Love
Morning
Click for meditationRegarding "Morning"
I was sitting on a barstool
At the kitchen counter, and beside
Me was one of my little
Granddaughters. She was
Spending the day with us, and her
Visit was starting out with
A bowl of oatmeal and
Some toast. She noticed two
Roses which I had picked
The day before from my garden,
And she reached forward
To touch them, or better
Described, to caress them.
What a gentle moment
In a world which is filled with
Such beautiful events – if
Only we would notice them!
Gifts or blessings are
Given to us constantly, and
All that is required of us is to
“See” them and to
Accept them. Creation
Works in ways which are not
Our ways…we are
Given much in our Pilgrim’s
Walk to soften the
Calluses on our feet.
Leo Carroll
June 28, 2018
Two
Garden
Roses
Red and pink, a
Little girl’s
Inquiring fingers
Feeling
Them and
Caressing…a
Porridge
Bowl and its
Purple
Spoon set to
The side,
And love,
Sweet
Love, at
Breakfast to
Abide.
The Universe’s Manger
Click for meditationRegarding "The Universe’s Manger"
Seeing the
Beating heart of the
Baby robin was like looking at the
Beating heart of
All of earth’s life –
Every life, every heart, all
Combined into
Just one life, one
Single, big beating heart,
A composite heart, and
All shown to me
From my living room
Window, where a
Robin’s nest
Was but bare
Inches away in
A boxwood shrub,
And rather than having to
Travel to strange
And exotic
Lands in search of
Strange and exotic life,
All I had to
Do was to peek
Through the glass and
See the embodiment and
Meaning of all life,
Any kind of life,
Wherever it
Resided in this
Universe, and it
Was safeguarded in
Front of me by
A mother robin,
Which humanity would
Zoom light years to
See, if it was ever rumored
To chirp on another
Planet’s rock.
Leo Carroll
May 16, 2018
Is there a life
With more meaning than
Yours? Is there pink
Flesh I should more honor
In awe?
Is there a heart
Which sweeter, lighter beats?
Is there a clearer
Chirp of born again, new
Beginnings?
Is there a season
Which comes with gladder
Tidings? Is there a
Warmer nest to soothe
Robin’s crying?
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.