Faces
Asking Judith
Click for meditationRegarding "Asking Judith"
In this poem, the daisies in
My rock garden speak, and they ask
A woman of quiet gardening
Renown to identify whether their
Blooms are Shasta, Sheffield, or Montauk?
All three of these daisy varieties
Are similar, and are a staple of
Autumn, and provide in their wonderful
Faces one last look at the
Fading warmth of the sun.
It is as if the beauty of fall clings
To their petals, and these
Dainty flowers smile for all they
Are worth…as if they
Think if they band together
And try hard enough —
They might even push back
The cold, which otherwise
For winter would place in cocoon
Their gentle souls…!
Leo Carroll
November 1, 2018
We defer to you, if you
Were to kindly agree, to discern
The proper name of our
Pretty, little daisies…
We believe we are Shasta, but
Sheffield and Montauk
Look like us, too, so if you
Would examine our leaves,
Perhaps you could settle
The lineage of our bloom…?
We’re not asking, though, that
You gage the quality of
Our autumnal beauty, because
Along this garden wall,
Our petals already reign
Supreme with their pink and
White heavenly purity…
Walden Heron
Click for meditationRegarding "Walden Heron"
There is something
Introspective about a
Heron. Whenever I see one,
It is usually alone, but it
Also seems simultaneously to
Be very curious and in
All things interested, both
Maintaining proper distance,
But concurrently drawn
To the object of its attention.
In the case of this poem,
The heron has just emerged from
The Walden grasses and
Reeds, and seems to be
Caught in the act of fishing
By the camera’s lens.
It did not drop the
Little fish from its beak,
But neither, maybe, did it
Instantaneously swallow,
Perhaps for a few nanoseconds
Not wanting to offend
The person who was so
Carefully capturing its dignity
As a bird, and who might
Someday with camera to Walden’s
Worn path return…
Leo Carroll
October 22, 2018
From
Out the
Pond grass it steps,
An apparition
Almost,
Except in its
Beak a
Fish…
Caught by
The
Camera,
It pauses its
Swallow,
Wanting to be
Polite,
Lest the
Photographer
Not
Return
Tomorrow.
Ode to Walden Heron
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Walden Heron"
There is something
Introspective about a
Heron. Whenever I see one,
It is usually alone, but it
Also seems simultaneously to
Be very curious and in
All things interested, both
Maintaining proper distance,
But concurrently drawn
To the object of its attention.
In the case of this poem,
The heron has just emerged from
The Walden grasses and
Reeds, and seems to be
Caught in the act of fishing
By the camera’s lens.
It did not drop the
Little fish from its beak,
But neither, maybe, did it
Instantaneously swallow,
Perhaps for a few nanoseconds
Not wanting to offend
The person who was so
Carefully capturing its dignity
As a bird, and who might
Someday with camera to Walden’s
Worn path return…
Leo Carroll
October 22, 2018
And so
There you are,
Your fleeting
Swallow caught by
An autumn
Glimpse,
A silver fish
Fresh in your
Beak, and then
Gone it is…
Slid down your
Gullet, and
Gulped in
The whoosh of
A Walden
Whisk!
Ode to Shasta Daisies
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Shasta Daisies"
As I meander
Along the curves of my
Rock garden’s
Wall, I come
Up’n a flock of
Long-legged shasta
Daisies, which
Ebb and flow like
A cleansing tide with
Whitest foam.
How peaceful they are,
How remarkable
In ability to soothe
The fray, how
Almost ignored,
Because who would
Expect their
Thin stalks to be
Able to bind
What makes afraid!
Leo Carroll
October 23, 2018
I would
Love to sleep
Amongst
You,
My duty
Finally
Come to
Rest,
My covers
Pulled
Up around
Me, and
Your
Wondrous
White
The sentry
I could
Depend.
September Sunrise
Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park
Click for meditationRegarding "September Sunrise"
In truth, it is impossible to describe the
Mystery and wondrous effect of the sunrise
Which unveils Itself daily before onlookers
On the summit of Cadillac Mountain in
Acadia National Park. In fact, during certain months
Of the year, it is this location where the
Sun first appears on the horizon in the entire
United States, and which is so amazingly
Spellbinding in the glimpse and insight it provides
Into the overwhelming magnitude and
Majesty of the universe, and of the meaning of
The Word of Creation as found in the
Book of Genesis. When the photographer for
This poem speaks of the early moments
When the sunrise began to unfold, her eyes
Immediately spark alive with shining light, as if
She herself had captured a bit of the sun,
And within her it now eternally resides…and so,
It is her eyes which can speak best, because just like
With Saint Paul, her uttered words pale compared to the
Glow of the yellow and flame-orange red…
Leo Carroll
October 7, 2018
As if it was the first sunrise
E’er to be seen, rose up before the old
Mountain a burgeoning glow of
Ancient hues in a spreading
Smile unveiled, a widening expanse
Of yellow and flame-orange red…
All resulting in a deep longing, and beheld
By wondrous faces with bated breath.
What eternal yearning, what
Instinct from the collective subconscious of
Primeval yore, what was being
Unleashed with such hypnotic power
O’er those who watched in awe…?
For it was as if they stood millennia ago —
At a cave mouth looking up — and the
Rising sun told them that ahead was at least
One more day, in a land wild and raw,
With terror and beauty tangled in
A tandem yet to be explained.