Faces
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.
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.
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…
Ode to Dromod’s Field
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Dromod’s Field"
In September 2000, two of
My daughters went to Ireland, and
While there visited a cemetery
In County Kerry where some of the
Forebears of my father’s family were buried.
My daughters asked me if I wanted
To accompany them. I told them,
“No,” that I was busy with other
Things I was doing. They persisted in
Asking me. I persisted in
Saying, “no.” And so they went
Alone, to traverse the land
Where four generations before
Some of my ancestors had
Left Ireland. I should have gone.
I knew it even before they
Returned. I could tell in their
Voices over the international
Telephone lines that they
Had touched something
Like a heartbeat or the flesh
Of a palm no longer heard or felt.
I saw the photos when they returned,
And my eyes were overwhelmed
By the power of the images.
And so I came to write this poem of
A burial ground in Dromod, County Kerry,
Which saw the faces of my
Daughters, and in seeing their
Features, saw mine, too…as well as
The likenesses of their sons
And daughters who had left
Long generations before.
Leo Carroll
September 3, 2018
Upon your stones we move about, in
Prayerful search ‘midst this wheat throughout.
We never knew ye, but feel sure, you
Watch us tread this earthen floor.
From thy loins sprang Dromod seed, a
Comely fruit and sweet-isle mead.
These sons and daughters cupped your
Hand, kissed it gently, then sailed your land.
Lo years later, with them long gone,
You see us now as we part these thorns.
We’ve come to say we love you, too, and
Brush these stones etched in dew.
For as we spread these weeds grown
Wild, you see our faces and ken our smiles.
On our faces, likened clear, are the long
Ago images of your children dear.
Know ye then, people of yore, we’ve
Come to sit your lap once more.
Against your breast we commune and sleep, safe
In the warmth your field doth keep.