Writing
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.
The Notebook
Click for meditationRegarding "The Notebook"
The most important thing I do
Every day is to write.
It is my life. It is my balm.
It is peaceful. It is
The one dependable
Action I take which is sure
Any raging waters
To calm. It is a gift to me.
Unmerited. It casts
A fence around me as
If I was reclined in the sweet
Sheepfold of Psalm 23.
It could even be
Viewed as my version
Of the Kingdom of Heaven,
That blessed seed
Bestowed within each of us,
Which has the
Potential to leaven into
A majestic, flowering tree.
Leo Carroll
October 2, 2018
Would this notebook
Be able to keep me afloat in
A raging sea, its paper,
Once wood, a life
Preserver’s giving me
Buoyancy, or,
Would last sight of
Me be with an arm
Raised high, notebook
Held up to the last,
And then down,
Down deep, gone,
Below the waves and
Into the vast…?
The Muse
Click for meditationRegarding "The Muse"
Effortlessly
My eyes lift, drawn
Mysteriously
To a mythical, desert
Mesa, sandy-
Reddish,
Where sits
Stoically an
Indian maiden
In Pueblo dress,
Eternally watching for
Me it seems,
As if she felt
My gaze, and knew I
Was waiting yet
Again for her
To release the words
Within me born
To live.
Leo Carroll
July 17, 2018
“Find me,” comes
A quiet, whispered
Voice, female
In its sound, longing
In the depths of
A wispy, far-distant
Thesaurus…
“Find me,” and
So up the high-desert
Plain my eyes
Lift, and there on
The mesa, in
Pueblo cloth, an
Indian maiden
Sits…
Lifting Vesuvius
Click for meditationRegarding "Lifting Vesuvius"
One day I simply
Started to seriously write.
I had always written,
And enjoyed it,
But one day I began
To finally view
Myself as a writer,
And not just as a writer –
But as a poet, and
A whole different, new
World began
To spread its wings
Before me, and my daily
Existence took on the
Form of stanza and
Verse, and there
Was not a depth I would
Not go to, nor was
There a height I would not
Attempt to climb.
Words took on
An indescribable
Significance to me, and
They swirled in my
Head as if they
Had always belonged,
And had finally
Found a way to
Come out…as rhyme.
Leo Carroll
April 28, 2018
From deep
Within a
Flood erupts,
Bursting
Through a
Wedge created.
Words gush
In endless
Source,
Flowing
Freely and
Unabated.