Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  A Soup To Dream Of Last night a dense fog A cloud down low Enveloped the bridge On which I walked A bridge over the river And under another Under a river Overhead, a river of fog Thick as clam chowder Steaming on the cookstove Thick enough to eat But without a taste Met there a person Emerging from the chowder A man in uniform A cop no less Exchanged what pleasantries You can in a fog bank All words left sodden In the vaporous murk Kept walking and walking Through the mist river Had to get to the grandkids To enjoy them today Then out of the fog I spied a ceiling As my eyes opened I awoke from my dream.

  Haiku for June 28th White in the backyard Summer snow in the backyard Drifts of white clover

  Zim Zum A gift for King Neptune In request of smooth sailing A silver coin offered Cast in the water In the slip Zim Zum lay  Launched first time as Zim Zum Newly christened as Zim Zum Fourteen foot sloop rig With a good amount of sail A boy, dad, and grandpa Raised up the tall mast Bent on the mainsail  To catch Zim Zum’s first wind At first we’re becalmed Not a breeze Not a breath Not a whisper of wind Then the silver coin offered Caught the King’s attention Commanded Aeolus The wind god Aeolus To give us some air From the west up the channel Cat’s paws on the water A good breeze had come up And filled our mainsail Crossed the channel from Doty On a broad reach we crossed it Reached the buoys and marina Off Riverside Park Then came about downwind Catching it downwind Running free to our launch slip First sail a success!  

  Four Friends at Rockton Wild Things. Warbler’s wings. Sunny weather. Turkey feathers. A hilly hike. Quite a riddle: From the bottom to the middle, The middle of the top. Laugh ‘til you drop. The Bucks fall, Playing air ball. And grabbing few boards On the Hawk’s end of the floor. Air ball, missing by a mile, Only works well in bocci ball. In our bocci ball game,  The guy who won Knows a lot about air balls. In life, he’s shot a thousand and one. Nothing botchy, though, About how Gary played bocci. The debate of the day was breezy: Was the name of the game bocce or bocci? We should’ve asked Dr. Fauci. But turned instead to Jeff, the psychologist in our midst, Who himself was suffering from separation anxiety. Separation from his phone, that is, the solver of such dire disputes Among these four dudes. So lacking a respected authority We turned to the guy closest to the nationality of Fauci, A ½ Italian guy named Lisiecki, And therefore spelled it bocci. We’re sure the Bucks will stage

  Haiku for June 27th White clover carpet Fairy garden of a lawn Evict sprites? No way

  Goodbye Drought! No blue in the sky, just shades of gray. Dark clouds are dousing the sun’s brilliant rays. Chance of showers for the next seven days. Seems as though our drought will be washing away. Hopeful thoughts in the dry time has led us to pray For those clouds to do more than just being gray. To pour down their contents, not tomorrow, today. To water the green trees, and farm fields of hay. We need rain days to germinate seeds in our clay, Seeds of white clover we planted yesterday. Looks promising that it will rain without delay. And rainy weather will continue to stay. Even a lightning storm, that thunderous melee, May visit us soon, to which I say “yay!” The drought will go wherever it may, But here a good rain is finally on its way.

  The Enemy in the Mirror Whether or not I like to admit it, there are a few people who enter my life whom I don’t really like. I’ll call them “enemies” for lack of a better word. I might not like them for various reasons. They disagree with me. They seem always to be gaming me, competing with me, want power over me. They grate on my nerves. It’s just uncomfortable to be around them. Well here’s a game-changing thought. Instead of “enemy,” why not call them “teacher?”   In explanation let me begin with this premise: everyone in my life is here to teach me something, to hold a mirror up to me so that I can see myself more clearly. For example, the one who grates on my nerves may simply be mirroring characteristics in my own personality. Encountering this person, I might say to myself “Oh no, here he comes again. I’ll shut down, try to ignore him, just suffer through his visit.”  That sounds like me being the enemy, not him. Instead I could ask,”What is he here to teach me? What fellow i

  Re-Entry Drain a potation  Not by mouth But in the arm Bend an elbow Not at the bar But at the pharmacy Take a shot  Of death to the virus Of life for you Then take off your mask Drink a toast to life For you and for all

  The Eyes Have It           Why is it that one can look at a lion, or a planet, or an owl, or at someone’s finger as long            as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second,           a perilous affair?                                                                                                                                                                     Walker Percy, Writer (1916-1990) I have an answer. The eyes tell all. They are a window to the way a person really feels about their present situation, and/or the person in front of them. And people have a varying degree of openness to having their inner feelings observed in this way. Be that as it may, there are hundreds of descriptors for this optical window, through which a person can see out, and others can see in. So the English language, in many ways, has recognized that eyes express what lies within, despite the reluctance to engage in Percy’s “perilous affair.” What

  Life Goes On The sun comes up, the sun goes down The trees turn green, the trees turn brown Life goes on Civilizations come, civilizations go Some, lost to history, we don’t even know Life goes on People are born, people die Both events make us cry Life goes on Where life comes from, where life goes Until we’re there, we don’t really know Life goes on So is this life just “c’est la guerre?” It can’t be helped, so why should we care? Life goes on Or is there a reason why we’re here? To find it out, and, to it, adhere? Life goes on And is that reason being truly here, In each moment, holding life dear? Life goes on Doesn’t “truly here” mean going past the fear, Living with heart, bringing people near? Life goes on Follow the breath to your heart of hearts That will be your true life’s start Life goes on Air goes in, air goes out For this, no need to think about Life goes on In the river of breath, life’s ebb and flow, Answers come clear, you will know Life goes on  

  Taking the Heat Today’s temp is 93, Sultry, steamy, fiery. Who turned up the global heat, Old Mephistopheles? No, it’s us. It’s our devilry. Climate change is our responsibility. Blazing, burning, blistering, The West is already baking. Scorching, sweltering, sizzling, What hell on Earth we’re making. Carbon, carbon, carbon! We need to curb emissions. Let’s support a clean technology. Make “save our Earth” our mission.

  Haiku for June 3rd Open mic last night Today played with grandson George Grandpa needs a nap

  Haiku for June 2nd Green light everywhere Sun shining on grass and trees I want mint ice cream!

  A Poet is an Ologist A poet is an ologist. Not a meteorologist, though his words can illuminate the dark like the brilliance of the sun, Or release the tears of the burdened soul like a downpour of rain. Not a neurologist, though her words can strike a nerve. Not a cardiologist, though their words can help mend a broken heart. Perhaps, a momentologist, who hears the voices of the river, sees the colors of the wind, tastes the moon, or touches the heart of man. So maybe a poet is a meta-ologist, one who transcends the moment, divining its essence, by transforming it metaphorically. So much for heady analysis. Old Solius is showing his shining face through the maple. Time to start my day.

  Haiku for June 1st Walked four miles today I will walk every day It’s great exercise