Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  A Poem Says to the Poet “Hi, Poet,” says the Poem, “what am I to you?” “You are,” says the Poet, “the language of my heart.” “Well,” says the Poem, “I must say your heart has spoken remarkable language lately. You described being in a funnel cloud of fear, then a tsunami of sadness, followed by a neverland of despair, all in a few of my lines. You did settle into an easy chair of contentment in the end, but you put me through a lot. I think you should see a therapist.” “Poem,” says the Poet, “that’s why I have you.”

  Electric Night The house seemed to jump. My heart, as well. A flash of lightning, A deafening crack of thunder, Very close by, Electrified me. Besides my eardrums, What else did it split? Went to the windows: Fireworks overhead,  One bolt after another. But no fire in the trees, Just a deluge of rain. Braced for another close strike, Which thankfully never came. Go out West, rain. You’re needed there. We’ve had our share. Deluge here, drought there. Neither natural, to this extent. There’s no denying, Climate is changing. Any questions? Ask the lightning. 

  Look to the Trees for How to Be The grain of pine planks in my ceiling spirals and eddies, a silently eloquent river of wood. Outside, the eyes of beech trees seem to smile as their leaves whisper in the wind. Hard woods - brawny, standing lumber - are also limber, almost willowy, in a gale.   The fruit-bearing ones share their bounty with birds and humans alike, year after year. All their kin remove destructive carbon in the air, and replace it with the life-giving air we breathe. Rooted deep in earth, the wooden ones know also the places on-high where the heavens begin. Trees, arms uplifted, rustle, sough, and sing of the glories of life.

  The Peach A ripe peach in my hand Sweet Juicy Sooo good But quick to disappear They say you are what you eat Hopefully they are part right

  Hands I’ll lend you a hand. Which do you want, the doer or the dreamer? The right - I’m a righty - is stronger muscle-wise, due to being the solo first-responder,  handy, the doer, the hand shaker, more masculine, but also more used, used-up. Still deft at fine motor skills. The left is softer, less beat-up, receptive, supporter of the other, a hand-up, a hand holder, the hand closer to the heart - dare I say - my feminine side.   A hand open to a world where dreams are shared by all. Both share love, each in their own way.  Take one, and you’ll get both.  

  Baba A Baba is a Hindu holy man. He is also an American grandpa. So named by his 1-and-¾ year-old grandson, August, “Baba Thom.” I like that he has named me, a name to aspire to.

  Captain Keith Bends on the mainsail Casts off Eyes the telltale Reads the wind Unfurls the jib Works upwind Close hauled The wind sings a hymn Boat heals over He hikes out  Comes about Tacks many times Then turns downwind Controls the jibe And sails silently home The Wind whispers… “This captain knows how I blow. He’s a wind walker, A wave rider, A tale teller. He loves what he does.”

  Our Busy Restaurant We’ve opened a restaurant here in Fox Crossing. How, you might ask, could we have done this in the throes of a pandemic? One key to our success has been a large and naturally landscaped, outdoor dining area, where we also grow many of our vegetables. In fact, our fresh vegetarian fare, including many wild edibles, has been our specialty most often served. We welcome the fur coat crowd - deer, fox, rabbits, chipmunks, wood chucks, racoons, red and grey squirrels, and others - but also cater to at least twenty species of feathered customers, including turkeys, wood ducks, orioles, woodpeckers, and flickers.  A few of them are snow birds like buntings, tanagers, and grosbeaks, who, in springtime, make our restaurant a stop on their yearly flight North. It’s nice to see the mating rituals - kissing cardinals come to mind - and the resulting babies. Yesterday a fawn and his mother pranced out of the woods, and dined on our Dutch white clover. A while back, a t...

  It’s a Roaring Morning It’s a roaring morning. Hear thunder’s resounding voice. Lightning flashes all around, The ground way more than moist. It’s a cloudburst morning. Another deluge on the way. See cloud’s weepy downpouring, Floods predicted this stormy day. It’s a maelstrom morning The sky is falling down Think I’ll just go back to bed, And let the outside drown.

  An Early Morning Amble The shining eye of the morning sky rises to find… A forest fresh from last night’s rains,  whispering its secrets in the trembling treetops. Swirling currents in the rushing river,  babbling and bubbling in the verdant valley. The hills above seeming to sing,  with a chorus of birds in the bowers. And flowers bursting with color in this dream of green,  flirting with me in the meadow.

  Whirly Bird Wings a blur Hard to see Are they there? Have to be Hummer’s flying, isn’t he? Straight at a flower Inserts his beak Extracts nectar like a bee Pollinates others generously Then like a ‘copter amazingly, Flies backwards, hovers marvelously A tiny bird with so much energy