Peace
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.
Winter Blessings
Click for meditationRegarding "Winter Blessings"
All it took was the
Meditative rhythm of the
Sound of light rain falling on
A small garden bed
Covered in old oak and
Maple leaves, to
Soothe the seas of
My mood, and then
Adding to this calming
Effect was the soft sound of the
Same rain hitting the
Mossy and mottled
Rocks of an adjacent,
Worn stone wall …
Reminding me once
Again that the gifts from
Creation actually
Occur all year-round,
Not just in spring or
Summer or fall,
But in winter when
First impulse might be
To don sackcloth
And ashes, but instead
The January drizzle
Wags its finger and says,
“No, not at all …!”
Leo Carroll
January 11, 2019
I hear
The pitter-patter of light
Rain on leaves, maple and oak and
What else lies hibernating between, and
I hear an even softer sound
As it lands on a nearby
Stone wall’s mottled moss,
Green and grey in blotches, an old
Coat from the colonial era,
But to me now like new
Wineskin cloth . . . and
Thus my ears listen intently,
Interpreting, soothed by
This revelation and nurture
Alive in my January garden,
When winter would
Otherwise harness me
To my mood, and it wouldn’t
Be until the first crocus’s
Song that I’d dare consider what
Spring’s freedom could
Loose.
Isaiah 55: 8
Matthew 11: 28-30
Click for meditationRegarding "Isaiah 55: 8
Matthew 11: 28-30"
So many times with
Life I have arm wrestled, when it
Would have made far better
Sense to relent, to relax, and to
Go with the inevitable flow of
Circumstances around me …
How many things in life
Are truly important?
How many things really
Demand a claim of victory?
The older I have gotten,
The fewer and fewer things I
Have offered in answer …
Everything cannot
Be important, and as it
Turns out, not much actually is.
What is important, though,
Is to look around and be
Aware of the bountiful
Blessings available to each of us.
Every day and in every way,
Nature speaks. Beauty is
The de facto, eternal
Word of God, just
Like a lamb grazing,
Accepting what is in front
Of its face, freely-begotten,
Wonderful to the taste, in a
Pasture, in a green, well-watered,
Sheltered space.
Leo Carroll
January 7, 2019
“It is better to be
A lamb than a lion,”
Enters like a
Sweet zephyr into
My whirling
Subconscious,
And then added
For emphasis,
“My yoke rests
Easier on fleece
Than the wild mane of
Your flesh …”
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.