Sunday, May 31, 2015

Walking Along a Pond with Jesus

The following poem was written in the late 1980's when I was going through a difficult time in my life. Sometimes I took long walks with Jesus along The Loop at Skylands Manor State Park in Ringwood, NJ. His loving presence was sweet and comforting as well as healing. I'd love to hear from you about how His presence comforted you in troubled times. Comments are always welcome.

Photo Credit:


I walk The Loop at Skylands, with Jesus Christ, my Friend,
telling how it is with me and what remains to mend,

confess to Him my failures and share sweet victories too,
knowing my Lord, so well aware, knows me through and through.

I tell what I rejoice in, of those I hope He’ll heal,
those who need salvation and about the ones who feel

life’s not what they expected, or that it is not fair...
I give the burdens to my Friend; leave them in His care.

At peace with my Companion, we stroll around a bend;
I tell Him I love Him with a love that will not end;

He tells me that He loves me, I’m precious in His sight...
I know my Jesus means it, which is my heart’s delight.

Sunrays filter through the oaks and warm me as we walk
past the shady Turtle Pond, where we resume our talk.

I praise Him for creation, the flowers and the trees,
fauna scampering here and there, the butterflies, the bees...

I thank Him for the sunshine, the pond and for the frogs,
turtles sunning on the rocks and chipmunks in the logs.

Then, finally I get quiet and only hear my steps
and nature sounds around me; I reach into the depths

of my very inner being and listen to His voice
speak gently to my spirit; I feel my soul rejoice!

His still small voice continues along the wooded path;
encouragement He offers, sweet mercies, never wrath.

When our stroll’s completed, my spirit feels refreshed
from wondrous time together, our union tightly meshed.

What a blessing my Holy God, cares enough to spend
precious time walking Skylands Loop, talking with His friend!

Maude Carolan

Sunday, May 24, 2015


We celebrated Shevout and Pentecost at today's service at Beth Israel/The Jerusalem Center, in Wayne, NJ. This holiday is very special to me because I was Born Again and filled with the Spirit at Pentecost, 1979, and my life was changed in the most amazing and wonderful way ever since. Here's a poem about it...

Photo Credit:
In remembrance of Pentecost 1979—
The Upper Room Charismatic Prayer Group 
at the Parish Center,
St. Catherine of Bologna RC Church, Ringwood, NJ—
Father Matthew Gaskin, pastor

Here I am, Lord
at the podium in The Upper Room
reading my poems again

The Upper Room—
room of my second birth
where thirty-five years ago
after questioning Your existence
and the meaning of life
the truth of the Gospel became real to me—

Yes, it was here, in this very place
that Father Matthew delivered the prayer
for those of us who desired to be Born Again
and filled with the Holy Spirit—
a birth both spiritual and virginal
from the Seed of God alone
a prayer that changed our lives
completely and forevermore

There was no primal cry at our rebirth
but exultant cries of “Hallelujah!”
and Pentecostal utterances
No amniotic fluid
but streams of Living Water
and Second Chapter of Acts tongues of fire
that we couldn’t see with our eyes
but knew in the realm of the Spirit
were blazing above our heads

In a wonderful and mysterious way
that night and this room was reflective
of another Pentecost; another upper room
another descent of the Spirit—
somewhere in Jerusalem, 2000 years ago

We became new creations that night
like those believers of old—
burning with Light
that has not grown dim

Maude Carolan Pych

Sunday, May 17, 2015

It's Iris Season!

Springtime in New Jersey is absolutely lovely. As I drive around, I admire the colorful azaleas, lilacs and irises blooming in gardens along the way. The following poem was written several years ago following a delightful visit to the Presby Memorial Iris Garden in Montclair. It was published in "The Pillar Monthly" magazine. I'm including a few photographs taken during one of my visits to the garden.


I delightedly strolled
along an iris rainbow
one effulgent Sunday in May
while would-be VanGoghs
painted under sunbrellas.

God could’ve made irises gray,
but He’s as lavish with color
as He is with love.

Maude Carolan

Friday, May 8, 2015

A Tribute to My Beautiful Mother

The following poem is in loving memory of my beautiful mother, Frances Longo Walsh, who passed away in 1966 at the age of 51. The poem was published several years ago in the "Paterson Literary Review."

Frances Longo Walsh

In loving memory of Frances Longo Walsh (1915-1966)

I recall the way
my mother’s whole body jiggled when she laughed,
her sweet, shy smile,
that she understood Italian, but never spoke it,
the utter simplicity of her desires...
never asking for or receiving much
and not once complaining.
She had all she wanted, a home and family.

I remember the helpmeet working side by side
with our father, clearing the land
and building our stucco home.

My mind’s eye sees her plucking
chicken feathers in the backyard,
walking uphill home from the bus stop,
huffing, puffing;
scratching her itching back
against the bedroom door frame;
camping, just to please us children,
though it was more work than fun for her.

Recall, as if it were yesterday,
the flowery apron over her housedress
with its chain of safety pins
and her elastic band bracelets,
and Mother, standing at the stove, stirring
the bubbling red sauce in the big enamel pot.

Little Mommy, four-foot-ten and overweight—
She served herself the skimpiest portions,
never ate dessert, but occasionally gave in
to one indulgence: a crusty Italian bastone
from Minardi’s, sliced and spread with creamy butter.

Hindsight reveals her quick on her feet
in the yard goods department at Quackenbush’s,
where customers remembered her
for smiles as quick as her feet.

When she arrived home, she changed her clothes
and aired out one of her two work dresses
on the clothesline off the back porch.

In retrospect, I see her
rolling her dark hair back into two neat curls
above her forehead,
applying red lipstick to her upper lip,
bringing both lips together to transfer color
to the lower, then, blotting.

Never attended high school, but
she could add columns of numbers
rapidly, in her head.
She’d read the newspaper nightly,
and complete the crossword puzzle.

My memory flashes to her relaxing evenings
in our parlor, in the old tufted chair,
watching Alfred Hitchcock or Lucy or
Barbara Stanwick in, “The Big Valley”.
She never missed the easy crooning of Perry Como.
He was her favorite. (He’d been a barber, like her father.)

I remember it pleased our father
that she always waited up for him
till he arrived home after working
the night shift at Wright’s.

Yes, I still see clearly, her dear kerchiefed head,
which Gramma remarked, made her look
like a peasant in a babushka.

Remember trying to convince her to hike her hemlines,
wear “Kiss Me Pink” lipstick, update her hair style,
learn to drive.

Flashback to hear her inviting my date
to come in for a cup of tea at our kitchen table
when he brought me home.

Vividly, I recollect the day
she was curled up tight on the couch.
She didn’t want me to call the ambulance,
though her hernia was strangling,
didn’t want to spoil plans we had with our friends.
I disobeyed. The doctors operated just in time,
before gangrene set in.

My mind’s eye still sees tears in her eyes
when she came to my wedding
without my father.

And I remember her joy
to learn both daughters were pregnant, however,

she died before her grandchildren were born.

Maude Carolan

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers, everywhere! God bless you all!!!

Sunday, May 3, 2015

My Love Poem to Yeshua


Yes You are
The Blessed Offspring
Of I Am

Yes You are
The Paschal

Our Atonement
Flowed down
Wooden beams

Ebbing Life
Our Great Salvation

Yes it did

Suffering Servant
Lion of Judah
Sar ha Shalom[2]

Yes You are
Ha Mashiach[3]


You Are.

By Maude Carolan

[1] Hebrew for Jesus
[2] Hebrew for Prince of Peace
[3] Hebrew for The Messiah