Ode to Ladybug
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Ladybug"
I love ladybugs!
I always have! As a six
Years old boy, I
Would collect them
In a mayonnaise
Jar, with the lid
Punched with nail holes
To ensure they could
Breathe. I would
Raise the glass to my
Face, and I would
Study them as they
Crawled around inside
Over tiny bits of
Leaves. I would marvel
At how slow and
Peaceful they
Moved. Even today,
Whenever I
Encounter one
In my garden or on
My window sill,
I will pause and
Observe it.
A ladybug all
These decades
Later is still
To me as calming
As ever! In a
Phrenetic world,
A ladybug marches to
Its own refrain.
Leo Carroll
June 27, 2018
O, Ladybug, are you really
My guardian angel? Are you the constant that
Keeps my refrain from buckling?
Or, rather, are you the incarnation of the muse from a
High-desert plain, and from your
Perch have come down from off the
Mesa, to touch in inspiration
The three letters of my name?
Walking with the ‘Word of Autism’
(Book of Isaiah 55:8)
Click for meditationRegarding "Walking with the ‘Word of Autism’"
This poem is related to an earlier
Poem, “The Word of Autism,” dated May 9, 2007.
Both of these poems acknowledge the
Overwhelming, universal presence of Creation as
Described in the Old and New Testaments.
This Eternal Mystery, which manifests
Itself in the likenesses and images of all
Living beings and creatures, therefore
Also exists in the countenances of
Autistic children. In short, autism is a
Face of Creation, too, and autistic children share in
The incarnation of the glorious
Verse of Isaiah 55:8, when Yahweh speaks,
“My thoughts are not your thoughts,
My ways are not your ways.”
In so many respects, this verse
Capsulizes the essence of an autistic child, and
Establishes their place in the sheepfold
Of the innocent lambs of God.
Leo Carroll
September 8, 2018
I could comprehend little of his actions,
As we walked along a graveled path of brambles and
Branches, bushes and such. All he wanted
Was to shake twigs and shoots and leaves and things,
Mesmerized by their invisible colors, scents,
Tastes, and whisperings…What was he looking at,
What did he see, why so much stimulation
From what appeared so ordinary to me? All this was
Beyond me, my understanding overcome
By his mysterious interests and motions – it was
As if this little boy rode a live rail as his
Means of locomotion! But then this child, whose
Senses seemed attuned to some other plane’s planet,
Collapsed me to my knees, by loosing within me
Emotions not measurable by depth or fathom.
For when we went to say “good-bye,” he
Needed not words from any earthen lexicon nor
Thesaurus, but he simply gave me one, two, then three
Insistent, soft taps to my palm – his only want
Was I not leave him…before receiving love
From his “high-five’s” blessed font.
Primeval
Click for meditationRegarding "Primeval"
In the great 1969 movie,
“Paint Your Wagon,”
Which is about the wild and
Crazy California gold rush
Of 1849, there is the
Fabulous song, “They Call
The Wind Mariah.” The
Lyrics are powerful, but yet
Hauntingly lonely, and they set
The framework and tempo
For the screenplay starring
Lee Marvin, Clint Eastwood,
And Jean Seberg. It was
A rough, tumultuous
Crossing in 1849 to reach
California, and once there
It was equally rough
And tumultuous to survive.
In the movie, the wind and the
Music were always in the
Background as if they were
Part of the cast. It struck
Me how primeval the wind
Was portrayed, and ever
Since, in any storm, I always
Will look up at the tops
Of trees and “call the
Wind Mariah,” as if
Addressing a supernatural
Force, one that comes
From and simultaneously
Represents Creation,
And wields the contradictory
Attributes of incredible
Power, terror, and the
Magnificent fist of Yahweh
Spreading love and hope and
Beauty upon the land …
Leo Carroll
January 15, 2019
Up my eyes strain to the tops of
Their spires, feeling from out of my primal past
What I cannot begin to plumb nor
Describe. Bend and moan they
Do, to the roar of wind howling
From out of the womb of the universe,
Right here, right now, this place,
This hope, this cave mouth, this new
Millennium, this old ice age, with the same
Shudder, the same words, the
Same stab of terror, and then
Tomorrow, the same sunrise chorus.
Ode to Emily Dickinson
("My Wars Are Laid Away in Books")
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Emily Dickinson"
What a wondrous poet this
Prim, pint-of-a-person, Emily Dickinson, was!
Tiny in stature, she had an immense,
Phenomenal mind, and poured
Everything inside her into fully-blossomed
Verse, and from out of her genius
Came what is widely regarded to be the
Finest poetry ever written in the
United States. She lived a secluded life
In nineteenth century Amherst, Massachusetts,
And did most of her writing from a
Small bedroom on the second
Floor of her home, where from a
Miniscule desk she peered out
Her bedroom window and
Wrote her poetry. She would
Then take each poem, sort it by
Topic, and then store it by appropriate
Folder or “book”, as she would
Call it, in her dresser drawer.
This book of like-minded poems
Would lie wrapped in a ribbon as if a
Gift delayed, and would rest in the dark…
She considered her collection of poetry
To be extremely private, and referred to many of
The poems as her “wars”. She never
Intended they be read by the general public.
Her poems reflected what was in
Her mind, and she did not want some of
Them to see the light of day. On her
Deathbed, she asked that her poems be
Destroyed. They were not.
Leo Carroll
September 2, 2018
I don’t believe people
Understood why you spent so much
Time in exquisite solitude…
They knew naught of the fires which
Raged within you, and how into your flesh the
Coals like thorns could burrow.
All they knew was your
Reclusive nature, and how it
Seemed so much quieter than what
They were used. They knew nothing of the
Wars you fought, and how
The cannon and blast could only be
Calmed with a stylus to suture
Your open wounds.
The Word of Autism
(The Gospel of John 1:1-3)
Click for meditationRegarding "The Word of Autism"
I have repeatedly tried to
Write this meditation,
But it has resisted me, and
I have set aside version after version.
And so I try again…and
Suffice it to say that the
Word, the Word of God, the
Word of Life, which
Breathes upon all
Of heaven and earth,
That Word, this Word, is the
Giver of all life, including
Autistic life…
This Word is an
Absolute mystery,
Unimaginable, unspeakable,
Unexplainable, but is
Somehow implanted in
Humanity’s heart
As a matter of faith. And
The sweet children of
Autism are similarly a
Mystery, and as an
Integral part of Creation,
They, too, follow their
Own pilgrim’s path, where
They are compassionately cradled
In the arms of the Word,
Listened to, hugged, until like
The bleating “baa” of an innocent lamb,
They are placed in the
Green pasture grass of the
Sheepfold and home.
Leo Carroll
May 28, 2018
The Word, which from the beginning
Was with God, and was God, and was Witness
When all Creation was sown
Upon the seas and heavens, that
Word, that God, that Spirit, spoke and
Still speaks in a voice unable by our primitive
Ears to be heard. The Word speaks a
Message not possible for our limited minds
To comprehend. The Word’s language is not defined
By our alphabet, nor are the connections
Between the Word’s syllables and consonants
Made by synapses which fit into our sentences…
This Word does not communicate with us on
Our level, having verbal powers which extend beyond
Fathom and parable, leaving us able to only
Quake in tremble and awe. This Word, by our own
Feeble lexicon, might even in error or ignorance
Be viewed as mute or speechless, but
It is this Word which has created in one
Single breath the human image and
Form, and it is this Word which has placed
God’s own likeness amongst the infinite
Countenances of the universe –
And this likeness includes the silent,
Mysterious world inhabited by the
Sometimes speechless and sometimes
Mute, innocent lambs of autism…