Solitude
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.
Ode to Emily Dickinson
("My Wars Are Laid Away in Books")
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Emily Dickinson"
What a wondrous poet this
Prim, pint-of-a-person, Emily Dickinson, was!
Tiny in stature, she had an immense,
Phenomenal mind, and poured
Everything inside her into fully-blossomed
Verse, and from out of her genius
Came what is widely regarded to be the
Finest poetry ever written in the
United States. She lived a secluded life
In nineteenth century Amherst, Massachusetts,
And did most of her writing from a
Small bedroom on the second
Floor of her home, where from a
Miniscule desk she peered out
Her bedroom window and
Wrote her poetry. She would
Then take each poem, sort it by
Topic, and then store it by appropriate
Folder or “book”, as she would
Call it, in her dresser drawer.
This book of like-minded poems
Would lie wrapped in a ribbon as if a
Gift delayed, and would rest in the dark…
She considered her collection of poetry
To be extremely private, and referred to many of
The poems as her “wars”. She never
Intended they be read by the general public.
Her poems reflected what was in
Her mind, and she did not want some of
Them to see the light of day. On her
Deathbed, she asked that her poems be
Destroyed. They were not.
Leo Carroll
September 2, 2018
I don’t believe people
Understood why you spent so much
Time in exquisite solitude…
They knew naught of the fires which
Raged within you, and how into your flesh the
Coals like thorns could burrow.
All they knew was your
Reclusive nature, and how it
Seemed so much quieter than what
They were used. They knew nothing of the
Wars you fought, and how
The cannon and blast could only be
Calmed with a stylus to suture
Your open wounds.