Writing
Embedded I Am
Click for meditationRegarding "Embedded I Am"
When I write, when
I garden, I become my poetry, I
Become my garden. I am
Synonymous with my
Verse and stanza,
I am synonymous with
The placement and choice
And color of my plants
And flowers.
I become what
I am creating, always
Evolving, editing, pruning,
Shaping, like someone on a
Pilgrim’s path, always
Influenced by the
Surprises, twists, and
Turns of what
Life has chosen to
Present. My poetry is
As if by the tides
Being polished,
My gardens are
Always being tilled,
And in God’s image
I am being rhythmically
Smoothed and
Rounded until …
Leo Carroll
July 17, 2019
Embedded I am, fitted
Like a puzzle piece into my garden,
Comfortable, under the
Sweet shade of a day lily and
On the sheltered side of
A leafy hosta’s pardon.
Poems from Plum Island
Click for meditationRegarding "Poems from Plum Island"
One day in early
February almost two years ago,
I went to Plum Island.
My trip that day was
Spontaneous, and
I simply found myself
Going there … my mood
Was roiled, and I somehow knew
That Plum Island was the
Place for me. This meditation
Is for a series of poems
I wrote while out there
That day. The poems are
Like shutter clicks
On a camera, each
Representing how on
Succeeding seconds
I “saw” the Island and how it
Correspondingly saw me.
I wrote many poems
While there that day, and the
Ones shown here are
Representative and are
Snapshots of my mind.
I spoke to the beach there,
And the beach spoke
To me. There was not one
Other person there,
But there was a lone seagull.
We observed each other
And were bonded to each other
That day. That is the
Great thing about
Plum Island – it can be
All things to all
Creatures, but the one
Constancy is its healing,
Faithful solitude.
Leo Carroll
December 26, 2018
Preface
(In the Beginning)
“Brrr!” says my
Soul, “This place reeks of cold
Not poetry …”
“No!” chides the
Marsh, “The ice, fog, and clouds
Offer immunity.”
Reprieve
All I saw was the boardwalk, its slats
Grey winding their way through ice, snow,
Memories, and past winter storms,
Showing me the path towards a beach where all
I hoped to do on its sands was to bask
Like a seashell and to be washed smooth
Like a cradled sea stone …
View from the Boardwalk
As if a cold compress had come down
And flattened the sea like a hot steam iron once did on
My mother’s ironing board on a long ago, frigid
Winter’s night, thus before me stood the
Gateway to the Atlantic with its cobalt-blue color —
And it seemed spent, or was it just simply sated? It was as if the
Waves had neither the strength nor the will to lift their
Heads for one more tide, as if an exhausted,
Hunched woman with an iron had creased flat
Their mood, taming them despite how hard they tried.
And so it stretched before me without ripple –
Having clearly surrendered to a February freeze —
This on a sunny Saturday which was otherwise
Grand and glorious, and snow on the
Sand was setting a white tablecloth to
Showcase the finest shells and stones and
Seaweed I had ever seen …
Beyond the Boardwalk
… And so, bobbing, about a quarter-mile
Offshore, I see the shape of a seagull, and it is
Observing me as I sit this snow-covered
Sand — and both of us marveling at how the sea was so flat
And cobalt-blue cold, and how nobody else
Was on the beach to see it, because
February was deigned only in quiet solitude
To be shared and known…
Ode to Cold Beach
I knew your waters would be flat and calm.
I knew in color your waves would be coldest, cobalt-blue.
I even knew winter’s windswept
Sands would run across your boardwalk …
But I absolutely did not know that snowdrifts
Would conceal my footprints,
From where they stood in praise
To you this past June …
Merest Flesh
Why should I be any
Different than all else that waits to be
Swept off of this winter strand!?
I am made of only the merest, weakest flesh and
Blood, while even gets shoved aside
By every tide and storm this faithful and
Snow-laden, February sand!
Winter Beach
Down to the very shore’s edge runs a
Six-inch layer of snow, and from there extends out to the
Horizon the coldest cobalt-blue I ever saw …
The sun peeks over my right shoulder while a mighty
Sand dune behind me stands disheveled in awe …
And in approval from a quarter-mile out,
A seagull rides each light swell, and points at me
Its beak, because in solitude we are
Brothers, and that is our unbreakable,
February bond.
Postscript
(Ode to Seashore)
I would lie down with
You gladly and close gently my eyes.
I would weep knowing that my
Tears would be accepted by
The lows and highs of your tides.
I would even scream if I thought my
Voice would reach your ears —
But alas you await far deeper
Calls than mine from all your
Canyons of fathomless fears —
So all I can do is sit here
On your snow-covered sands,
And marvel at how cold is your
Cobalt-blue hue, and how
Empty is the sea of any daring
Small boats, and how I
Can only see a lone,
Bobbing seagull, and how
The sand dune to my back
Thankfully blocks me from the
Winter wind, and how the
Sun bleaches yet another inscrutable
Puzzle of jumbled pieces of
Seaweed and shells and
Stones left by the last rush of
High tide … all placed in a
Mysterious pattern to proclaim
God’s message in primordial parable –
And writ solemnly on this
Strand of a February paradise.
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 Ladybug
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Ladybug"
I love ladybugs!
I always have! As a six
Years old boy, I
Would collect them
In a mayonnaise
Jar, with the lid
Punched with nail holes
To ensure they could
Breathe. I would
Raise the glass to my
Face, and I would
Study them as they
Crawled around inside
Over tiny bits of
Leaves. I would marvel
At how slow and
Peaceful they
Moved. Even today,
Whenever I
Encounter one
In my garden or on
My window sill,
I will pause and
Observe it.
A ladybug all
These decades
Later is still
To me as calming
As ever! In a
Phrenetic world,
A ladybug marches to
Its own refrain.
Leo Carroll
June 27, 2018
O, Ladybug, are you really
My guardian angel? Are you the constant that
Keeps my refrain from buckling?
Or, rather, are you the incarnation of the muse from a
High-desert plain, and from your
Perch have come down from off the
Mesa, to touch in inspiration
The three letters of my name?
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.