Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  Green Space There’s impenetrable green beyond our meadow A place only four-foots go Deer and fox and coyote ‘Possum and woodchuck and raccoon Rabbits and squirrels and more rabbits They all show themselves in the meadow The green space, though, is their world One that has shrunken by human settlement But a world where they can live away from the tumult of the city We enjoy their presence We honor their space

  North Shore, Lake Michigan, 2025 The waterfall crashes on the rocks in our pond A reminder of the sound of the waves The waves on the Lake Michigan north shore beach A beach seven miles long at our doorstep Or rather “dunestep” as we had to traverse a dune to get there A beach of solitude on a lake of greatness

  Sky Water Earth’s theatre darkens The deluge begins The Sky pours its sky water Its holy sky water on a grateful Earth

  The Death and Cremation of My Brother, Guy A body reduced to ashes But that’s all, just flesh For the Spirit rises from the flames While the ashes return to Earth The Earth which gives birth to new life And the Spirit rises to await a new body One that will walk the Earth again With new awareness of Love For, before he died, he told me, “I love you, my brother.” Love, the essence of life on Earth Thank you, Guy. I love you, too. 

  As Water Falls Bubble, bash, drip, drop Plunk, splash, ripple, pop Sounds of a waterfall as it plummets From various heights from pool to summit Waterfalls can be melodious like tinkling bells But also cantankerous like swirling swells Like tiny ripples against a shoreline dock Or giant waves over hard cliff rock While waves are driven by prevailing wind Waterfalls get their energy by falling over land

  A Storm of Bubbles Another storm threatens, but this one’s inside When too much bubble bath made a swirling tide For ir’s a bath in a tub that the young boy named “Shaboozy” The tub jets out water, its real name Jacuzzi Out of the tub rose a bubble tsunami Hidden within were the Brothers Ramponi

  A World of Water and Sand Waves roll and roll across the lake Driven by the wind without a wind break But rolling and rolling, they do break white Big rollers like steeds, horses of white Stampede to the shore where they roll-out for more Back of the beach lay high sand dunes Great piles of sandy rock ruins For thousands  of years of pounding waves Turned hard rock into tiny sand grains 180 degrees of beach meet our eyes Seven miles of beach in front of us lies 

  On the Shore The water so placid and cerulean blue But tomorrow it will be something to rue For weather is coming whatever we will Storms are coming with waves like high hills For this is a lake, a Great Lake at that With waves that build to make sailors go “drat” They build-up and build-up for hundreds of miles To erase even veterans’ seafarers smiles The Lake, which one of the Great can it be? Is it Superior, Huron, Ontario, or Erie? It’s one that runs mostly North and South It’s Michigan, one great watery mouth

  Georgisms 2.0 Age 9, he dropped a scissors on himself on vacation, then said “I’m OK…I think.” On a test in 3rd grade, he is supposed to tell and show the work. He puts “Top Secret.” In 1st grade, there is a question he has to answer, so he raises his hand and says “I’m just itching me.” In summer of 2003, he finds shiny rocks in the yard, He says they are diamonds. Mom says, “They are quartz, George.” George replies,”Can you help me find gallons and pints, too?” Eden, the dog, crawls up to George, age 7, and squeals. George says, “You must be hungry. Even howls talk to me.” George says,” Moooom.” Dad says, “Yes?” George replies, “I want Mom.” Dad says, “Mom’s not home.” George asks, “Is she getting a dog?” Dad says, “No, we have a dog,”             George replies, “Is she getting a dinosaur?” George asks, “Are we rich?” Dad says no. George asks, “How much money do we have?” Dad says a lot. George asks, “Can we afford a ...

  Help! I Lost My Voice Hopefully not my poetic voice, though, lately, it’s been heard down some dark alleys and dead end streets. It’s my voice box voice I lost. If I make a sound at all, it’s, by turns, gravelly. whispery, and high-pitched. Went to see a doc, and got some meds. One, an antibiotic to zap the microcritters causing the sore throat, another to replace the beneficial bugs in the gut, some of which will be zapped by the antibiotic. So, singing in the shower will soon return, not basso or soprano, but my usual tenor.