Duty
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…
Home of Stone
Click for meditationRegarding "Home of Stone"
Again and again
I return to say
That whatever I believe
In my heart
Represents best
What in life
Seems true
And trustworthy
Is seen in a stone wall
Cutting on a perfect
Heading through
The woods, as
Much a part
Of what sits in
New England
As maple, birch,
And oak, and the
Animals which scurry
Amongst the crevasses
Of the rocks which
The wall’s builders
First fitted together
When up from
The earth was
Offered in glacial
Oblation the finest
Granite objects
The Universe
Ever saw.
Leo Carroll
April 11, 2019
A stone, or a
Collection of stones,
A wall, definitely
Something calling me
Home, reliable,
Trustworthy, making
Me melancholic
When in gloaming
I roam, built by
Flesh, by palms
Calloused by hard
Work honed, indeed,
A paean to duty
And everything
Holy like Gibraltar
Pointing its face
Into an Atlantic
Storm, yes, a wall,
A wall of stones
Against which
To lean, recline, and
Dream on a day in
Autumn warm,
A place which has
Withstood Time’s
Passage without
Pause or flinching, a
Monument to
Strength and what
Lies within, a bed
For me to safely sleep,
A womb in which
To rest, a place
For my hat to be
Finally set, and duty’s
Descriptive postcard
With no more to
Be said…except to
Daydream that bays in
The distance a
Long ago dog, and
Then a small child
Runs up to call
Me to supper, just
As sunset starts
To dip in a farewell’s
Beautiful yawn.
Silence in Stone
Click for meditationRegarding "Silence in Stone"
A stone wall is symbolic
Of everything this world is not.
It is silent, content to
Bask in solitude, confident
In its strength, and in
Absolutely no need
To be known. It is just there,
Wherever it is, blending
Into the background
Of everything going on
Around it, quietly listening,
Unassuming, and
Satisfied to stand in
Loyalty and solidarity to
The flesh which built
It with long ago hands.
It has no expectations,
Except that in autumn some
Maple, oak, and beech
Leaves lean against its
Moss, and that together
In the fading sunlight they
Share in the glow of the lost
Art of tenderness
In a time-forgotten,
Promised Land.
Leo Carroll
April 1, 2019
I try to claim each
Day in the name of silence,
If such a thing from
Noise is possible
In this world the
Garden of Eden has
Cast us into. Perhaps
This is why to
Stone walls I so
Gladly cleave.
They seem to
Be able to stand
Without having to do…
And just to be…
They are content in
Their timeless, tireless
Strength, and
Are happy to
Let the forest and
Its timbers beat
Their breasts before the
Moon, as if to
Achieve this could
E’er surpass the
Silence resonant in a
Stone’s beauty.
In Remembrance
Click for meditationRegarding "In Remembrance"
My father was a firefighter
For decades, but seldom, if ever, spoke
Of the true dangers he faced.
He would come home from a
Shift, and might say he was
At a “bad fire” the night before,
But nary a word was breathed about
What made it so “bad.” Years
Later he confided to me a few
Details, but he totally carried most
Of his experiences to the grave.
Towards the end of his life,
He gave me some of his
Old fireman gear, including
His rubber coat, boots, and helmet.
All of his equipment was
Saturated with the smell of smoke,
Smoke which had swirled from
Fires many years before.
In each pocket of his rubber
Coat was a door wedge. I once asked
Him about it. He told me every
Fireman was taught to carry them
So they could wedge open a door, and
Not have it close unexpectedly
Behind them and trap them.
His wedges were all darkened and
Disfigured and smelled, too. In my Dad’s
Days as a fireman, firehouses did
Not have washers and dryers
For the firefighters to keep
Their fire clothing clean.
In Massachusetts they now do.
But the dangers of carcinogens in
Smoke–infused environments
Were not commonly known years ago.
From the time my father went to
His first fire until his very last,
He simply kept wearing the
Same heat-seared and smoke-reeked
Gear over and over. And so when I
Got possession of his equipment,
I ultimately hung it outside
On a maple tree to air out. It is
Still there. One day this past winter it
Snowed out…and the flakes
Alighted his coat and gently
Just stayed. I sensed he was getting
An anointing. I and my siblings
Might not know the details of his
Firefighting career, but Creation knew
The humbleness and dependability of what
He unselfishly always did…
Leo Carroll
July 22, 2019
…And so is draped his
Fireman’s coat, still his broad
Shoulders showing, altho’ it’s been
Almost forty years since he
Donned and wore…
His coat, his sense
Of duty, and lo’ still on this winter’s
Day carrying the smell of
Long ago smoke…
O’ Dad, almost all those
Fires you fought you seldom of spoke,
But the snow knows, and its
Softness anoints in silence the
Dignity of your tome.
Wagon Wheel
Click for meditationRegarding "Wagon Wheel"
A wagon wheel is faithful,
Always ready to roll…the only time
It stops working is when
It breaks and needs
Fixing, or when it
Is too old to be repaired.
Wagon wheels are
Held in mystical esteem.
Anytime someone drives in a rural
Area, even in an area which
Is no longer rural, it is
Possible to come upon a
Wagon wheel leaning against
A stone wall, a tree,
A barn, or something else.
They are rarely discarded.
They are respected.
Sometimes they are revered.
They are reminders of a
Simpler time of life – hard working
And dutiful. The lupines
In the photograph know what
The old days were like.
They grew then, just
As they also grow now.
Their collective memory
Knows the importance
And meaning of a wagon
Wheel. That is why they stand
In homage around the grey, weathered
Rim and spokes, and listen
To the stories…stories of what the
Wheels and their wagons once did, before
They became tired and broken and
Weathered and…
Leo Carroll
December 13, 2018
At last it has come to rest,
An old wagon wheel weathered, with its
Wizened spokes pointed outward
As if still poised in
Yesteryear’s duty-radius.
No more turns now, no
More thoughts of service, just a green field
Of lupines, to bind its
Wooden wounds in June’s
Glorious fervor.
And so it sits, alone
And at ease until gloaming’s end, alone
Except for lupines, and the
Lavender praise and reverence
Of their hymns.