Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

It's Snack O'Clock Somewhere Snack attack, it's a fact. It's Snack O'Clock somewhere. A bear leaves his lair. Jack gets up off his chair. The two of them in the mood for some food. On a tear for a bit of fare. Not to spoil their appetite, They just want to chomp a little bite. Not wanting a nine-course meal, They just like the way food makes them feel, Especially when they’re a bit uptight. For hors d’oeuvres then, the bear will eat almost anything, Such as roots and berries and cherries bing. He simply will eat what’s in front of him, Before prowling for some more. Jack, though, avoiding his own Big Mac Attack,  Prefers crackers and his namesake Monterrey Jack. He makes a toast with wine from some coast,  And leaves it at that.  

  Wind Chill Oh, me! It’s three. The thermometer degree. Single digit. It is frigid. Makes you cringe, doesn't it? Subtract the wind chill. Tests your will. But be careful. It can kill. Think I’ll bake. Cookies make. Or a cake. Take a weather break.

  Grandpa in the Snow I’m ten.  Snow is fun. You walk the piles, not the paths. Snow is fun. I’m ten times seven, plus. Snow is work. You move the piles to make the paths. Snow is work. When a fellow ten and his grandpa, though, get together in the snow, Snow for both is fun. OK, grandpa still has to shovel, but also gets to revel, Again like a ten-year-old, like a ten-year-old in the snow. 

  Of Love and Loaves Just downstairs from where I lived was a bakery. There a long-haired girl with a blue-eyed smile made bread. She mixed, she kneaded, she loafed the dough. She worked her magic, and so the loaves rose. Bread’s aroma came up from the ovens below. And unable to resist her fresh-made bread, I got to talking with her. Her smiling eyes, her story-telling lips, worked magic on me, again I couldn’t resist. We made a family. As good as she was at bakery, she’s even better at family. Kids love her. We’ve been together now for forty-five years, and our boys have their own magic stories to tell. We have grandkids. So that’s my story of love and loaves, of the woman whose love just grows like dough. Its magic she knows.

  Wind Dance      To move freely, you must be deeply rooted.                                                    Bella Lewitzky                                                    Dancer                                               ...

  You Are What You Eat? I have a problem with food. Maybe I need to bring home something besides just bacon. Eggs, maybe, but, no, I’d just get them on my face. I tried beans, but I got into trouble when I spilled them. Got the same response when I shed tears after spilling the milk. I’ve tried going bananas, but walking and driving work much better. Maybe, if I ate cucumbers, I’d be as cool as one.

  Sunrise Haiku Sunrise through the trees Branches make a filigree Red and gold beauty

  Snow Glow Through my window, soft light It’s snow outside, bluish white A reflection of quickening sky light Easy on my waking eyes A welcoming glow as I arise And write this very brief reprise Before coffee to my sleepy head arrives

  Ehh?      Praise does wonders for our sense of hearing.                                                  Arnold H. Glasgow "Ehh?," pronounced “ay?” As in “whadayasay?” A common response from the auditorily challenged - OK, from me - when asked to do a chore. I hear my wife’s words so much more, And so much better, my ears unfettered, When she tells me my poems -  Which daily to her I show ‘em - That she loves ‘em. Especially when I’m done with ‘em, And she - wordlessly, I think - hands me the vacuum.

  Ho’ oponopono      Hawaiian for solving differences by talking them out                                                                                                                      Howard Rheingold                               ...

  He’s Two He’s two.  Before you, a little you. Aren’t you, at times, blue? Don’t you, at times, stew, or sometimes rue? Throw a tantrum or two? Get over it, and then smile anew? He’s good at being emotionally true. He’s a reflection of you, and what you value: To yourself be true.

  Filthy Rich They’re affluent with effluent. They’re the filthy rich. They’re extravagant with excrement. They’re the filthy rich. They’re well-to-do with bad do-do. They’re the filthy rich. They’re billionaires who expel bad air. They’re the filthy rich. They’re against legislation about environmental regulation. They’re the filthy rich. They’re dinosaurs who gorge more, more, more. They’re the filthy rich. They’re dinosaurs without concern for the poor. They’re the filthy rich. Like dinosaurs whose demise was for sure. They’re the filthy rich.

  Ekphrasis of “Song of the Towers,” Aaron Douglas, 1934 In the depths of a city canyon, the impersonal gear of the economy grinds on, favoring the few, failing the many. Clutching green tendrils, illusions of money, float through the scene like seaweed, and portray accurately the Depression-era economy as under water. A black man runs for his life atop the teeth of the grinding gear.  He grasps in his hand a green briefcase, the blacks' unfairly meager share of the country’s economy.  His arm upraised in protection, he attempts to ward-off a monstrous, skeletal hand threatening to crush him or flick him into the abyss where a dazed, endangered brother has fallen. Yet he strives to keep up. Rising above the gear, buoyed by his music, the sax player sees beyond the city towers to the Light above. His music radiates out in colorful, concentric circles of hope and inspiration. At the center of the innermost circle, yet far-off in the distance, removed from the struggles of t...

  Haiku as Ekphrasis: “Nympheas,” Claude Monet, 1907 Lily pads blossom Among hazy reflections Islands in the mist “Spingendes Pferd,” Franz Marc, 1913 Many-colored horse Blends into background landscape Unity of Life Just Plain Old Haiku: Living in the Now It’s easier in Nature Life beholding life Nature is the Now Mary Oliver knew this Flowers whispered it First mug of coffee You are steaming, bubbling hot Give me some of that The sun’s out today The temperature is six The sun’s a trickster

  Locks While reading the thesaurus one day, Seeking words with which to poetically play, I happened upon synonyms for “lock:”  Tress, curl, tuft, and shock. This made me think of navigational locks, Seventeen of which lie on the River Fox. From Menasha to the Green Bay docks, With locks for boats there’s no rapids and rocks. In a mere thirty miles, without these boating aisles, and the locks' engineering wiles, The river drops one hundred-seventy feet, Making navigation an impossible feat. Before the locks were constructed, Gazing at the river made people’s locks stand erected. For experiencing wild water was awe-inspiring and amazing, But also frightening, alarming, and hair-raising.