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Morrill Road
Click for meditationRegarding "Morrill Road"
There is a road, a magical,
Spiritual one, which leads me into the
Woods in Morrill, Maine.
It is not like the fantastical
Yellow Brick Road of “Wizard of Oz”
Fame, but every time I visit
These Maine woods I travel down this
Road as I descend deeper
And deeper into a “different”
World – – into a world which is as
Different from my normal
Existence as could possibly be…
I recently traversed this
Road once again as part of
Returning for several
Nights to a cabin in these
Woods, which at one time
I had visited annually
Every autumn for 21
Straight years. As I’ve
Detailed already in another
Associated meditation, there was
“Something” which was
Not the “same” this
Abbreviated time around.
The biggest contributor
To things seeming changed
Were not the woods,
Themselves, but me…!
For I had changed, as much
If not more than any
Tree or branch or stream
Or animal or anything I would
See…! And this change
Played out as I
Reflected upon those
Things I encountered, such as a
Remnant, colonial-era
Homestead and its
Surviving cellar hole…and a
Myriad of other things
I once knew years and years ago. …
To re-visit these things, I
Had descended what on a
Topographical map is only referred
To as a “Jeep Trail,” but in
My mind is a one-of-a kind
Portal Into a deep,
Spiritual world of unimaginable
Eye-openings and magical
Goings-on…
Leo Carroll
December 9, 2019
Jeep Trail
What a wonderful road,
Its ruts and rocks and grooves painted like
A mural up’n the melting snow!
It winds like a pathway
Interconnecting
Spiritual things…and oh the
Wisdom of its compass
Heading…especially when I
Am filled with the anticipation of
Where its portal leads…!
Thanksgiving
E’en aft all the glorious
Things this earth has already seen,
Can still be found such a
Lovely, holy road, and it leads
To a blessed place where
Seated I can witness as all about
To the Lord sings…
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…
Summer Daydreaming
Click for meditationRegarding "Summer Daydreaming"
I love that little Maine
Beach where I found myself sitting
Last week! Every year it
Becomes my safe harbor to
Daydream, wonder, and reflect. No more
Than a quarter mile in length,
It points seaward into
The Gulf of Maine.
Cold the water is! Brrrr!
Healing! Rejuvenating!
And it seems that
Every year as I sit upon
That beach, a fog bank will
Regularly roll in, and a sailboat
Will come into view tacking
In and out of my sight.
I have a relationship
With that sailboat which is
Complicated to define.
It has so many different
Meanings to me, and each one
Is synonymous with
Various themes at work
In my life. One of the
Most important of these
Themes is the loosing of
An almost continual, merciful,
Thought-stream of verse
And stanza, which will
Slip in and out of my
Consciousness like that
Which tacks in an out of a
Marvelous coastal
Maine fogbank, and
Where on my last day
Sitting — it will disappear
Until next year…
Leo Carroll
August 20, 2019
Found
Like a sailboat my voice
Wafts, tacking into the wind, and
Then blithely disappears into the fog’s womb,
Where it soon re-emerges again…
It seems as if my speech has
Been released by the muse on
Behalf of merciful God, and verse and
Stanza have been loosed by
Healing spittle upon a
Tongue’s tied knot.
Sailing
It is as if
On that sailboat I found
My voice, and in and out of the fog tacked
Verse and stanza which
Had waited to be released for
Eons without choice.
“Heave into sight,” shouted
The First Mate, and from the crow’s nest
Then hollered down, “Nary a fear
Is in view, just whitecaps
And blue sky in natural union
Abounding.”
Embedded I Am
Click for meditationRegarding "Embedded I Am"
When I write, when
I garden, I become my poetry, I
Become my garden. I am
Synonymous with my
Verse and stanza,
I am synonymous with
The placement and choice
And color of my plants
And flowers.
I become what
I am creating, always
Evolving, editing, pruning,
Shaping, like someone on a
Pilgrim’s path, always
Influenced by the
Surprises, twists, and
Turns of what
Life has chosen to
Present. My poetry is
As if by the tides
Being polished,
My gardens are
Always being tilled,
And in God’s image
I am being rhythmically
Smoothed and
Rounded until …
Leo Carroll
July 17, 2019
Embedded I am, fitted
Like a puzzle piece into my garden,
Comfortable, under the
Sweet shade of a day lily and
On the sheltered side of
A leafy hosta’s pardon.
Daffodils
Click for meditationRegarding "Daffodils"
It came to me
That my own pilgrim’s path
Resembles the
Seasonal flow of my
Garden in a four-part act, with
The fresh growth of
Springtime’s hope and
Rebirth akin to my
Ever-evolving
Renewal, followed
By the endurance
Required in the summer
Heat of July…a
Metaphor for the
Endless twists and turns of
The human condition
As it sits the beach of
Low and high tides…
And then the final
Burst of color and beauty
In autumn, before
Plunging again
Into the deep sleep
Of winter, only to
Arise again in April,
Pointed and poised to
Resume my journey,
But always bowed by the
Growing pains of
Bloom in my
Season of change…
Leo Carroll
May 7, 2019
…One of the first
Fruits of spring — daffodils
Buttery-yellow and
Dangling from the
Ear lobes of morning —
And at their feet
In fealty, the remnants of a
Once-magnificent,
Autumn leaf, placed by
Winter’s wind and
Now a companion
And witness to
The fresh shoots
Of daylilies green,
And all of these
Stirrings staring into
The stoic eyes of
Garden stones, the
Singular thread
Stitching together
My rock garden
As my shifting
Seasons unfold…