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?”
Beloved
Click for meditationRegarding "Beloved"
There is a place upon a
Beach, a low-slung cottage
Attached to tufts of sea grass and
Sand on a Whidbey Island bay.
It is brown and small and
Unassuming, a perfect place,
Especially if someone was looking
To lay their head upon a
Pillow safe. It looked
To me like a way station,
Where a pilgrim could
Pause before proceeding…
Proceeding onward to heaven,
Carried up a golden
Staircase by gilded rays
Shining through
Clouds overhead.
This way station would
Serve as a rest stop for
One final smoothing
Of the edges of the soul,
Where one could sleep, pray,
And gather the energy
For one final push to
Return – – to where we all
Started and to where we are
All invited back to go.
Leo Carroll
November 7, 2019
Jewel
…And to think I was
Shown all this – – a breathless
View of heaven, of a
Wondrous portal into peace’s bliss – –
And lying below a little
Cottage, snuggled close
To earth like a
Supplicant, and
Me metaphorically
Cloistered its walls inside, from
Where prayers could be
Whispered and
Straight to God’s ears
Uninhibited fly…
Cottage
What is it about this
Little place, something familiar and
Secure I think…? Is it perhaps
I’ve been here once before, and
Under the tutelage of the
Healing Light was bathed
And brought forth?
Yes, I feel like I do
Know this place, simple as
It is – – and pure – – a
Cottage I would like,
No pretense allowed,
Just a hermitage
To house the silent
Prayers of the lame,
Sick, and halt…and those
Lost but mercifully
Now found…
Cottage Re-Visited
Could it be this little
Cottage is a microcosm of me,
A hermitage huddled at shores edge,
Hesitant to lift e’en its eyes,
Lest they be seen,
Hunkered down its head,
Its rooftop fast and secured,
But bathed, nevertheless, bathed,
Because Creation welcomes
Each pilgrim at its door?