Pilgrim’s Path
Ode to Milkweed Pods
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Milkweed Pods"
I love milkweed pods,
And I love the field I find them in
Up in the woods of Maine.
Every time I walk into
That hallowed Maine field,
My eyes sweep for
Milkweed pods, and if I locate
Them, I always lie amongst
Them, as if their long
Stalks were blessing me,
The very same feeling I get as
When I dive into the healing foam
And font of the ocean.
So simple is Maine, so
Hardscrabble are
Its shrouded woods, so
Hidden its fields of milkweed,
So magnanimous to me,
So accepting, as if
I was a monarch butterfly,
And had alighted their sweet
Nectar to imbibe for my
Migration to eternity!
Leo Carroll
August 26, 2018
I thought I would
Never sit amongst you again…
That you would be but
A memory I always inhaled in the
Hymnal of my breath,
But then there you were —
Unexpectedly back, awaiting me —
The face to me of Maine’s autumn, and
So accepting unconditionally!
And so amongst you
I reclined, and you began to
Nourish me as if I was a
Monarch butterfly, and your pods
Became the nectar to sustain my pilgrim’s
Flight, until finally my migration
Reached the old by-and-by…
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…
Depths
Click for meditationRegarding "Depths"
Depths,
Cleansing depths,
Healing depths,
And depths
Available
To all of us
If we can just
Hold long enough
Our breaths…
How deep
Can
We go,
How much do
We want to
Find for what we
Search,
How long,
How deep, no
Matter how
Much it helps when
It hurts…?
Leo Carroll
November 24, 2018
Down, down deep,
Into the depths I
Plunge, sounding for the
Bottom in fathoms
Dive to plumb.
Down, down deep,
The water courses
O’er me, in a protective
Rush of foam
Across my eternity.
Down, down deep,
My body points
In arrow flight, single
In its purpose, its
Object out of sight…
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.
Choosing Heaven
Click for meditationRegarding "Choosing Heaven"
In the woods of
Maine, no matter which
Way I walked, even
If I went in the
Wrong direction and
Somehow got
“Turned around” and
Was temporarily
Lost, I always
Was on the path to
Heaven, because
Any spot in
Those pristine
Woods was as if
Peering into the looking
Glass at all the
Ramparts of
The Almighty’s
Palace on the
Glistening heights of
Caesarea…
Thus tries to
Speak this poem…
To the left —
If I wandered
Into a
Prototypical
Maine field — it
Was as if I
Had come before
The font of
All wisdom
And understanding.
If I walked down
The path to
The right — my
Spirit was blessed
With all the
Hues of autumn, as if
Sprinkled from
Creation’s fingers.
Leo Carroll
June 3, 2018
In which
Direction should I
Choose to go,
As I muse
The best path
In my pilgrim’s walk
To follow…?
To the left
Leads me into
A glorious meadow
Of milkweed
And its pod,
While to
The right
Meanders a
Rough-hewn
Road,
Where a
Canopy of
Golden
Shade and
Shadow awaits to
Clothe me
In the hues I
Long…