Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  Bronchospasm Poet’s Note: Bear with me. Patti and I have both contracted bronchitis. And the little germy contractor has been pretty nasty about it. So this is the best I can come up with for the course of the illness. A few clarifications: 1)“Bronchospasm” is an actual medical term for what we have.  “Bucking” is pretty close to what we look like, bucking broncos, while coughing. 2)Then there’s “Weary-a.” I figure if other poets can get away with stuff like this to make something rhyme, so can I.   Cough, cough, cough. Rattle, rattle, rattle. I’m having bucking bronchospasms. I’m falling off my saddle. Sputum.sputum, sputum. It’s time for me to dispute them. The germs, that is, causing a fizz in my chest. With coughs, I’m trying to boot them. Bacteria, bacteria, bacteria. Of you I’m totally weary-a. Cough medicine down the hatch. I’ll send you to Siberia

  August Two years old. Sometimes the echo of his brother. Sometimes the cry of who he is. Sometimes the hugger of all. Sometimes, tired due to all his growing, the hugger only of his pillow. Yet curious as a kitten, astonished at the new. Loving as a puppy; knows what he wants and, with a smile, knows how to get it. Taps the seat on the couch next to where he sits, and, when you oblige, nestles right into you, and hands you a book for you to read to him. Now his name - meaning eminent, celebrated, distinguished - gives him much to aspire to. Yet he already knows a lot of what the world needs to learn. He knows love. 

  Putler Cold fire, peace mired Flags unfurled, warring world Red sky, missiles fly Thousands dead, much dread Country heist, Putin’s vice Children dying, world crying Mass graves, mounting rage War of attrition, life destruction Ukrainians resolute, repulse the brute Putin a Hitler, they name him Putler

  The Nature of Me I am the rising sun. I am the luminous moon. I am the white pine. I am the black earth. I am the wild flower. I am the dark green bower. I am the clear blue water. I am the canyon deep. I am the gold in the creek. I am the mountain high. I am the open plain. I am the hidden glade. I am the Great Lake wave. I am the shore on which it breaks. I am the singing bird. I am the eye of the owl. I am the pure white snow. I am the doe in the meadow. I am the fawn in her shadow. I am the day bright. I am the dark night. I am a breath of pure air. I am the blue sky fair. I am one with nature.

  I Sing a Song of Man and Earth            - With a nod to Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” I walk the world observing keenly its mighty ways and lowly. Equal both, for without the seed there is no tree. I connect with the stranger who has his own story to tell, a story unique, and yet with a yearning common to all - to love and be loved. I see myself in the mirror of the family passing by - father, mother, child. I smile. They smile.  I salute them. They do the most important work on Earth. My heart overflows with love and gratitude for all I experience… The love of a woman, the friendship of a man, The gummy smile of a baby, The precision of a wordsmith, and that of a woodsmith, The spiritual leader who inspires by example, The parents who raise their voices to their children in song, The teachers who love to see the flame of knowledge in their students, the flame they kindled, The farmers at the market, who plowed and planted and picked our sustenance, The makers in the forge shop,

  Something From Nothing Writers write, right? Well, I haven’t done so in weeks. A writer on “pause.” I’m beginning to wonder if the fall I had a couple months ago - well actually the knock-out punch at the bottom - knocked all the metaphors out of my head. What’s to write about anyway? What’s in front of me? What’s in front of me are pencils and blank papers. Maybe I should write about something shocking, like this blankety-blank-blank life I’m leading. But that’s it exactly: my pages are blank. Maybe I need to adopt the George Castanza approach. You know George, the wacky character on the “Seinfeld” comedy. In one episode, Castanza proposes hilariously that they do a “show about nothing” for TV. There’s something to write about: nothing. A chapbook full of blank pages. The somethingness of nothing. But, nah, nothing’s been used. Maybe I should emulate William Carlos Williams, who famously wrote about a red wheelbarrow, and another about plums he pilfered. Nah, that’s been used, too.

  Haiku, March 2022 Haiku is a traditional Japanese poetic form, consisting of three lines, with five syllables in the first and third lines, and seven in the second line. Here are some examples. Shallow brooks babble. Deep rivers flow in silence. Much like the humans. Artwork hangs on walls. Windows into someone’s heart. One full of beauty. The middle of March. I saw two robins today. The first sign of spring. It’s still cold today. Walked along the river bridge. Geese warm in their down. Birdseed on the ground. Cottontail tracks in the snow. Hang-on, spring’s coming! Did my four-mile walk. Over the Fox River bridge. Eagles overhead. Careful, fishermen! Ice turns into floating floes. Ice, a melting boat. I went ice fishing. Mostly that’s what I caught: ice! Also caught a cold. Many years ago I caught a large, walleyed pike. My best catch through ice. Over the river. Bald, winged, feathered fishermen. Eagles catching fish. Fishermen fishing. No one catching any fish. Except for the bir

  When First We Moved to the Edge of the Wood We gazed upon the wall of trees trying to penetrate their mysteries. But the grove’s understory was so dense, the foliage was like a thick, leafed fence. One opening, though, later we found where a tree once there had fallen down. Yet faint light entered only so far before quickly closing in the darkness there. Beyond this open door of leaves, we imagined many secrets lie. One mystery gave a glint of light only when the sun was high. Then a mirror reflected a glimmer through the leaves the mirror, a pond, its light weaves through the trees. Detecting a pond explained other discoveries from the wooded land of hidden mysteries. For water birds waddled out from the woods looking to mate and start-up their broods. Picking our way one day through the brush serenaded by the melodic voice of the wood thrush, we flushed-out a group of bird seed eaters, a herd of deer that eat seed from our feeders. Again another woods dweller was found, this time p

  When Will War End? It will be when misguided leaders dare to share their true feelings, and not just defend their battered egos, wary in their lair. War mongers will fare much better in the end if they bare their embattled souls in the care of understanding men, and end their warring ways. Or if they listen to mothers who make a stand by calling the mothers of the opposing band to come and pick up their soldier sons so traumatized by killing innocents that they surrendered their guns. When will humans understand that the price of conquering land is blood, that there are no winners in war. 

  While Dropping-Off to Sleep...but not Quick Enough While dropping-off to sleep, of which I’ve had little lately, My mind mined this peculiar factoid... I’m now 75, of English extraction. I guess that makes me “Olde English.” So my hair’s not gray, with an “a,” the American spelling. Nor is it grey, with an “e,” the English version. I googled the Olde English spelling of grey. It’s graeg. So I’m a graeg olde man. Here’s my schedule for the week with the names of the days in Olde English… Sunnandaeg. Sun’s day…wishful thinking…it’s rain, sleet, black ice…I skated down the road on my walk, then wrote. Monandaeg. Moon’s day…if it’s warm…the snow’s melting…I will walk and write about that slice of green cheese in the night sky. Tiw’s day. Tiw, a one-handed god…sounds like me, the one-fingered typist…I will walk and write with blazing speed with my right index finger. Wodnesdaeg. Woden, the chief god of wisdom and, paradoxically, also of war…I will walk and write wisely about peace. Thorda

  The Light Inside To see the Light Savor the moment Feel serenity Endless creativity Extraordinary adventure Experience the unexpected Something great Alive awaits Magic happens Here and now Inside