Not Too Far
Click for meditationRegarding "Not Too Far"
Not too far from the Jeep Trail
Winding through Morrill’s woods is an old
Colonial-era homestead, or, more
Specifically, the homestead’s
Cellar hole, made of hardscrabble
Stones which would have been
Painfully unearthed by calloused
Flesh in times long gone.
The homestead site is totally
Invisible from the Jeep Trail, perhaps
No more than 75 feet away…
Forgotten, blocked by
Increasingly thick woods.
Also blocked or lost
Are all the homestead’s
Memories. Trees are even
Trying to grow in the cellar hole
Itself! Nothing speaks,
Nothing moves…it is only
Creation which knows what the
Stone cellar walls know.
It is only Creation which has
Heard the voices which once made
The homestead a home.
And it is only Creation
Which can bathe in warmth
The cold November temperatures
Ingrained in the stones, even
As they still feel the freeze
Of the ancient glacier which once
Tumbled them when the
Land was not even known…
Leo Carroll
December 11, 2019
Near the Jeep Trail
Here I sit this cellar hole amidst,
Just stoic stones remaining without the flesh
Which long ago them set…nothing
Left now…no voices, no laughing,
No crying…no pain, no joy…
No births, no deaths…no nothing…
Just this lone moment long
After footsteps took their last
Step…long after the last
Crib was rocked, long after
Was whispered the final vesper
At someone’s death…
But yet despite, still the sun
Shines, and to the cellar
Hole addresses, “I know all that
You did…so please take my
Warmth, and let this light up’n
Your stones be visited.”
Ode to Old Homestead
E’en the trees have tried to
Take o’er your cellar’s soul…but they
Underestimate the strength of
Your carefully-fitted stones…
What chance have the trees – –
Their trunks are made of
Mere wood!? Your stones are
Much harder than that, and e’en
An ancient glacier into the
Sea could not them push…
Bottle Rock
Click for meditationRegarding "Bottle Rock"
In the frenetic world we live,
It is almost impossible to
Take a timeout to catch a breath…
To recalibrate…to reset, to
Just breathe and not worry about
What comes next…There is,
However, a wonderful place in the
Woods of Maine. It is bare-boned in
Appearance, but is a spot of
Stabilizing, spiritual reassurance.
It is located near a quicksand
Swamp and within a stone’s
Throw of centuries-old, colonial-era
Rock walls. And, all of this
Enclosed by thick woods…It is
An ancient, glacial boulder
Which one day an ice
Sheet got tired of pushing!
And there it still sits, and
On the day of this poem was
Covered in snow, but in other years
Was where I sat with a friend
To talk but mostly just to feel the
Silence…and on one day was
Rewarded when a snow owl
Alighted and watched us
Quench our thirst with a beer,
And then solemnly bury the two
Bottles ‘neath leaves where
We could revisit them every year.
As it says in the Creation story in the
Book of Genesis, “God saw
That it was good,” and so it still
Is in Morrill, Maine, where a simple
Boulder provides an enduring
Backdrop for remembrance and
Resurrection and friendship.
And it stands where for
Millennia it has stood,
Where a glacier got tired
And Yahweh said, “This is good.”
Leo Carroll
January 14, 2020
Blank stares the old rock,
Plain in its face but wizened and hoary
In its thought, secluded, not
Far from a quicksand swamp, but a
Safe haven, simple in looks, and
Faithful, too, dependably strong against
What the world would throw,
Always there, an anchor against
Cascading, overwhelming change,
A place where two sets of
Shoulders could sit and lean and
To the rock not have to explain, and
Where a snow owl in agreement
Was once seen to alight, and
Witness a toast being raised and
Then two bottles beneath leaves
Being laid, where year after year they
Could be revisited and
Resurrected…
Prodigal Son
Click for meditationRegarding "Prodigal Son"
We all
Pause at some point,
And make an assessment
Of where we’ve been, reflecting
How time has so quickly
Passed and how the gates to
Our past are now closed and cannot
Be swung back open. “O Life,
Did I make good use of you, or
Was I frivolous with what
You so freely offered?”
Such we can wonder and
Such has no answer, because
Like the prodigal son in
The orchard of this poem,
A time comes when
All left to do is to turn up
Our collars against the chill,
And hope any furies are
Overcome by the “good”
We’ve sown, and we’re not
Undone by other choices
We’ve chosen.
Leo Carroll
January 8, 2020
He peeks, as if through a
Portal back into time,
Under a canopy’s
Branches from where
He is described in rhyme.
He pauses wistfully,
His memories old but
Intact, ruminating
As the woods begin to
Whisper, and when the
Furies will emerge
And run at him fast…
And so in an ancient orchard
Picked of apples clean,
He stands quietly
Still and muses how he
Used to roam this Maine field…
And how long ago he
Would not have
Flinched when the
Cold crawled and crept
Into his bones, but
How now he tucks his
Collar up, as a chill comes
With a shiver he knows.
Musings
Click for meditationRegarding "Musings"
There are some moments,
Some places, some situations, which
Can cast us into a freefall of
Emotions and thoughts
And musings. Such was the
Case when I was on
The beach in Mutiny Bay
On Whidbey Island.
My writings, while there,
Were both related and
Unrelated to the beauty of
The seashore, but they
Were a consistent collage
Of who I was, who I am,
And where the Muse has
Led my longing to be.
My thoughts placed me in
Awe before the Divine,
But also swung me back to
Consider the clay of
My humanity.
Leo Carroll
November 20, 2019
Knowing
If only I knew that I would
Never know, that I was merely
Destined to sit a beach
Like this, and to always
Wonder the meaning of a back
And forth, tidal flow…
If only I knew that I would
Never know, would I still persist and
Sit this beach, and in tremble
And awe be satisfied
With what had been gifted
So exquisitely…?
Seasons
…The eternal, intriguing
Nature of your smile, felt
Particularly in autumn, and
Fleeting, but always long
Enough to me beguile…it haunts
Me still, ne’er too far away —
What once I felt I knew,
But now the meaning I
Cannot explain…
Feelings
Puget Sound cold are my hands,
And cool across my brow brushes
A wind which also cloisters
And huddles shoulder-to-shoulder
The grains of sand, but
Blessedly and thankfully,
Faintly still warms the sun, and
About me circles the lingering
Season of someone.
Whispers
Click for meditationRegarding "Whispers"
I recently spent three
Absolutely beautiful days on
Washington state’s
Whidbey Island. It was
A magnificent time,
Wondrous and peaceful,
The whole effect brought to
Gorgeous culmination
By the sun shining across
Puget Sound onto the shores
Of Mutiny Bay. It was
A stunning vista, a surreal
Majesty. Standing on
The water’s edge, it was
As if I was at Heaven’s
Gate, and all I had
To do was to dip my
Toes into the water
Or to wet my face with
The clear-as-glass
Saline liquid, and I
Would enter a portal to
Everlasting grace.
Leo Carroll
October 29, 2019
Path’s End
Could I have finally
Found what so long for I
Have sought, my first glimpse of
Heaven’s gate where the
Water purrs like a mirror
‘Neath the care of a loving,
Soft cloth…? And radiant
To me, presented as
Peace almost blinding
Yet abiding, beaming through
Gilded clouds, as if God’s
Face was unfurled in a
Predestined bottle
Shining…
Awe
My footprints stop at
Water’s edge, having finally in awe
Come upon a view of
Waiting heav’n…and then,
Realizing the Beauty
Was far, far more than
Mortal verse could
Express…I became
Speechless, content to be
A witness to the Mysterious
And unexpected…
Whose
And whose other
Footprints are these, has
Someone else stood
This shore and
Heaven’s gate also seen, a
Portal open through
Which a pilgrim can walk,
And into the Kingdom
Of Light be welcomed as a son
Or daughter of God?
Plea
Cleanse me, O Lord, of
That which I should
Not imbibe, and leave within
Me only the salt from
This flat, calm sea,
A metaphor I believe
For when I first became
Alive…and realized in
Your presence that
Terror was defeated…
If Only
If only I could wash
My face clean…all that would be
Left would be the salt of
The Divine…and I could taste
It with my tongue and
Up’n my soul let it lie…
Before the Throne
Comes to me the
Chirp of some bird, the buzz of
Some simple bee, and
Then silence, extended
Silence, silence like it
Was before was heard the first
Sound, and then before
Me shrugged the
Essence of All Majesty
And spoke, “What is
Your doubt, why is lament
So often your song?”