Mercy
Click for meditationRegarding "Mercy"
To me, the most important
Thing about being
At the beach is
That when I walk to
The water’s edge, I
Feel I am in the undoubted
Presence of Creation.
This is what I feel
In my heart,
And so, therefore,
I have the urge to touch
The waves and to be
Touched by them…
I always get down onto
One knee, usually
In shallow water,
And scoop my
Hands into the
Surf and then throw
It onto my face — over and
Over — as if I cannot
Get enough of the
Salt water. It is
An absolute blessing, and I
Have the sensation that
I am touching the
Hem of God.
There is nothing
In my life at that moment
That cannot be
Healed or helped.
I am at the original
Baptismal font, and I
Am at the Mouth and Mother
Of the River Jordan.
Leo Carroll
May 7, 2018
Down I reach
On one wet knee,
Hoping for the right wave
My cupped hands to
Greet. O, how I
Love this cold surf, this
Fresh compress to
My face, this
Blessed touch by
Something Greater,
My thirst to
Gratefully slake!
“Boom!” each
Wave about me crashes,
My hands held to
Their salty lips, as each
One of them
Approaches…and
On beach stones in foam
Kisses.
O Eternal Mother
(Ode to Primeval Stone Wall)
Click for meditationRegarding "O Eternal Mother"
What beautiful peace and
Comfort come to me when I recline
Against a stone wall, particularly
In autumn, when all my
Senses are on fire, and every
Nuance of every living and
Dead thing in the woods leaps
Out at me! It is the best time and
Place of the whole year
For me! Every poignant
Event in my life, every recurring
Memory, crawls out from
The crevasses in the
Stone wall I am resting
Against, and comes back
Gently before my heart. I
Feel melancholic, but I also
Feel blessed, because somehow
I have been gifted the
Magnificence of the stone wall
I am leaning against, and its
Wisdom and perseverance
Bring me the sure knowledge of
A listening ear and the
Prospect of an eternal,
New start…
Leo Carroll
May 24, 2018
Like a womb to me you are,
A place to curl against and to softly shut
My eyes, a place where I can feel
Warm and cradled, and a place where
Long ago hands can still humbly labor and
Lay their stones to bound their
Fields and farms and sighs…
Yes, all these centuries later, you
Still steadily run east-west towards and
Away from me, and each of
Your stones, mottled and so smooth,
Offers me a pillow in a bygone
Kindness I find courteous
And disarmingly beautiful…
Ah, I swoon, swoon…and I recline back at
Rest with you — found by autumn,
Unconditionally accepted, and all I have
To do is to daydream, because the
Work has long been done, and the cows
Called home, and the last croaking
Raven flown over the treetops into the
Twilight of the next hollow, and silence now
Alone sits with me as the beech and
Oak and spruce upon me look, and
Occasionally their leaves and
Needles nod to whatever it is they
Perceive…as sunshine dapples
With the shadows, and modulates my
Mood in consonance with the
Beating heart of Thee.
Evening Snowflakes
Click for meditationRegarding "Evening Snowflakes"
At the most unexpected
Times, Creation speaks to us,
And usually this occurs in
Simple ways, so simple and
Routine that these
Communications can
Be overlooked. These gifts
Are meant to be a form
Of sustenance to us, to
Rejuvenate us, to be an
Ameliorating antidote to
The human condition.
And so, whether in the
Form of a flower’s face
Such as the snapdragon, a
Seagull’s call, the sound of a
Rising tide, the dance
Of a monarch butterfly,
The chirp of a late
Summer’s cricket, the
Warmth of the sun on
A south-facing, Maine
Wooded slope, the slow
Pace of a ladybug’s crawl, the
Glint of September’s
Fading light, the rush of
Winter’s wind through the
Tops of trees, a raven croaking
And circling far above, a
Flock of Canadian geese
Beating their wings into a
Stormy night, an autumn maple
Leaf floating on Walden
Pond, and, yes, even
The imperceptible weight
Of dainty snowflakes
On the jacket of a coat like
Mine, as I shut my car
Door and pull up my collar,
Reminding me I was absolutely
Not alone along a
Darkened path leading
Somewhere under no moon.
Leo Carroll
March 11, 2019
Down they come,
Big, soft, silent ones, as if their
Whole life they had
Been slowly falling, and
Finally up’n my shoulders
Land as lightly as if
They had no weight —
Except, that is, for their
Yoke of grace…
The sky against
Which they float has a hint
Of grey, black, and
Some blue, and the sheer
Quiet of their descent
Is staggering, as if they
Were at the end of
Silk puppet strings, and
Made of the curliest,
Winter wool.
Deerfield’s Words
Click for meditationRegarding "Deerfield’s Words"
I love being in the
Woods, and I absolutely love
Looking for a stone wall
With a comfortable combination
Of rocks for my back
To lean against. My eyes
Have grown accustomed to
Quickly scanning the
Exterior facade of stone
Walls, and then zeroing in on
A section which looks
To be a good candidate
To sit on the ground
And nestle against.
The goal always is to
Blend into the wall as
Much as possible, and to
Become synonymous with the
Woods surrounding me.
On first impression, the woods
And wall may seem quiet
And still, but there is,
In fact, much to consider –
From how the light
Breaks through the trees,
The wind ruffles the
Autumn leaves, the spider
Crawls curiously on my
Shoulder, the chipmunk
Puffs up its brave
Chest and flexes its
Muscles, the chickadees
Stop by and occasionally brush
My cheek, the ever-present
Raven circles above,
The jay calls in the
Distance in annoyance
At something, and the
Eight Inch spruce sparkles
In newborn green…
All while I keep slightly
Shifting my position
And invariably manage
To fall asleep, and
During which the stone
Wall stoically ponders and
Wonders about me,
And the trunks of the
Trees in amazement
Peer over in strength, and
Shake their heads
At the degree of my
Weakness…
Leo Carroll
March 15, 2019
Searching for a Spot along an Old Stone Wall
I search, looking
For those perfect stones, as if
Made from a shop press,
Against which my
Back to lean, my body
To conform. I
Follow this wall, and
It keeps me on a
Heading east-west,
As if a farm horse by
The bridle, being led home
To its night’s rest…
And then through
The oaks and beeches
I see them — grey, rough
Stones, mottled in
Shades of black
And green lichen —
The sweet, autumn
Fruit of some
Builder’s tireless,
Calloused work,
Against which I’ll
Nestle, until is
Whispered what
Comes to be heard.
In the Woods against a Stone Wall
They sit as they’ve
Always sat – these woods as if
Jewels, as if decreed by
Primeval fiat. Oak and spruce
Stoically watch me in my
Every move and mood,
Content to leave me quiet if
I promise their wooden
Fiefdom not to disturb nor
Intrude. They watch
Me, reading my flesh’s
Mind and its flight, and
Then shake their heads slowly,
Because they know I
Have not yet mastered the
Fine art of sitting in a
Stone wall’s silence.
Running on Wings
(Finding Grace at "Station Ten" in Boot Camp)
Click for meditationRegarding "Running on Wings"
Some years ago, I
Injured my right leg and ankle.
I had always been athletic, and loved
Playing sports, so when I
Lost the ability to
Run, fully run, it was a
Big loss to me. I missed the
Freedom to exert myself at a very
High level, and I realized I
Had to change my approach, or
My health would deteriorate. And
So I started to concentrate on
What I could do rather
Than what I couldn’t do,
And I discovered I could
Compensate for my lack of
Mobility in other ways.
I added swimming to
My exercise regimen, then
Weight training, stationary bike
Riding, and many other things.
I eventually began to take
Physical fitness classes.
This lead to one class called,
“Boot Camp,” in which
I was subjected to
A wide set of activities,
One being to run between
Two fluorescent-orange, floor cones.
When I first attempted this,
It was very difficult,
Because I ran with a limp. But
I kept trying, and my limp
Became less, and I finally reached the
Point of being able to slowly jog –
And I felt like my feet
Had wings, eagle’s wings, and
It was as if my body was
Lifted off the litter to soar…
Leo Carroll
November 7, 2018
I find myself running on feet
As if they were surely eagle-winged,
When I once thought I would
Ne’er run again, until, that is, my
Healing would come when I walked
Those tall, sweet grasses in the
Fair meadows of Elysium…
But here I am now, my gait
Restored to where I can at least
Meekly jog, and so I race back and
Forth between two fluorescent cones, as
If my feet were finally loosed of the earthen
Cords which kept them bound…