of those two is the most significant and unique. Type in your one word and proceed to search. This will take you to a page that--in my case at least--appears to be unhelpful. Do NOT read the search suggestions if this is what occurs. Scroll down to Journals in the box at the left and click it. This should get you to a link to your journal (blog). That is the way I got in moments ago. Also, yesterday I placed a link to my blog in Favorite Places. One other thing: though I do not know if it matters, I decided to turn on Safe Search. - Regarding Chat: Once you get to the general area, you need to choose a topic, and so on from there. I am not a chat user so I cannot tell you more. - Regarding Profiles: Put the screen name you use in the primary search space, but do not search. Beneath this space advanced choices are given. I chose to limit country to United States. Beneath the choices is a gray search. Use it. That is how I got to my profile. What I found there I liked. ------------------------- Brian A. J. Salchert

Tuesday, November 27, 2007


Venturings Michelangelo, your body strong taut like the bodies your hand so deftly paints fills my eyes my heart all the while you concentrate on the altar wall with dreams of creations our bodies together speak of the glories of God me pubescent you mature & the wind full of rain the wind full of sun the elements the plants the animals living dying living again until every woman every man accepts & praises the differences that are themselves that are each one - - - - - "Michelangelo," was originally published in "the fifth season" Wisconsin Review Vol. 14 No. 2 & 3 1980 p. 36 under my Alden St. Cloud pseudonym. - Brian A. J. Salchert


The following is a comment I made 25nov07 on Silliman's Blog. It was an attempt to insert some levity into the comment stream because all the comments were responses to Ron's comment- control decision. Since what I tried to do did not work, today I suggested the removal of my comment. Will check later. Change of direction, I think. - Took the link ride to Gatza's PDF. I have read The Chinese Notebook. This is about the pot holder called "boppo": If said pot holder had a loop sewn near its opening, a loop through which one finger could be slipped, then--and this may be from childhood memories of mine, if one does not place one's hand into the pot holder, but does place one's index finger through the loop and one's thumb inside the pot holder and one's other 3 fingers of whichever hand one is using/ outside the pot holder, and whacks someone on the head with it, the pot holder instantly becomes a "boppo"--no? Silliman posted my levity and remove comment, and/// did not remove my original comment. So there you are. * AOL changed things again without even a note on Magic Smoke, and where they did have information it was insufficient. Besides, the feedback link takes one to an email connection which appears to be fine but causes an error message which voids attempts to use it. Users of products need instructions which are step-by-step/ simple and clear. How did I get here? I'm not going to tell you, but I did find a way. It is not a way, however, I prefer to take. - Got a response from Joseph at He suggested an alternative which is similar to the way I had found: bookmark http:// Also, the last comment at the time I was there is by some Steven. He obviously understands and uses much of what AOL provides, but he did say--which is true--the editors blog list needs to be updated. Even though I may never use most of what's available, his comment was interesting. - About getting back to this blog: I knew (as Joseph said) I had to go from the Main page to the Blogs page. I also knew about clicking on the update your blog link but that was getting me nowhere. In the upper right corner--which cannot be seen unless the page is widened--is a Sign In/Sign Out box. My screen name was showing Logged in. Now, if I have remembered this correctly, when I clicked on the update your blog link, I was taken back to the Main page/ where, when I clicked on the Blogs again, I was taken to my blog. I will need to try this circuitous routine again to make sure that is what I need to do. - Thank you. - Just checked the routine for getting to my blog. It is correct. One thing though: When I left here, I just clicked the x box in the upper right corner, which was the common way to leave. When I returned via Community / Journals, my screen name was still showing Logged in. My sense is that that now exists for security. Therefore, it appears that after I leave via the x box, I need to return to Community / Journals and Sign Out. - Well, my method for getting in stopped working. - Ended up placing a link to this journal in my Favorites. * Brian A. J. Salchert

Monday, November 26, 2007


Being reclusive has its advantages, but also its disadvantages. My personal problems at that time aside: after the publication in November 1972 of my first book, getting involved with the Wisconsin Poets-in-the-Schools Program early in 1973 was worthwhile; but pulling back into myself and away from being actively engaged with other poets was--though I cannot prove it--a major error. As I have noted in Sprintedon Hollow's All About Me section, I am reading Postmodern American Poetry. Last night I got to and through Larry Eigner's pages. So? So: Up until 1978 he lived in Swampscott, Massachusetts. Before that year in the 1970's I was in Swampscott, MA, at least once because aunts of mine who had been born and raised in the same Wisconsin town I was born and raised in owned a house there. I might have been able to visit Mr. Eigner. I did visit William Everson briefly at his home in California during the days of one of my separations from Janice. But I was in San Fran, and even stopped at City Lights. Did I try to connect with the poetry community there after I was told the person I had come to visit was out of town for two weeks? No. During another separation I was in New York City. Similar question. Same answer. How many times was I in Boston? I lived for 3 years in Milwaukee. My 24+ years in Gainesville, Florida? There I only seriously connected with other poets during the singular semester I was a Donald Justice student at UF. So, after I moved into Missouri late last year, I convinced myself that until my body's mind ceases to function/ I was going to re- connect with and remain connected with other poets for as long as they would allow me to. ------------------------- Li-Young Lee on making poems - Brian A. J. Salchert

Sunday, November 25, 2007


Appears the basic colors this journal uses will not be changing. This means the usual text colors will be black, and most other text colors will be dark shades. Blue will be the link color. The background colors and the sidebar color will be the 80ffff light aqua/cyan, the c0c0c0 gray, and the 808080 gray. I am trying to quell my urges to/ change this journal's basic colors. There are times when consistency is not foolish. After posting a comment relevant to/ where geniuses come from and a 10,000 poets list idea at Ron Silliman's site, I decided/ that was the nth of what I cared to write there. So I applaud his new approach to handling comments. See Sunday, November 25, 2007. This evening I placed a comment relating to one item in Silliman's The Chinese Notebook at the connection above. Tomorrow I will check again to see if he allowed it. Did it in part to veer from the flow of comments about his comments decision. Was also at Mark Wallace's site. I had placed a comment there which I found he had responded to. I responded to it, and he again responded to me. I like Mark Wallace's thinking here. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Saturday, November 24, 2007


Venturings As In a Mirror Who is this Brian Salchert, green cornucopia, dumpster; and where is he to be found? Has anyone seen all his works; the hells to heavens they populate other than he; other than God? And if someday someone did, would that person be able to cull two or three that might be representative, or even one worth presenting in a century's anthology for centuries after to contemplate as in a mirror? Who is this Brian Salchert, green cornucopia, dumpster? Where is he to be found? October 6-9, 2005 revision - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings Spring Reflections: 1973 Walking under trees or the shadows of buildings, taking delight in every child, in shapes & actions, in clothes, sounds, smells, in touching-- this is the first ideal. As I write this, I think of Janice, of the work to be done on Road Apple, of the border fights and the deaths of nations, of finding again a steady job, of moving, of the time I waste, of the tensions and pretensions, of never knowing, for sure, who I am. As I sit here in the Titan Room, U. of Wisconsin-Oshkosh, I watch the people, compare myself to them, drink my black cherry, & feel my bowels slip, notice the Titan plaque on the wall, & remember the surprising football team, observe the movements of lips, curious, follow the progress of feet, the lengths of steps, the colors of shoes, the shapes, the walkers themselves, listen to the Foghat jukebox, the silence after, the mechanism, the disjointed talk, the clinking of cup on saucer, The Spinners, contemplate the lights in the ceiling, like a squadron of UFOs, an acoustic tile, a vent, a bright window, the six ochre pillars, remember Samson, the love of David and Jonathan, the passing of Egypt, the Wall of China, the prows of Vikings, Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare, Homer, Tu Fu, Basho, Mishima, Goethe, Twain, the myths & tribes, think on the present, everything mixed & senseless, everything perfectly right, the moods of Walt Whitman, the connotations of the song now playing: Rita Coolidge's "My Crew", the space for Gary, for Debie, for friendships and the places I want to go to, the space in my heart. Barefoot, I step on the grass for coolness, butter my soles with dandelions, test them with thistles. The sun-- Some people say I've become too personal; others I'm not what I think I am. It makes no difference. Today is April 10th. Yesterday it snowed so hard in the 40-mile-an-hour wind I couldn't think clearly at all-- flakes of sunlight. This is the alliance of comrades; this is the contradictions of friends. Knees up, to hold the book I am writing in, feet & ass on a tile floor, back against a cream-painted block wall, ears marking the sounds of air coursing the vents, of closing doors, of movements & voices: the sensitivity group behind the X theatre's doors, my hand moving along the page, the voices of Kelly, Richard, Candy, Paul, your voice forming these words, my voice, eyes following the often soundless work of my pen, or should I call it play, & Terry, & someone I do not know, & Candy again, I grope toward 10pm. This is what is real-- these are the trees I climb in; these, the winds. - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings The Anger in Me Is So Deep, So Old, Nothing Gets Through Blue jays flashed a minute ago, and mockingbirds, seasoning the air. Earlier, a red-bellied woodpecker clambered and pecked on the laurel oak the often about white-breasted squirrel now stands next to nibbling the apricot cap of a mushroom. One day we watched a solitary wasp carry a lime caterpillar stowed beneath its abdomen along our patio's concrete step. Another we smiled at a brown thrasher and several grackles scavenging, and nearly laughed when they flicked the leaves huddled against the cyclone fence. Maybe the flame-topped pileateds will course back to whack the pines, or a great crested flycatcher startle the sky. Three cardinals! (undated, but address on reverse side indicates sometime between 1986 and 2000.) - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings Homily To Russia: Land of decorous onion domes and broken French, tundras taigas taigas / steppes steppes steppes, scything dissent / hammering the good truths home, deep with the beauties of earth / shallow . . . of power, your harsh infected triumvirates of 55 years/ have so enslaved themselves to a way, they have willed them- selves eternity and the adoration due a god. Nothing escapes them. They have organized to save. But their hands are far too heavy. And humanity, inherently weak, has toppled in blood in their wake. Russia, mightiest land where Occident and Orient meet, I give to you a mountain spring--for your renewal. To America: Land of tall thin buildings and tortuous activity, valleys mountains deserts plains, striping dissent / starring the good truths home, deep with paraded beauties / shallow, your bright and clouded presidents have carved for you a twisted trail and left you out of focus. You are stumbling into holes. And humanity, though desiring to be strong, is quickly going mad. America, grabber of wealth and planter of compassion, I give to you a noonday sun-- for your revision. To China, Japan, West Germany, and each other nation: There is no turning here we cannot overlook; no turning we can afford to. But man is what he is, a creature of longing and of fear / a creature of polarities / an envisioner of perfection / a fragile leviathan, and he cannot come to terms with his condition or the dilemmas of the universe without pain. Brain heart guts / flesh and transcendence, each of you must balance the elements, and contemplate the natural and contemplate the made, and somehow with the fact of constant change discover how to achieve the most autonomy for every living man and simultaneously the most control over the entire radiant human race. I give to you a krinkled leaf and these considered words--for your awareness. To everyone: Your stubborn soldierings of your ideologies are destroying you. This wondrous marble quakes. The flowers stand straight from fear. Your blitzing and bombing does no good. Look in the ancient glass. Inhabited by that fiercest devil, Unquestioned Pride, crouched like a cornered beast, you are driving a nail through the heart of this world. You are emptying your home. (original date of composition uncertain, but probably in 1972 or 1973) - Brian A. J. Salchert


The Undulant Trees Sweet Ruse The idea is to write poems no one enjoys: that way, when they return, the writer again can have the pleasure of reading them. 11-2-89 - Brian A. J. Salchert


Opened drapes: to a thin overlay of snow. At AM 8:48/ the sun (though somewhat hidden) is already melting it. ------------------------- Brian A. J. Salchert

Friday, November 23, 2007


Venturings Then Millicent Said Alyssum blossom cushiony, dear. Everlastings? Forget-me-nots? Gardens heighten inscrutably, jewel kindergartens, livingrooms, miseries. Nuances of power, quiet, radiant stases, they undulate vigor, wonder, Xavier, yodeling zinc. - - - - - "Then Millicent Said" was originally published in Studia Mystica on page 63 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986. - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings Axiom Once the mouth is opened; tongue, teeth, lips positioned & re-positioned (the cords harped by the exiting air), the sounds exhumed can not be taken back. - - - - - "Axiom" was originally published in Studia Mystica on page 62 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986. - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings Pride When the little kid came with his BB gun to shoot whatever birds were about, I told him he'd better know about the birds first. (I was a big kid.) So I pointed out one high up in a soft maple I thought it'd be okay to shoot, sure it was an English Sparrow, a dirty sputzee. So the little kid shot, and the soft thing, plucked from its twig, dove past the leaves & plunked in the lawn. My eyes gasped. Centered in its striped breast, a telltale dark brown spot; and the lambent song I knew was there, high in the maple, in the soft shine--but I was a big kid. - - - - - "Pride" was originally published in Studia Mystica on page 61 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986. - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings Saying Good-bye Valiant bones, deceptive bones define us, mother, while we die, impersonating permanence out of their marrows, out of milks. Perhaps the ages won't recount how you, Seviah, changed by John, engendered once a second best to be the first: a brian: me. Resilient muscles, supple skins, flexible veins and arteries: our surface organs, sunken ones, from calcium dust, nonetheless, receive a form to venture with though all our spry, exquisite dreams drift in the winds, a haze of ash; though ghostly shoulders bless my touch. And yet that part of us which would: outlast every other part, bearer of burdens, burden is: in some of us. Fare well, my bones. - - - - - "Saying Good-bye" was originally published in Studia Mystica on page 60 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Thursday, November 22, 2007


A neighbor of ours when I was in high school died recently. He was 67. Reginald Shepherd is seriously ill. I am thanking God for his safety, strength, and continuance. Posted my few thoughts on existence over at Rho--. Cold day. High around 37. Had to wear my insulated shirt under my jacket, my Green Bay Packer stocking cap, my winter gloves. - - - - - thief du jour - Brian A. J. Salchert

Wednesday, November 21, 2007


Unplugged computer system around 9 PM yesterday and didn't get back on until after 3 PM. Inclement weather continues, but the precipitation has been light for the most part. May see snow later. Spent much of the down time reading and writing. The 4 prose poems by Russell Edson in the Hoover anthology/ rearranged my head. This morning I/ scrawled thoughts about existence in my notebook. My sister & I got our flu shots this afternoon, stopped at my pharmacy for my two major meds, and drove round a McD's for a double cheeseburger for me. Sure is a blessing she is able to drive. - Brian A. J. Salchert


The Undulant Trees Three Moods 1. Peripatetic These days/ I've been going about with my head in my shoe. What a genie it is! 2. How Do I Feel? Like a screaming white wind stuffed in a shrinking cube of glass. 3. Taken Aside Teew tuu, teew tuu, teew tuu, teew tuu, teew tuu, teew tuu. Dicit se juvare eam, blue jay, blue jay. And I do too, putting down my Latin book to watch you again searching among the oak branches below our bedroom. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


[ Note: The poem below is not against Adrienne Rich. ] Venturings Good Woman Adrienne Rich, you witch, you itch, you stitch sublime in time so I'm a crime undone, a son whose gun you've won away from play and grey this day, explore, be sore; wand or mend more my heart apart, my smart, ripped art that I too cry and hie good-bye the jails, scales, sales of males. [ not a new poem / not certain when written ] ------------------------- AAP Adrienne Rich page Adrienne Rich Brian A. J. Salchert


This day I've been making phone calls, mostly to distant places. My sister brought my book to me today. Earlier I read the four poems by Ed Dorn printed in it. Have also read 3 short poems of his which are online. Am now reading a Jacket Magazine 32 intro article about him. Need to get back to it as nasty weather is forecast for here in an hour or so. Some animal is messing around outside. Hope it stays outside. Finished the article. A link to it will soon be provided below. It is PM 8:09. 8:11 PM: link is in. ------------------------- Stephen Fredman's "Introduction to Edward Dorn" Brian A. J. Salchert


[ Note: Don't ask. ] Seminary Ode to the Mid-month A stream of light, A river of delight Was I As I ran and tumbled While the Mid-month mumbled Through its billowing green, Through its shimmering sky. Then shot like a dart Past the eye of my heart An air-flung mite In song, A scarlet blur Like inward sight: Heavy on the dusky marsh of thought, Light on the clarion knoll of sense; Wound in the soft and strong. Soon I spread The brambles ahead Unto a humble view, A grass-gay room Within the woods: There a myriad warblers played-- Flittering iterations, Rainbows in the shade; There entwined in quaint seclusion, Softer than the summer air Wrapped in mists of noon delusion, Hid a voice of glad despair Lost in lilting, Lost in dream, Lonely as a dying stream; There would wing On pinions graceful Heaven's bird of truth in art, Sometimes diving, Sometimes rising, Ever, Never, To depart. Under the cleft Of the lime-jut left A swallow swung for life While over the haze The sun ablaze Caught close the lofting hawk And yet beneath The elm-high wreath A fearful bobcat stalked. So moved, My step unwavered sped Across the floor Of the woodland room; Beyond the door, By joy and sorrow fed. So strife Now neither, nor its foe Could harm this poet's way, For the glory I found In the Mid-month sound Flows on: A brook, A ray. 1962 - Brian A. J. Salchert

Monday, November 19, 2007


Spent most of my online time yesterday visiting poetry blogs. After PM 10, impelled by Latta's Friday post, I found an edu site where an article about Slavoj Zizek is. Should go back there today to finish reading it. That Zizek revived the use of the word "ideology" (the death of which I was not aware of) appeals to me. Sometimes when I search my own name at Google, I find a site where the comment attributed to me is not my comment. My sister picked up at Library Station the anthology I had requested: Postmodern American Poetry. Now Latta's turnin' my broken back/ toward that straight'ner poet/ Ed Dorn, sumpin' I'd been puttin' off. Placed a long comment beneath Mark Wallace's "archive" post, a comment which touches on four of his posts, and which would have been longer had I remembered to write about the other thoughts which were originally in my mind. ------------------------- Zizek Brian A. J. Salchert

Saturday, November 17, 2007


Had a vitalizing conversation with the apartment manager last night. Began reading Schneider's Cosmoetica Pinker interview afterwards. This morning I'm about to head back to it. Didn't. Finished reading it around PM 6:50. AM 9:26 - Earlier this morning such a swath of horsetail clouds charmed the sky/ I went out and took about 10 pictures of them. Thoughts pertaining to "a lot (alot)": Realizing that context changes how to understand a given set of letters; still, since "We bought a lot to put our mobile home (mo-ho) on" exists, my suggestion is to use, e.g., "much" depends instead of "a lot (alot)" depends, and similarly, "many" of us instead of "a lot (alot)" of us. In other words, try to find substitutes for "a lot (alot)". - Brian A. J. Salchert

Friday, November 16, 2007


Late last night I read an edited 02.04.01 telephone interview with Clark Coolidge conducted by Tom Orange. It is in an issue of Jacket Magazine. CC and I (bajs) are quite unlike each other in many ways, but we are like each other in two ways: we both have a pack rat tendency, and we both have loosened artistically as we have gotten older--have become more willing to let it flow and see what happens. Copyright laws regarding web sites are messed up, and I am not a happy blogger. Sent a message to a well-known law professor about it, if for no other reason than my need to vent, though I'm hoping he will respond. Some days back, in another issue of Jacket Magazine, I read David Bromige's pre-notes to a book he wrote. Was surprised to find he had essentially the same re- sponse there as I had had in one of my 1976 sonnets/ to Sartre's "Hell is other people." - Brian A. J. Salchert

Wednesday, November 14, 2007


[ Note: Though not exactly as they were, each following section was once a page in AOL Hometown, a space I've left. ] In the King's Garden Chamber (This is a place for rumination and/ lumination) Very few of us ever get how sacred each new moment is. And of those among us who do, it is often (sadly) when we are well along in our earth passage. I, Brian Salchert, am 59 (in my 60th year therefore), and I tell you I feel akin to the cross thief who told Jesus that he believed; but, I am/ not yet dead. I am, however, by the going dominant standard, deep in a cave/ with little water and less light. Hope? Did I hear a voice? Ah, there it is! Nab it! Someonce in my childhood I/ made up a word: rhodingeedaddee. It was for me then/ magical/ in its silliness. It was jester's word, and I was the jester. And I was the jester. And I was the jester. Small, sensitive, sexually/ and intellectually different, I was not then nor am I now at ease with/ most humans. So now what? As I stroll here I am indelibly aware of the hard disgrace waiting nigh. But I must not slip, not quit, not cry. If my dreaming stops, however foolish, what then? Ground me, Lord. Lead me into and unto Thyself through whatever pain. Teach me--under this melancholic robe I wear--when to play, when to pray, when to perspire; for human/ I am in a body that must be cared for if I in this body am ever to be holy, am ever to know that "by the sweat of of thy brow" is not a curse. A dream is only as vibrant as the dreamer is. Darkness enters. Heal my night. * * * * * Brian of Ibnar* * Ibnar is my name jumbled. A great length of days after I jumbled it, I recognized in it a new name for God: I-Before-Now-After-Remain. Later I learned Ibnar is a real first name, but I had already used in several ways, ways I eventually discarded. The name for God my spirit clings to. § Entrances and Exits It is late, and Sirius hangs in the Dipper's eye. There is a precipiceat my spirit's edge/ I know not how to cast away. So if you meet me by- and-by, a bone or two upon a shore, remember only those who know/ what they must know/ are fit to risk/ where few survive. Where I Am Today In an atom space far inside is a joyous child this May's first Sunday, andmostly because that crazed adult--whose spirit is not high-- last night with reserved for two years hence a domain called Such craggy creviced errors he yet has/ made along, what chance he has is far and far and far; but he is bent on it. ** on it. * it. Where Are You Today Here, perhaps; and if so, did you know that the founders of that wild republic named The United States// did not condemn the revolutionary ardor which garnered them their freedom? It is well there in their Declaration, how- ever carefully presented. * * * Another thought. Why is it that so many hold the second ammendment to be holy? Is it because it rightly is; or is it because it passes a power to the each and every, however distant/ from the moguls of power? - Brian A. J. Salchert


The Undulant Trees Lunar 1 The moon is an egg in a black nest sprinkled with sequins. § Lunar 2 The moon is an egg barely visible in the pale shore sky. § Lunar 3 The moon is a moon too late, too soon, too unsure why it is what what. - Brian A. J. Salchert


Projected high temperature today: 58; tomorrow: 50. Air: gusty; humidity: 81; cloudy but, no rain expected. Found more old poems yesterday. Posted one. Also found several other items of personal interest. Likely to try to scan and post four. Not sure if I'll be able to here. Found other old poems today. Am missing one of a set of four. Not sure where I've placed it. Since all four where originally published together, I want to post them together. Also found my AOL Hometown postings (copies of, that is) I had deleted. They are from my abandoned Realm of Ibnar. May post them as a group. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Tuesday, November 13, 2007


Venturings An Austin, Texas, Easter So many bluebonnets Eastering the grounds of the Methodist church we walk past! softly joyful in the bright coolness of the easy wind. Up hills and down past houses, apartments, businesses, our walk of thirty-five minutes to St. Ignatius's seems lighter for the grace of seeing and remembering and expecting them. Once we reached our intended church, the flowering crowd amazed us; but we made our way to the vestibule's eastern side from where I soon saw its western side was not full; so I turned, and Janice followed me: out and around the church's front. Shortly after we re-entered, the choir began to sing the Hosanna. Then we found some church bulletins, and Janice took one. The Consecration came and went, though no one in the vestibule kneeled. Janice and I moseyed and read, and looked about. At Communion time we decided to participate; and as we did, a glaze of emotion surprised my eyes. Returned to the vestibule, we noticed and admired the baptistry and then how a cavity under the altar recalled for us the empty tomb and how in the season of His birth could be fixed to recall the birthing cave. We stayed a little; left. A mother with her young son approached. It delighted us--Janice especially--to see that boy all dressed in white. Later, on our homeward walk, going from Oltorf to Parker Lane, and by a people-live church of The Latter Day Saints, we sway again with the gentle hills gardened by the penitence-tinted blue of the Texas earth's Easter attire the Indian maiden and the blue jays made: the miracle risings of the silky lupines given the sky to deepen love. the above experiences occurred in 1982 / not sure when I wrote the poem - Brian A. J. Salchert


Brian "Madman" Salchert here: Whether my encounters with you were pleasant, indifferent, or unpleasant, I thank each of you, including each who is no longer Earth-alive. I have led an awkward life: at times too reticent; at other times too boisterous; and far too often/ just plain too stupid. Still, I have been at times prescient, giving, industrious. There are many I wish to connect with. Some I have tried to find. Some I have found, but have not been able to hold. So it is. I am an INFP Capricorn metal dragon, a hobbit-like risk taker. Many times I have skewered myself. I try not to be a know-it-all. Mayfly, firefly, glint of dust. Remember me; remember me not, I can only hope I have contributed well enough to have earned eternal welcome, given that I have been graced/ beyond my worthiness. Peace / love / community. - Brian A. J. Salchert


The Undulant Trees Invitation I'm such a jimble & jamble writer you might find something amongst my poems that pleasures you. Do look through. § Tensions Eight mourning doves along two wires against this overcast day, so recordeth my wandering eyes when they panned my bedroom window. Three squirrels about in the yard upon this drizzly morning, so recordeth my wicked eyes while they pierced my bedroom window. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Monday, November 12, 2007


Didn't sleep well last night, waking twice early. When I last woke-- after AM 7:30--thunderings greeted me. I got up and disconnected the computer system, and then proceeded with my routines. Turned on a radio I only use when I am unable to go online/ for information about today's weather. That was at AM 9:00. It is now AM 9:51 and there may be a bad weather respite for a while. CAConrad, a Philly poet and activist, has suggested fasting on this year's Thanksgiving Day as a way of protesting our mongerings in Iraq. I, this morning, on this day we are celebrating veterans of the numerous wars this nation has been in, may try to subsist on water and plus-level nutrition drinks and the various supplements I daily take, and the one med I must take twice each day, even though-- given the state of my health--doing so may not be a good idea. If I do this, it will be my way of protesting those egregious invasions this nation and certain corporations have falsely participated in on planet Earth. Far too many innocent lives--especially among the young, both from this nation and those nations we unwisely enter-- are sacrificed. As I have written twice recently: If we cannot live with each other, we will die because of each other. In the unlikely Utopia I envision, leaders who promote genocidal aggressions--no matter their rationales--would be vigorously opposed. If those who are commanded to engage in wars/ simply refused to do so, war would cease; and life on this planet would be immeasurably sanctified. There are far better ways to deal with overpopulation. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Sunday, November 11, 2007


Seminary Untainted Ewe Untainted Ewe to mother lambs Within the world-derided fold; To intercede for every sheep Imperiled now by night and cold, Of you the story great is told: A nigrous night, the wicked world, Was round, and wound and bound The sordid orb with serpent skin, A shedding minding men of sin; The heavy darkness built A blacker monument to win For Hell, where liquid fires spilt, An earth already devil-downed. Then, when the time of fullness came, Dappled dawn defeated shame That conquered centuries did claim, And turquoise day broke free Above the mountain, marsh, and lea; Unbound, in peace a newer name Was echoed through the blue Gold-effusèd sky: Mary, A simple psalm so sweetly sung From whence the world's Glory sprung To kiss a cedar cross and die. In childhood, O Mary pure, You grew in grace beneath the eye Of providential vigilance: In humble silence, abundance-filled; In patience did your soul o'erflow That only you could ever know A motherhood Unparalleled in final good Or in beginning love. Thus through Your bosom all creatures were remade, Recharged with love, swayed From above; whole-holied, Untainted Ewe. Immaculate you ever were; No sinful stain your soul to blur Was found to be within: Virgin-white, transparent-thin, Alofted air-borne snow, new-grown Merino fleece, thistle down wind-blown, A solitary star of Sirius's mould Transpierced and permeated bold That being bent by God's will told, As if no angel need appear To whisper it in Mary's ear: A child shall your womb soon bear, God's only Son placed in your care; Fear not, O Virgin full of grace; From lo the Spirit shall this take place, Namèd Jesus to save the human race. Yet Gabriel this message brought To speak what Mary never thought. Upon the meadow knoll, Among the rainbow grasses stroll The lambs and all the sheep That daily grow, leap and sleep, Or sometimes wander far 'Neath stalwart sun and twinkling star Till, O that Mother-Ewe Unstained! as if she knew, Would come and find her stray; Would find and show the way Again, within the Blood-won flock: Purging-path-pointed, Heaven-headed flock, Warmed by the rays of a fiery light That rides on a solar sea Burning as the prayer of a mystic, love-bright, Caught in an ecstasy, Caressed by the breeze at play in the trees; At play with a myriad bees; Held by the clover till daytime is over And the birds to their nests all fly, While the Maker ofnight Builds His cities of light Through the vaulted abyss of the sky. (But if in the dark Wild nimbus embark With tempestuous rage unknown, The timorous fold To Mary can hold For peace as full as her own.) To Bethlehem cave when winter frost, Tenacious fingers heavily laid Upon; frigid-fixed and icèd-crossed On silent soil, solid-cold, made Unrested treks more wearisome, Did not the spouse and Mary come That Jesus might in humbleness Be born, swaddling-shod, and nothing more? She knew the wrack of trial; The tears that tribulation brings, Yet hers is a peace-filled smile; A Magniicat she ever sings. Fear not the tempest-slashèd skies Or rumbling, thunderous cumuli That roll therein. Betake To our Untainted Ewe Your sin-suffering soul; The sorrow your heart endures. Mistake Not the words she utters to you Amid the fold upon the knoll: Be poor and love, and peace is yours. In silence wrapped did Mary live, Full-joyed when she, her love, could give From Bethlehem to Nazareth To Calvary: one rising breath Of lung-bursting virtue; A heart-rending issue Of virgin-bonded blood. Where blooms the meadow's rosebud, The Lamb of God is found With His Untainted Mother-Ewe Through whom all things are crowned, Created new, Made sound, Upraised true; Angel choirs confound. On bloody, cedar-crossèd Calvary This Lamb, Himself did sacrifice To end, oh man's marked misery, With life renewed; and though this should suffice, He gave Himself as food the eve before: Eternal sustenance--a wondrous wine And beauteous bread, boundless gifts Of glory-winning grace to home incline The path traversed by man, by man who drifts So easily from Him he should adore-- Forever-food, new manna made For all the sheep that sleep and leap Within the world-derided fold, That sleep in Mary's arms when cold As Jesus crucified was gently laid On Mary's lap, and she, Not one to weep, In mystic visions deep, The wisdom-work of God could see Through all its shrouded mystery; That leap round Mary's feet As Jesus did at Nazareth, And then, as now, she felt His final breath And caught Him up to rest Against her heaving breast Where seeming hard defeat Was victory complete, And she, in prayer, thendwelt Upon her Son Till time was done And He had won. His death--our life, And limbo rife With joy sprung free Upon eternity; and He Arose in resurrected glow Of light, as winter snow, (Reflecting rays of sun, Gold-glancing glitters spun Through cloudless atmospheres To dry earth's tears,) In primal air-borne fall Is cherub-pure: and all Reminds of Easter morn And Christ's footfall, The hope of men reborn, At love's first call Straight-turned towards her Who mothered Him to stir This Virgin's sinless soul, This Taintless Ewe upon the knoll, With love that should forever grow To strengthen straying sheep below; Alone in wild, tumultuous blow, The raging thief of day, of day Returned when men to Mary pray: O Virgin wrapped in timelessness, The Mother of my God and me, Lead onward through the world's duress This lamb that would to heaven flee. Untainted Ewe, remember me, Your little lamb on bended knee, And guide to life's eternity This flock you bound in Unity By willing that in humbleness Which God proposed to work through thee, And fold in meadow happiness This flock you bind in Holiness By willing that in charity Which God must yet through thee express; Thus causing God the globe to bless, And every man to give no less Than highest praise in poetry, The poetry of prayerfulness. April, 1962 revision Brian Salchert, N.S.J. ------------------------- Blessed Virgin - Brian A. J. Salchert


Seminary Jesus Bound O those wounds with which we wounded Him Through which He heals our wounds--this Jesus bound. Lo! e'en the silence streams as strident sound. O languishing alliterations--lapped On each like sea-swoln tongues that taste the sand, A searing sand, to lapse in death beneath The seeming petant rush of other tongues; Alike the lethal lash whose lick would limn Licentiousness in blood upon the Man, Inflaming Man; would fall to rise again-- Momentous motions, mountain movers, march, Forever march, in solid starward step Across the blood-red Back that bridged the years, A radiant rainbow arch Redemption bent, As men in one Man unified through death. Indeed, let ev'ry man now bind himself Against that pillar cold where he can feel The unrelenting ripping off of flesh Imposed by sin. In this compassionate. Low bend, yea, unto creeping bend, and weep; True nothingness is everything too deep. So we, as godly men, must grow to naught By being bound in love with Boundlessness, Receiving only injury and hate Like naked slaves or criminals depraved, Which wretched ruck in truth we are though He Be innocent. Thus to descend is need: The deed is duty. But the duty done Is saintly sleep. Full freedom reigns all-pure In atmospheres of that Paternal Will Alone/ through which the dying sun sends rays Of sanguine light to rend the sinful veil That men might see, to fill the cup of life That men might grow, to vivify the air That men might breathe more freedom still and find The ropes that bind, the ropes that free, the ropes That ever shall unite weak man with Christ, Who being pillar-bound is bound to all Things good which bend pursuit of happiness Towards God. Conjoin us each in You to posts Of suffering, our "Father of the world To come," where drumming, brutal scourgings bruise Our body fleshes unto humbleness, Where each expectant pause between the beats Is pregnant with the blare of trumpet fears That echo down the caverns of our ears And rumble 'round the mending rooms of thought: The deed is duty. But a duty done By none but freedom-breathing sons to whom At last the silence strides as holy sleep, A vigil-rest caught in/ the Pillared One. ------------------------- There are moments I call God moments, and today a link on Silliman's Blog to an article by Veronica Whitty about Francis Thompson allowed me to experience several such moments. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Friday, November 9, 2007


Completed "thoughts in transit" at Rho blog. Poetry and aesthetic positions are at the core of it, but other topics are also discussed. Began the post on November third. Today's section has nine links to this blog. On December 31st will be doing pdm count number 3. § About AM 7:30 I opened the drapes, and saw 2 passenger jets quite near each other high in the clear sky. Then I noted they'd just passed each other, and that they were on the same SW-NE line. Couldn't tell, however, if one was higher than the other. - An hour or so later I heard a bird cheeping near the window, but I was seated here on my stool and didn't get up. Suddenly I heard a larger something thump by the wall, and then a squeak from the bird; then silence. Went to the window. Saw nothing. * Brian A. J. Salchert

Thursday, November 8, 2007

SH690update Hopefully, I've at last settled on at least the page, text, and link colors for this blogging endeavor. A silver gray (c0c0c0 / 192 192 192) is the page background color. The basic text color is black. Since the gray I'm using accommodates it well, the link color is blue. I may yet make heading background and sidebar color changes. Am beginning to settle into specific presentation patterns. The first line on most pages (entries) will be as it is on this page, beginning with the page's AOL entry number followed by this journal's name and a link to the site map along with one to the homepage. The last line on most pages (entries) will be as it is on this page because, even though placing copyright information on each page is not necessary, I want to reveal that information. See Homepage for related details. Had been conscientiously placing in each entry one or more extra- site links. That practice has been stopped in favor of only placing such links in an entry when they are pertinent. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Wednesday, November 7, 2007


The Undulant Trees Open the Drapes Frost in the yard Cardinal on a wire then in an eaves trough Juncos, sparrows, or warblers skittering into and out of the sturdy bush Cardinal back on the wire I'm wearing my jacket - Brian A. J. Salchert

Tuesday, November 6, 2007


On 7.31.07 I posted a count of Sprintedon Hollow poems, ditties, and muttobs covering the months of May, June, and July. In that post is an untitled four-line poem. Its first line reads: Death is the only truth worth living. - On a recent visit to Reginald Shepherd's Blog/ I learned that Jon Anderson, a poet who was at Iowa during my second year there and who had been teaching at Arizona for many years, had died. As I had allowed myself to drift away from interaction with other poets early in 1973, I was not able to comment on Reginald's "Homage . . ." post. I did, however, do some searching; and on two sites encountered Anderson's "The Secret of Poetry" poem, the final line of which reads: The secret of poetry is cruelty. - Yesterday, a poetry theory search led me to Jacket Magazine 22 and David Bromige's "In Place of a Preface" wherein one of his sentences reads: Poetry is the theory of heartbreak. - ------------------------- Jon Anderson David Bromige - Brian A. J. Salchert

Sunday, November 4, 2007


Venturings Distant Past Distant Future ah-kah-haaah-laaah oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo ah-kah-haaah-laaah oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo ah-kah-haaah-laaah oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo - Brian A. J. Salchert


Venturings Leaves Scattering Across the Deck And in that final moment, The last before going beyond, Who shall whisper what the truth is? - Brian A. J. Salchert

Saturday, November 3, 2007


One year ago on this date I began this blog. Each of us has beliefs. I have beliefs. I do not insist others believe as I do. I am no one special. There's a little prayer I say daily for each of us. ~ Blessed Trinity: Father Creator, Son Redeemer, Holy Spirit Enlightener: Thank You for each human, Your blessings on each; Your mercies on each. Thank You for sharing in each of us Your wisdom, Your love, Your serenity; and courage and determination; and holy creativity. ------------------------- Brian A. J. Salchert

Friday, November 2, 2007

In This USA the logical endpoint of states' rights is the dissolution of the federal government and the morphing of each state into a nation of like-minded selfish isolationists. Live only with those you agree with, and the rest of the world can spit peanuts. The Constitution of the United States is NOT a sacred document. If we cannot live with each other, we will die because of each other. The AI's are waiting. After the demise of ugly Homo sapiens, Earth will throw an Edenic celebration. Prepare yourself for the crossover. The requisites are: peace, love, community. - The logical endpoint of federal government primacy is the death of statehood and the consequent invalidation of even altruistic legislations of sovran states. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses The Gush of Spring (for sound effects, fun, and beatniks) In joy I walk along; I sing a happy song, For nature's mellow gong Is rightly ringing long. The mattresses of frost Beyond the wall of land With mighty force are tossed, Where oceans spanned By glassy waves That ever break Against the wall And shattered, fall On miles of sandy graves From whence they never wake. The hoary mattresses That now are gone Allow the messes Of sleeping spring To twang e'er lang The song they sang On last year's lawn. Oh happy, bouncing spring, Freed from winter's bed, No longer are you dead! You do not sleep, But rather bring The slamming dawn To scare the hare And flare the bear And move the heavy air As one would move a chair Across the floor Or drop the music score. In joy I amble on My oily way And run this marathon Each turn of day. The vernal rush Is always heard In softly spoken word, A lullaby so hush That never did The Scotch So sweetly notch The word and song That lies not hid Beneath old winter's dark, Beneath its eerie bark, Beneath its cold, Beneath its scraping wind, Beneath its charging bold; Beneath its face of stone That drops quite wrong On those who sinned. And yet the room, Where spring is now exposed And winter's sheets are torn, Does find me there, forlorn, As all around the gloom Of night's shades fallen Cause the gush of spring To be deposed As would a reigning king Who grew with such quick speed So as to suffer need Of that which would make clear This messy time of year When all is like A can of beer Gurgled and thrown away At noon of day And life is far and near With footsteps heard, The song of bird, The beat of drums, The deaths of bums, The whistle of a train, The sound of plane, The mush and gush, And all such like. - Brian A. J. Salchert

Thursday, November 1, 2007


First Verses Solitudo III Along the earth's forgotten trails, beyond The desert dunes and snowy mountain heights, A silent voice entreats; all men respond, Imprinting thoughts across the endless nights. Light tapestries, ideals of every man, Reduce to empty weaves Minervan toil, Embellish all that spirits deem to scan; And harbor hopes above the deadly coil. But seeds of dreams too often rudely die, Forsaking men with emptiness to hold, Till deep retreat, alone, with heaven's Eye And woodland rest reveals the hidden gold: No solitude enacts a greater role Than quiet realized in peace of soul. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses The Song of Southern Africa for Freedom with thanks to Alan Paton Boom! then quickly rap the beats--dark song. Soon! recast the rhythmic ring--life's score. Boom ti ki boom, boom ti ki boom. Wreathe, O warrior dancing. Twist, whirl, charge: boom ti ki boom, ti ki. Now charge! Fight! across your open plains--bright light. Reach! the burning torch proceeds--new trails. Boom ti ki boom fades from the air; freedom's song is rising. Speak, sing, move; grandly orate, Zulu. Be free! Phalaropes in the sky, black and white, are in flight. Cry --the country beloved lies deserted. Love. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Into the Marsh We wind our ways Through misty nights, And shun the days Of crystal heights. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Triton O Triton blow your silver horn Across the salty sea, and call The nymphs beyond the painted morn Of brightly shining victory. Each shaft of dawn Aurora brings Replacing shades of night, to all The realm of father Neptune sings New solemn songs on rainbowed light. Make hard thy mighty sinews now, Fill up thy chest with pride; and reign Above the waves that ram the bow Where Homer's vir in search does ride. Upon your head of umber rests The laurel of the sea; a train The evening's veiling shade attests Your peerless, royal ancestry. Remember thou art Triton, true, Half man; half fish, your form; but know What-e'er in future times you do, With faithfulness pursue the corm. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Tom of the Woods In yonder woods so green and fair There lived a lad in woe; For though he had the glades for friends, There was no man to know. His name? His name was Tom de Luck, And luck he surely had. His life was full of chance and dare, But lonely, he was sad. The woods was bright with flashing hues That sparkled in the sun, As squirrels scampered on the ground Until the day was done. The fox in slyest deviltry Approached his hapless prey, And captured it, then took his bow Before he dashed away. But all these scenes that filled the woods With gaiety and life, But further saddened Tom de Luck And added to his strife. He strolled the paths with head hung low; He stumbled through the mire, Where mists that echoed all his thoughts Accepted his retire. One day while sitting on a stump, He heard a "hello" flow From tender lips (beyond the marsh) That beckoned him to go. "Who comes so into this deep woods To utter soft helloes? What maiden fair is tripping there Yet knows not where she goes?" "My name is Mary Mariand, And I know where I be. But who are you that questions thus In truth to know of me?" "In truth I go by Tom, if that Be true enough for you. Within this woods of stately trees I've lived my whole life through." "Now Tom of thé woods, for is it Not thee, your name and this? Now gentle sir, be kind to me, But render not one kiss." "A kiss! I fear the thought of it. . . . A maiden such as thee With golden hair that trails as silk In lightest winds at sea. . . ." "I think you have too many blooms; Your garden verse o'erflows, But let us walk down winding trails To where the gentian grows." The distant haze enveloped them As hand in hand they trailed The ivy and the royal gent's To where the maid was veiled. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses The Red-Breasted Messenger When winter's snow has all but fled the scene And vivid green is ringing through the air, I crane my neck across a jeweled ravine In hopes of sighting spring's first robin there. What new delight excites my weary veins As 'mid the budding boughs of maple trees That harbinger of wooded dales and lanes Announces life with cheerful melodies. His lay, a masterpiece of genial song, Enhancing every enterprising whorl, Removes unpleasant thoughts that come along And sets the mind and man where leaves uncurl. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses His Goal Was Peace Long, dark shadows stole through the light; Great vines strangled life in the night. Deep, damp jungles that bent men's minds Brought forth freedom to rend black blinds. Fire-lashed crossways tainting the land Now met Lincoln's comforting hand. Fate-found saver of freedom dear Held his honor of justice near. Out from wilderness for the right, Trampled evils with all his might, Beat through brushland where fire was borne; Claimed the hilltop one foggy morn. His spirit set on union and life Moved to conquer the country's strife; Forgetting all physical needs, Stretched its hand to calm trembling reeds. How great the effort Lincoln made: By day he worked; at night he prayed. How hard fell the war on his heart; How his features imaged the part. Strong, sad grooves marked his kindly face; Tear-filled eyes did his thoughts embrace. When sweet peace on golden-hued wings Across the land of Lincoln sings, All souls rest in its golden glow, Thanking God for this man so great Who melted the war-reddened snow And found his peace at heaven's gate. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Indian Sue She was just a doll in yellow attire Bound by cloth of East, the land of the sun. Hair had she as black as night in the mire; Cheeks of umber burnt were tinted with rose. Legs that looked like trunks of trees in repose Near a lumber mill were covered with cloth, Yellow like the skirt which Sue wore. Sue, all decked in jewels, beckoned with hand Outstretched, "Come, come and follow me to Souix land." - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Profound Depths My mind is tired by thoughts so rare That seem to permeate the air. Throughout this space of fading lights I dream of many sleepless nights. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Each Man Each man in this great world of ours Has his own job to do, But how he carries out this plan Is simply up to you. The goodly God has shown the course That we in life should take; However we alone decide Depends the path we make. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Woodland Shades (version two) In gleaming streams of light the woodland shades Like tiny fingers creep across the glades. They seem to ring of lullabies so sweet That linger on forever near my feet; Their changing moods from dawn until the night Keep all within their chambers gay and bright. O scarlet red, O turquoise blue unfold; Uplift my mind with thoughts that are untold. Through distant mists the creaking trees resound As hollow logs reutter mournful word. But beauty yet in stillness can be found, And life embracing holiness unstirred. His majesty the oak surveys the realm That leadeth all beneath the shading elm. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Woodland Shades (version one) In gleaming streams of radiant warmth I endeavored to capture the woodland shades. Upon the cool, grassy earth I rested still, My mind measuring the living beauty. The winding brook rippled over ragged rocks, Its merry melody echoing. . . . The softest breeze whispered through the reeds And lingered by the leaves, lisping lyrics low. Old gold glistening was swinging freely From burden bent boughs toward blossomy births. The final fulfillment in nearness Brought extended efforts for happiness true. Hues with brilliance of precious new jewels Pierced peaceful shades of arborial glades. From distant mists resounded a dark, dire moan; Hollow trees creaked, alone in the mire. As shadowy fingers gripped ever at death, Shading the clearing where in wonder I gazed, The red fox himself slipped out of the brush To crush dried leaves in the woodland's open path. Yet, trudging the jungles, ardent ants Worked well the Willed while in storing for winter. Busy honey bees too, like dancing fairies, Gathered sweet nectar from the columbines. At last I softly stirred in this woodland rare, My mind retracing the beauty through. His majesty the Oak surveyed the wondrous Realm with loving eyes, understanding of all. It was then I realized What truth I must disclose: The beauty of God's nature No artist ever knows. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Nature and the Goal after Charles Peguy Behold, My Creation, says God. This I have conceived from all time. I separated the land from the water, Each to its own place; And in each place I brought life, And made the land young. Then I created man To My Own Image and Likeness, To rule over the land. Behold, My Nature, says God. From snow-capped mountains Above the timber line A new-born brook Winds swiftly like a silver-blue ribbon Tumbling in gay, cool splashes Over old, worn rocks. Into the autumn forests by colored leaves The brook winds swiftly in beauty so rare. This I have conceived from all time. Life flourishes by this rustling brook; Through rustling leaves it scampers. Dancing rays of sunlight on the rippling brook Are an earthly taste of heaven, My palace; the final home of men-- Of men who understand My nature, This nature that I gave to them. From all time have I conceived this To aid man toward his goal. The beautiful birds of the upper air, The great beasts that trod the land; The millions of microscopic things: Through these, my nature, shall man find his goal: Eternal life in heaven. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Winter Winds The barren land in snowy raiments rests When winter dominates the country scene. No bird reposes now in feathered nests, For bitter winds are blasting where the green Of summer had in cooling shadows been. These winds that charge across the open field, Like storms of woe that oft beset the heart, Are draping flakes of snow that always yield To every wisp of wind till nature's art Is manifest as strokes of Genius yet again. O blow with all your might upon the earth And cover all the tracks of life around. Have mercy not on any when in mirth You laugh at blemished faces on the ground. Return triumphant fiend to yonder murky fen. O winds of self mistakes; O winds of Will, You mark our lives with heavy burdens now. But we will win this lifelong battle still. So slaves of Aeolus do suffering allow For hardship strengthens souls and betters men. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses The Mystic Dove A whistling Wing amid the trees; A glowing Cousin of death, Thy rosy breast colours the leaves, A singing of souls to rest. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses I Could Be a Poet Ah, 'tis true, but who am I? I am no Pope, no Whitman, no Longfellow; But rather an amateur searching for light, for room to breathe. And yet, do I truly wish To breathe the sweet air of poetry, Or do I but fool myself with such grand thoughts? Am I just a bard for fame, Or do I possess a true talent That might flourish if I am patient, humble, And willing to work toward such a goal? - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Too Young Experience is that which I have not leave in, As surely you must see. My poetry is that of the saddest lot even With weaker company. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Treasure As lays In beauty bound By melodies so light, Is all the wonder man has found In life. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Light of Love The "star of love" shone bright on high, A guiding light up in the sky. It led the Maji to the child; Upon their gifts the God-Man smiled. The angels sang their songs of praise; As yet the star threw golden rays. The shepherds on the hill did see, Adoring the Christ on bended knee. Should not hearts wonder at these things About which still an angel sings? God's love for man was resting there In this manger, lowly and bare. How radiant was His young face, For from His heart flowed love and grace. He gave Himself to save mankind So that those lost He might then find, Pointing the way to happiness; Bringing all to Him to caress. Eternal heaven is the home Where we who love shall rest, shall roam. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses Mother I think of thee when traveling down life's road My back is burdened with some heavy load. I think of all the times you soothed my sores With quicker speed than oil in Grecian wars. Of all the words we spoke when left alone That painted phrases only we have known. You are a luminary of the night Revealing paths that lead to love and right. Each word and act I saw expressed by thee Did bring you all the closer, Mom, to me. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses [ Okay, I had an inordinate attachment to my mother who/ was too gentle, and a troubled attachment to my father/ who seemed to me to be too firm; but I learned a lot from each of them, which says nothing about what I did with what I learned. ] My Mother She is short. Just Five feet is her height. Her eyes are soft brown; Her hair black as night. A look that is kind; A smile on her face, Which tears of sorrow Will never efface. She's mine forever, Oh how much I love her. May the Lord bless her. My dear, loving mother. - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses I Dream of Life Closing my eyes to see afar the magnificent brightness of a star, I dream of life; the things therein, to think the way, my heaven to win. My conscience remains my lasting guide; a guardian angel is at my side. Like the swirling nebulae, in this realm I wish to stay. My world is a dream; my life uncertain, and with my eyes I see the curtain Of eternal life wherein I may go as I will. Oh, . . . - Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses section of Autobio Poems verse #1 - "The God-Created Milky Way" - verse #2 - "I Dream of Life" - verse #3 - "My Mother" - verse #4 - "Mother" - verse #5 - "Light of Love" - verse #6 - "Treasure" - verse #7 - "Too Young" - verse #8 - "I Could Be a Poet" - verse #9 - "The Mystic Dove" - verse #10 - "Winter Winds" - verse #11 - "Nature and the Goal" - verse #12 - "Woodland Shades" (version one) - verse #13 - "Woodland Shades" (version two) - verse #14 - "Each Man" - verse #15 - "Profound Depths" - verse #16 - "Indian Sue" - verse #17 - "His Goal Was Peace" - verse #18 - "The Red-Breasted Messenger" - verse #19 - "Tom of the Woods" - verse #20 - "Triton" - verse #21 - "Into the Marsh" - verse #22 - "The Song of Southern Africa for Freedom" - verse #23 - "Solitudo III" - verse #24 - "The Gush of Spring" - - ------------------------- Brian A. J. Salchert


First Verses [ When I was twelve I was attending a Roman Catholic elementary school, and I thought I might one day be an astrophysicist. During that year I did two quite unrelated things: an oil painting of a young evergreen rooted at the base of an incline in the north section of the yard around our house, and a poem about God and the Milky Way. The painting is hanging/ on a wall/ in this apartment. The verse is/ hanging below/ a virtual um. ] The God-Created Milky Way A group of stars the heavens wide That seem to be side by side. A heavenly group with stars aglow, That Milky Way, which we all know. A bit of the universe created by God That containeth the earth on which we trod. A sight to remember your whole life through; For it told of God's greatness, personally, to you. - Brian A. J. Salchert


Today and tomorrow are the final two days of my first year of spinning this Thinking Lizard Sprintedon Hollow webbed log. In my Autobio(a) section I will be placing First Verses. Although I have lost some of them, it has been my habit to keep what I've written. Given the variety of my writings, especially during 2007, my early attempts are revelatory. Therefore, my opinion of them is marginal (not to the point). - Brian A. J. Salchert