Silence
Morrill
Click for meditationRegarding "Morrill"
Every autumn for 21 years,
I went up to a cabin in the woods of
Morrill, Maine. It was a wonderful
Experience which I will never
Forget, and it is where I wrote scores
And scores of some of my
Favorite poetry. Seven years ago I
Took a sabbatical from going up,
But every fall I continued to
Feel the pull of the spiritual
Silence and majesty of those Maine
Woods. This autumn, after
My seven year hiatus, I
Returned for several nights
To those woods. It seemed a little
Strange for me, because
Although the woods appeared
Essentially the same, they
Did appear to have changed in
Subtle ways. It is hard
To explain. The more I have
Thought about this,
Though, the more I have
Come to realize that the true
Changes and differences
Were with me, and not the
Woods, and this is the theme of
All the poetry I wrote
While I was just up there. The
Poems try to put their
Finger on “something,” and the
“Something” is that the
Twenty one straight years
Were a distinct, unique period
In time, and performed a
Specific role in my life’s
Journey, and thus, when the
Woods and I saw each
Other again, we each took a
“Double-take” at each
Other – in pause and in
Shock – and I realized the truth
Of Thomas Wolfe’s saying,
“You can’t go home again,” and
Find either home and/or
Yourself the way things
Once were…
Leo Carroll
December 2, 2019
Ode to Morrill
You watch, waiting in
Silence, as if expecting I might
Have something to say, while I, in turn,
Watch you, thinking your
Branches to be both changed
And unchanged, your faces the same
Tho’ not the same…
Woods
Gray came up’n me,
Cold whipped the trunks of my soul,
Wind beat about me, and the
Woods whispered that “old” had crept
Into my snowy bones.
Moment
Still no movement, silence
Has even stopped…branches which are
Bent remain bent…branches
Which are straight guide my gaze
To their tops…
But then something flies
Chirping, and I would describe it if I
Could, but its feathers are
Too far away, and so I resume my
Autumn mood…
O, Angel of God
“O, Angel of God, my guardian dear…,”
And thus I begin my catechism’s
Childhood prayer, and then
In the silence, a distinct silence
Cold and white, a chorus rises up,
And chickadees alight…
Calling Out
“Where are you, Memory,
Where can I find you in the midst
Of this snowy field lying in
My mind and up’n this ground…?
Everything looks the same,
But my mind tells me
Something has changed…!”
Requiem
I returned to these woods to
Re-walk and live my old memories, and
Found some of them moved and
Wondered to where they
Might be keeping…?
And so I mused aloud,
“Is there not anything here
I can depend?!”
And then all my old
Haunts and shadows looked
O’er at me, and I knew
I had crossed the
Threshold to an e’er
Approaching requiem.
Deerfield’s Words
Click for meditationRegarding "Deerfield’s Words"
I love being in the
Woods, and I absolutely love
Looking for a stone wall
With a comfortable combination
Of rocks for my back
To lean against. My eyes
Have grown accustomed to
Quickly scanning the
Exterior facade of stone
Walls, and then zeroing in on
A section which looks
To be a good candidate
To sit on the ground
And nestle against.
The goal always is to
Blend into the wall as
Much as possible, and to
Become synonymous with the
Woods surrounding me.
On first impression, the woods
And wall may seem quiet
And still, but there is,
In fact, much to consider –
From how the light
Breaks through the trees,
The wind ruffles the
Autumn leaves, the spider
Crawls curiously on my
Shoulder, the chipmunk
Puffs up its brave
Chest and flexes its
Muscles, the chickadees
Stop by and occasionally brush
My cheek, the ever-present
Raven circles above,
The jay calls in the
Distance in annoyance
At something, and the
Eight Inch spruce sparkles
In newborn green…
All while I keep slightly
Shifting my position
And invariably manage
To fall asleep, and
During which the stone
Wall stoically ponders and
Wonders about me,
And the trunks of the
Trees in amazement
Peer over in strength, and
Shake their heads
At the degree of my
Weakness…
Leo Carroll
March 15, 2019
Searching for a Spot along an Old Stone Wall
I search, looking
For those perfect stones, as if
Made from a shop press,
Against which my
Back to lean, my body
To conform. I
Follow this wall, and
It keeps me on a
Heading east-west,
As if a farm horse by
The bridle, being led home
To its night’s rest…
And then through
The oaks and beeches
I see them — grey, rough
Stones, mottled in
Shades of black
And green lichen —
The sweet, autumn
Fruit of some
Builder’s tireless,
Calloused work,
Against which I’ll
Nestle, until is
Whispered what
Comes to be heard.
In the Woods against a Stone Wall
They sit as they’ve
Always sat – these woods as if
Jewels, as if decreed by
Primeval fiat. Oak and spruce
Stoically watch me in my
Every move and mood,
Content to leave me quiet if
I promise their wooden
Fiefdom not to disturb nor
Intrude. They watch
Me, reading my flesh’s
Mind and its flight, and
Then shake their heads slowly,
Because they know I
Have not yet mastered the
Fine art of sitting in a
Stone wall’s silence.