Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  The Owl Asks Whooo Chocolate earth is frosted thick. Trees are iced like candy sticks. It’s why kids eat snow and icicle licks. Overnight the snow poured down, Quilted the ground with a milky down, Cornice-curved roof lines to a snowy round. Now snow stopped falling, but blizzard continues. Wind-blown snow fills the avenues, Including my driveway which yesterday I could see. My shovel will need again to make it snow-free. The owl demands whooo? Whooo poured eggshell-white on the world? Whooo covered my hunting ground? No one can give the owl an answer. As the sun rises, he and I will need to labor, Me the shoveler, he the hunter. For kids, snowfall is cool vanilla fudge. For me and the owl, it’s a bit of a drudge.

  Where Does He Get This Stuff? George is four years of age. Here is his latest exchange with his Mom. Mom: I’m upset with you. Your teacher told me that you got into trouble again at school. George: Mom, sometimes life is like that.

  Four Year-Old Wisdom Mom: Why are you so cute? George, age 4: Because. Mom, pulling a George: But why? George: That’s the way God made me. Daddy: Good answer, George.

  Horizons                                                                                                                                                                The horizon disappears in a white-out, A blinding blizzard that erases the periphery of all things,  Including the line that separates earth from sky.   The perplexed traveler, frozen in his footsteps,  Disappears in the crystalline cloud, his world a blur,  Perhaps wondering what a slightly darker wrinkle  In the shrouded closeness might mean.                                                                                Horizon circumscribes one’s visual world,  And when engulfed by fog, as with snow, That familiar world shrinks and all but vanishes, The skyline erased and replaced With an opaque vapor, thick yet without substance. The grayish white nothingness closing-in on the observer Might serve to prompt him, without the distraction of the wider world, To look inward at life’s other shades of gray,  Or to imagin

  Frozen Gems Bejeweling the winter shore of the great inland sea A luminous strand of frozen water diamonds Gleaming shards of icy light. Waves rolling in a northeast gale Freezing spray shimmering bright The Great Lake and the Sun Jewelers beyond compare.

  Masterpieces All The hue of Spring is verdant green, Living emeralds everywhere seen. Summer’s face has a radiant glow, A garden of blossoms rarin’ to grow. Gaudy pigments paint Fall’s forest, Its mature colors luminous, lustrous. But Winter’s visage is a beauty stark, The snow so white, the bark so dark.

  Reindeer on the Rooftop My Dad went to any lengths - or heights - to make Christmas memorable for us kids. One year he actually put a ladder up on our house on Christmas Eve, and pounded on the roof  to make it sound like Santa had arrived up there with his reindeer. This he did for the benefit of my six year-old sister, Jeannie. The little one wanted to stay up all night, and await the jolly old elf, but  needed to take a bath and go to bed before the big day. The clatter of “reindeer hooves” on the roof, though, assured her that Santa had come. Knowing she had to be good, especially when Santa was here, she relented, and took her bath. When she was done, she peeked under the tree, and discovered that Santa had placed many presents there. Jeannie remembers one present she got that year, Fuzzy Wuzzy the Teddy Bear.

  Inukshuk A placement of rocks A figure in the wilderness In the shape of a human Representing an Inuk A member of the Inuit The people of the Arctic The inukshuk the compass The compass of the Arctic A signpost for the traveler To find their way in the trackless land The way to a mountain pass Or an open sea channel A fording place in a river  Or a good fishing hole Human figures of rock Tell much about the people A rock-solid people   Concerned for their fellow travelers That all might share a challenging land 

 Chill Wind To the west in the winter wind, the wicked wind, the willful wind, Rambling o’er the river, o’er the bridge we did go. We leaned into the wild wind, the wailing wind, the wayward wind. ‘Twas rushing insistent like the river below. Down under the sturdy bridge, the stout bridge, the brawny bridge, Below the old trestle bridge icy water did flow. Sunlight sparkling on the water, was dancing on the water, Brightly blinding on the water belied the cold blow. Cold wind on our faces iced nose, cheeks, found places To bite, nip, and lace us with a frost-reddened glow. Turned away from the frigid wind, the blustery wind, the gusty wind, Turned downwind to escape the wind for a moment or two. Then briskly in the bitter wind, the stinging wind, the chilling wind, Gamely into the winter wind, we turned and did go. In the end turned our backs on the callous wind, cold-hearted wind, The winter wind won-out today, blew-away today our derring-do. Said good-bye to the brisk blows, the bit

  Somethin’ in the Oven Met her in the bakery She was working the ovens In her peasant blouse, skirt, scarf And her winning smile Always doing for others Thinking about them Asking about their lives  In her warm voice Telling them her funny stories Sharing her spirit, her touch, her love Here I am, some 40-odd years later  Still feeling her warmth   350 degrees, for life

  Dreams I am six. I am asleep. I am playing baseball. I am an outfielder. I get up out of bed. I say aloud, “I have to catch the ball before it goes over the fence.” I jump up. I hit the wall.  I catch the ball. I wake up. I celebrate, waking up my sibs and folks. I am ushered back to bed. I am ten. I am asleep. I am flying over our house. I wake up in bed, a soft landing. It was quite the flight. I am twelve. I am asleep. It’s Halloween I am riding in a car. It is rainy and foggy. Out of the gloom, a man appears on foot. A man in a trench coat. A man without a head. I wake up happy not to be in the car. I am sixteen. I am asleep. Oh, oh. Puberty has set-in.

  Trying vs. Doing What can I What can I What can I Try to do Try to do Try to do I won’t  I won’t  I won’t Just try Just try  Just try Trying is a broken record Trying is being stuck in a rut Trying is a built-in excuse For not doing I don’t try I do!

  Keith, Willowbee, and the Mouse When my son Keith was age 4, he and I were over at his friend Willowbee’s house. Willowbee, also age 4, had spotted a mouse in the house earlier that day. I told the boys to get together a box, a stick, a long string, and a small piece of cheese. When all items were gathered, we made the mousetrap. I tied the string to the stick, and the boys used the stick to prop up the box. Under the box they placed the cheese, a fairly stinky variety. The trap set, we took the other end of the string with us as we hid behind a large, overstuffed chair. It wasn’t long before the mouse appeared, sniffing around the box, looking for the cheese. When he went under the box, we pulled the string, and the box came down. What do you think? Did we catch him? If we did, what did we do with him? Keith went on to build many other things, from boats to houses. Anything one can build, he can do it, with beauty that lasts. And still does to this day. Not to mention, he’s a sailor

  Aaron and the Fly in the Soup   As a small boy, my son Aaron said some humorous things while in restaurants. As a matter of fact, his first words were spoken at a restaurant, a Mexican place, when he ordered ,“Two hot tacos, please.” Once, with his Grandma, Grandpa, and Mom, he announced in a voice loud enough for everyone in the place to hear, “Don’t get the soup, it has a fly in it.” Another time, they took him to a vegetarian restaurant. On the wall was a blackboard on which the staff would write the vegie menu of the day. Aaron took the chalk and drew a pig, apparently wanting to put pork on the menu.  With an early interest in sharing important information verbally and on a blackboard, Aaron  went on to become an award-winning English teacher, and a great Dad of two little boys, George and August. Not only that, he bakes a great sourdough bread, which you can wash down with one of his home-made beers.  

  A Tree Blooms in Winter It’s 5:30 AM. I’ve been awake since 3, ½ dreaming, ½ fuzzily thinking, If there is any difference. I have an expectation to write everyday, Write about my experiences. The pandemic isolation has crimped my style. What do I wax poetic about, 4 walls? I did write a haiku yesterday:      A short stay on Earth      Then you are gone a long time      Waves break then vanish Tells you what my state of mind is. What am I waiting for? Why not make every moment count? Be in each one, not in the day after yesterday, Or the day before tomorrow. Came up with this metaphor of the Joe Biden phenomenon: A tree blooms in winter. A tree (Joe) blooms (is elected president) in winter (as an old guy). I, too, am a tree and an old guy not much younger than Joe. How am I to bloom today?

  Voices I like guitars and drum beats and the power of the ivories, Cellos and fiddles and sax riffs but even more than these, What delights me most are voices, the diverse voices of singers, if you please. Brisk, bright, breathy tunes, bubbly, bouncy, like a fresh breeze, And also raw, ragged, raucous cuts, rough, roaring, like gales on the high seas. Upbeat songs do a happy times rendition,  While the blues sings of a dark moment’s condition. What do they have in common, these two? Like fine wine for different tastes such as chablis and merlot?  Both sing of one’s experience on any given day. The emotions we all share they give voice to, sincerely say, What us less musically inclined folk, to express, might at first need chardonnay. Later to discover our truth in song, a way to pray.

  To Bake a Cheesecake Moon A creamy confection, a full moon of a cake, Of simple, though rich, ingredients baked. For the crumbly crust: Graham crackers crumbled fine under the rolling pin, Sweetened and then buttered to hold it together again. For the sturdy stuffing: Cream cheese, sweetened, beaten, and leavened with egg, Baked almost an hour, and placed to cool in the fridge. Your mouth will water for four, interminable hours, When you then pull it out, lace it with compote, and devour. Still another reason to thank the dairy farmer.

  Mysteries of the Universe Unraveled So, ask anyone, they will attest That the sun really rises in the sky to the west. Does cartwheels across a root beer sky With clouds of vanilla floating by. But does anyone know where it goes when doused in the east? Plunged into the depths of the eastern seas? Does it boil the sea, create high humidity, Falling as water, raining on my poetry? Or does it simply get cloaked, below the horizon? Where its fires are stoked by a million men shovelin’, Shovels full of coal keeping it blazin’. Like everything else in this world of travail, All the scientific research performed to write this poem to no avail, The sun's voyage is mysterious, magical, even beyond the pale. Ah, the pale, the pale of the moon, that slice of green cheese! Cook me a moon cheeseburger, a pail of them, if you please.

  Songs God Hears A raptured Baptist chorus in their storefront church. Nuns’ sweet hymns in their Catholic choir. Buddhists chanting their hypnotic mantras. Muslims’ call to prayer, five times a day. A blues man pouring out his wounded heart. A song writer strumming and singing his truth. School kids piping-up their innocent songs. A family caroling outside Grandma’s door. A lover serenading the love of his life. A mother’s lullaby to her sleepy baby. Baptists, Catholics, Buddhists, Muslims, Blues Men, Song Writers, School Kids, Carolers, Lovers, Moms. Which ones does God hear? If you hear them, doesn’t God?

  our country in eclipse  when the moon blocks the sun nightmares become tears tears for the dead the dead a deluge a deluge of grief no grief at the white house  the maskless party plays Russian roulette the bullet a virus they are the gun they follow the “leader” they fear he’ll fire them  end their fantasy their fantasy of power if the virus doesn’t get them first his legacy death a deluge of death

  Song of the Workers What do I whistle and sing of today? The leaves red and yellow, the river blue-gray? The creatures of the woods, the sun’s shining rays? Nay, the people, the workers, the toilers today! First, the dray men who truck loads down the long highway, The dray men who weigh them for that’s how they’re paid. I sing of the fishermen who cast-off from the quay, To net finny creatures to fillet and pate. Hey, then there’s the farmers who make the curds and the whey, But first turn-up the clay and flail the hay. They are the keepers of animals that moo, bray, and neigh. It’s another job to keep them well laid-in by hay. Finally the doctors and nurses who well earn their pay, To treat a person rightly and ensure they’re okay. I sing of the workers who respond without delay, To what are or may be our needs of today.