Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  No Fault Asphalt  Asphalt, asphalt Acres of asphalt Dead mall,  Its stores all dark No need for blame  Or finding fault Let’s dig it up And plant a park

  Thirteen Faces of the Sun A shimmering Sun rises over the horizon of the Great Lake, blazing a golden trail straight over the water to me. That big, old orange in the summer sky makes it Florida everywhere it shines. It’s the end of October. The Sun has become the one, blood-red eye of an ogre as it sets on the Eve of the Hallowed. Today, scud of ragged clouds scratch Sun’s half-hidden face. On the shore of the Great Lake, a blanket of vapor shrouds the Sun in a sodden, gray robe. Now frigid January, the Sun is so low in the sky, its light blindingly harsh, and even its very flames seem cold. A child draws a picture of a smiling Sun. It warms the heart of all who see it. Sun’s rays shine bright through the maple leaves, green morning light. Sun sparkles on the water, even that of the drainage pond off the acres of asphalt. Dark shadows of trees are sharply bordered by the grass gleaming in the Sun. Now low in the sky, Sun paints his dazzling impressions on the wind-rippled waters...

  Gneiss is Nice G-n-e-i-s-s is nice. Yeah, I know it’s nice. It’s beautiful. I have a big boulder of it in my yard. But how is g-n-e-i-s-s pronounced? I told you.  No, you didn’t. You said, “G-n-e-i-s-s is nice.” That’s how it’s pronounced. It’s pronounced “nice?’ Yep. It’s metamorphic rock. With high pressure and temperature over millennia, it changed from being shale to slate to phyllite to schist, and finally to gneiss. I guess if I went through all those changes, and still survived, even a name like Pthom would sound like a Psalm. Thom, I’m a scientist. I should know better than to talk to you poets.

  Two Acres of Leaves Raked leaves on my one-third acre. Fourth time this fall. That’s one-and-one-third acres raked so far. Ash trees totally bare. Oaks and maples still holding on. Probably only two-thirds of an acre more to rake on my one-third acre.

 A  Place in the Heart People ask, “Where are you from?” “The road,” I answer. Lived in twenty-five places at last count. My home wherever I roamed. My Dad the same, as was his Dad.  Always wanting what’s beyond the horizon, The realm of dreams that invariably fades into the distance as you approach it. Itchy feet scratched only by moving them down the road. For a guy like me, what is this “sense of place” people talk about? Mystics say that life is change, that the world is illusory. I guess I got that early in life. But I also lost connections with people along the way. For awhile, as a child, not even knowing how to connect, Or wanting to, as we’d always leave them behind in the end. It took awhile, but I learned how important relationships are. Now find myself looking up old friends I haven’t seen in many years. Those people somehow found their way into my guarded heart. For me, that’s home, a heart full of friends. 

  The Fox Gray Growling Capricious Hiding Hesitating Circling Rushing Leaping Pouncing The Fox: Animal And River

  Climbing the Ladder of Lightning I’m turning on the tower of power. I’m powering-up the path of potential. I’m amping-up an arc of action. I’m generating juice. I’m getting wired. I’m conducting current. I'm bolting volts. I’m climbing the ladder of lightning. I’m getting out of bed.

 Crossing  the River of Despair Walking high above the raging river On a bridge, solid, substantial. But my walk hemmed-in on one side  By four lanes of drivers racing by, Tailgating...who knows?...texting. And on the other side, by a low rail  Marking the border of oblivion. What to do if a car veers towards me? Take the bone crunch and organ split, Or the leap into, probably, the last air I’ll ever breathe. This a glimpse into the anxiety-ridden mind of the depressed: The alternatives morose, seemingly unbearable, Until that river of despair is crossed, Helped across by a caring human being.

  Where Would I Be Without You? Thank you, paper! Thank you, pencil! Without you, what? Scratch my words in the mud? Chisel them in stone? Scrimshaw them in bone? And you, eraser,  Thank you, too! Without you, what? Reams of paper crumpled up? Squadrons of paper airplanes flying Towards the wastebasket, trite words dying? I will end this paean now as my eraser’s length has abated, My paper has, from view, faded, My nubby pencil almost eradicated, And, horrors, my words might become badly stated. So until I come up with words more polished, Or my writing implements are replenished, Suffice it to say, you have my gratitude forever unfinished... Seriously? Forever unfinished?   How about “forever undying?” But with “replenished” that’s not rhyming.  Oh me! See what I mean?  Pencil, paper, eraser, HERE’s where I am without you.   This needs to be put away for awhile in my “It’s Drafty in Here” file. I’ll take it up in a...drat, my pencil lead is gone....

  Bridge of Hope Fact: Depression is the most treatable mental illness there is, and also, if left untreated, the most fatal. A bridge high over the river A sign on its walk with a compassionate message: “We can help you cross this bridge” A sign put there by suicide prevention To help someone bridge the dark depths of depression May that someone choose not the bridge to oblivion But rather the bridge of hope

                                                             Our Maple                                                                green                                          ...

  A Conversation with a Poem I asked a Poem, “What are you?” The Poem replied, “I am my Poet’s heart. On the day of my birth, my Poet told me, ‘My heart is open. Here it is. Take it. Share it with others.’ So I did. In something they call a chapbook.” I questioned further, “What is it like to be a Poem?” “Well,” said the Poem, “It’s happy sometimes, especially when a Reader turns to my page in the book. It’s nice being in a book with my friends, but it is a bit stuffy in there. When someone reads my words aloud - with feeling - that is when my words shine! “You mentioned the day of your birth. What was that like?” “It was, shall we say, interesting. I never knew what my Poet was going to come up with next. Especially after I was relegated to his ‘It’s Drafty in Here’ file for quite a few days. Being a draft can be a neverland of despair or a cupful of sunshine depending on your outlook. At least you’re not crumpled up and tossed in the wastebasket - your dream broken - like some of...

  Water on My Mind You have to understand something about me: I’m a Pisces. I cannot stray far from water. If I do so for a length of time, I start feeling dehydrated, almost dessicated, and cranky. I counter this with a collection, “water on my mind,” watery places I’ve visited in a kayak or canoe, and to which I can travel in memory. Here are some… A dune-lapped shore. The dunes, rolling in shape like the waves of water and currents of wind that created them, some stable and festooned with creeping juniper, others still moving slowly in the wind.  Kohler-Andrae State Park, WI  Crossing Death’s Door by kayak. Tip of Door Peninsula, WI Smooth-cobbled beach. What the waters wrought here are stones without prickly points that you can actually walk on barefoot.  Washington Island, WI Crossing Lake Winnebago by kayak. Paddling west against the wind slowed our crossing, then back east, but now with the wind, in a race with the approaching gale. Lake Winnebago, WI Cedar-li...

  Kai on the Fly stunt              deke      juke                        big zag         zig        feint dig                     fast                                                    past pass                            ...

  Aeolus I speak to the Wind… Wind, where do you come from, where do you go? You seem to be everywhere and nowhere as over Earth you blow. Your presence is felt by all the world, and yet you can’t be seen; As yourself never, but only how you affect each scene. You blow through the trees, rustle their leaves. You sail through tall grass; they wave as you pass. But never are you revealed as you. The Wind blusters in answer… Yes, I am anonymous, in some ways. And so are you, human. Same as you, I don’t reveal my true self easily. Yet, when I do, I let it all out; as you say, the shit hits the fan. Like yours, my moods are many: I am a wisp of wind; I am a gentle breeze; I am a gust, a blast, an angry gale. Like you, I can be capricious: I shift; I veer; I back. But I let my feelings be known: I sough in the pines. I moan in the eaves. I howl in the sails. Like you, I affect the Earth: I bring the rains, the dust storms, the whirling destruction. I fan the flames of forest fires. Hear ...

  The Time Before Her There was a time, A time of dark, A time of doubt, A time of wandering, A time of wondering, A time of yearning. Yearning for what? How can you know, If you haven’t known What “what” is? How to find it When you’re lost With a sketchy map For a neural journey From fear-clouded mind To open heart? Many dark places, Dead ends. Then guides appear, Mentors of love, A community of people Singing, sharing, playing, working together, Opening together. How’s this? Me a part of such bliss? How can I? They answer: Just do it! I do. I open. I find the love, The love of my life. I find my wife

  Stewing A parody of Emily Dickinson Lost my love -  It was not True - As They say - They - the Arbiter of All - What else is new, I ask Myself - Oh nothing, how about Stew? - Yes, Stew will nicely Do - Yes, I have Stewing to do -

  The Blessed Voyage Young sailor, young sailor on the voyage of life Roves down the river from his very first home. Runs with the waves now that bear him along, Rough passage from his home ground where long he belonged. He reaches safe harbor, a shining new world. His crew cuts the anchor rode, no need anymore. He takes him a breath now, and cries, “I’m ashore!” Newborn sailor at his Mom's breast, safe harbor, for sure.