Love
Palms and Wings
Click for meditationRegarding "Palms and Wings"
It was only when
Seeing my granddaughter
Cradling and
Preserving the little
White form in her
Palms that
I realized the
Overwhelming
Power and meaning
Of the Gospel’s
Call to become as
If a little child.
The purity of her
Innocence
At the moment
Of showing me the
Butterfly was
Absolutely
Staggering…
Until I realized
The butterfly was
Also showing me my
Granddaughter.
Leo Carroll
April 23, 2018
Could
Tiny white wings
E’er be held
By more
Protective
Palms?
Could
Little palms e’er
Be anointed
By wings
With a lighter
Balm?
Could
More innocent
Palms e’er
Keep white
Wings safe from
Harm?
Could
More attentive
Wings e’er
Cherish
A small child’s
Psalm?
Evening Snowflakes
Click for meditationRegarding "Evening Snowflakes"
At the most unexpected
Times, Creation speaks to us,
And usually this occurs in
Simple ways, so simple and
Routine that these
Communications can
Be overlooked. These gifts
Are meant to be a form
Of sustenance to us, to
Rejuvenate us, to be an
Ameliorating antidote to
The human condition.
And so, whether in the
Form of a flower’s face
Such as the snapdragon, a
Seagull’s call, the sound of a
Rising tide, the dance
Of a monarch butterfly,
The chirp of a late
Summer’s cricket, the
Warmth of the sun on
A south-facing, Maine
Wooded slope, the slow
Pace of a ladybug’s crawl, the
Glint of September’s
Fading light, the rush of
Winter’s wind through the
Tops of trees, a raven croaking
And circling far above, a
Flock of Canadian geese
Beating their wings into a
Stormy night, an autumn maple
Leaf floating on Walden
Pond, and, yes, even
The imperceptible weight
Of dainty snowflakes
On the jacket of a coat like
Mine, as I shut my car
Door and pull up my collar,
Reminding me I was absolutely
Not alone along a
Darkened path leading
Somewhere under no moon.
Leo Carroll
March 11, 2019
Down they come,
Big, soft, silent ones, as if their
Whole life they had
Been slowly falling, and
Finally up’n my shoulders
Land as lightly as if
They had no weight —
Except, that is, for their
Yoke of grace…
The sky against
Which they float has a hint
Of grey, black, and
Some blue, and the sheer
Quiet of their descent
Is staggering, as if they
Were at the end of
Silk puppet strings, and
Made of the curliest,
Winter wool.
Ode to ‘Reading Room’
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to ‘Reading Room’"
How I love my time
Spent in the woods of Maine!
At one point in my life, I went up
There for twenty one straight years every
November, and in all my
Life I have never found a more
Consistently peaceful place to
Contemplate and write. Every sight and
Sound in the woods had
Meaning to me, and I had a
Wide variety of names to refer to
Some of my favorite spots –
For example, the “Reading Room,”
The “Field”, and the “Trap Line” were
Three locations I regularly
Visited. Each had a natural niche
For me to settle into, and to
Wonder and daydream.
I wrote hundreds of poems
While up there. I would just sit in
Silence. The “Reading Room”
Became my best-liked, and
I would often end my day
There as the late afternoon
Light took over the woods.
Invariably at a certain point,
I would hear the melancholic
Barking of a dog coming from
The pasture of a distant, white
Farmhouse. The sound would waft
Across the tops of the trees,
And I would be reminded
Of something in my past which
Was comfortable and I called “home.”
And so, even now when I no longer
Go up to those beloved Maine
Woods, I will daydream
Of the many walks which
I took to find my resting place
In the “Reading Room.”
In the case of the poem for
Which this meditation is
Written, I was daydreaming
One January day of what
The path I walked would look
Like if there were no footprints in
The snow, and if the “Reading Room”
Was all alone watching what
I would have been watching, but
Sadly there was no one there
Now to call the barking
Dog home …
Leo Carroll
February 25, 2019
No footsteps in the snow
Lead up to you today,
No flesh cold sits upon your
Ledge, no mind wanders and then
Wonders at every sight and sound, and no
Melancholy rises up in the throat
When bays a dog across the
Primeval expanse between you
And a lone, white farmhouse –
Which even now from here,
Lo all these hundreds of miles away,
I can still see gleaming like a
Shining beacon across the tree tops
In my daydream’s gaze.
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.
Slate-Colored Juncos
Click for meditationRegarding "Slate-Colored Juncos"
One long ago
Winter day, a mix of
Grey and overcast and my
Mood the same,
I was peering out my
Window at one of my
Rock gardens, and
As I was doing this,
I noticed the barest
Of movement
In the curled-up,
Dormant grass.
I thought at first it
Was a single bird, but I
Soon realized it was
A tiny flock of
Small, blue-grey
Birds, sparrow size
Maybe, but birds
Which I had not
Noticed in my garden
Before. They kept
Inching their
Way closer to my
House, and their heads
Were vigorously
Bobbing as they
Pecked away
At some invisible
Source of nutrient.
Before I knew
It, they reached
The foundation of
My house and were
Right below the very window
I was looking out, and
Finding sustenance,
Where 30 minutes before
I had thought all was
Cold and grey!
Leo Carroll
January 29, 2019
Little blue-grey
Birds inch their way
Towards my house,
Their beaks to the ground,
Their hope to fill
Their mouths.
Their color seems
To be of the sea’s winter
Sheen – cold and
Hard – but I believe
Their tiny beaks feed a
Gentle breed.