12-19-2015, 01:16 AM
Another attempt at learning free verse. Seems a bit lengthy for the ideas expressed: in critique, suggestions for trimming and tightening-up will be particularly appreciated.
Absence of Mind
Edit2
Afternoon, September sun;
head-deep in seedy shrubbery
over which loomed feeders
crewed by wary birds,
sky temperate, postcard-blue.
Standing there I dozed,
dazed by well-being,
absent of mind.
When I awoke,
three little birds, wrens, junco,
were pecking ‘round my feet,
as if a statue of St. Francis
had been erected in my absence,
and I was it.
Then picture him,
St. Francis, likewise, but
more gloriously rapt, not
by worldly forms alone,
but Immanence in all,
the wonder and its majesty.
He stands, stricken by
the great awe, absent of mind.
After time,
small birds begin, losing fear,
to pick brown woolen tufts
from Francis’ robe.
Gaining confidence, they,
in need of bindings for their nests,
start tugging grizzled hairs
from beard and monk’s-fringe
of the meditating man,
he, unaware, lost in delight.
Then, at the end, a crow, obsidian,
perched on his shoulder,
begins to covet
those vacant, glistening, tear-filled,
appetizing eyes.
Whereat the Spirit,
unready to collect its saint,
relents: they blink,
his mind returns;
Francis smiles at Brother Crow.
Edit1
Afternoon, September sun;
deep in stalky, gone-wild,
flowering shrubbery,
over which loomed feeders
crewed by wary birds,
sky temperate, postcard-blue.
Dazed by well-being,
standing there, I dozed,
absent of mind.
When I awoke,
three little birds, wrens, junco,
were pecking ‘round my feet,
as if a statue of St. Francis of Assisi
had been erected in my absence,
and I was it.
Then picture him,
St. Francis, likewise, but
more gloriously rapt, not
by worldly forms alone,
but Immanence in all,
the wonder and its majesty.
He stands, stricken by
the great awe, absent of mind.
After time,
small birds begin, losing fear,
to pick brown woolen tufts
from Francis’ robe.
Gaining confidence, they,
in need of bindings for their nests,
start tugging grizzled hairs
from beard and monk’s-fringe
of the meditating man,
he, unaware, lost in delight.
Then, at the end, a crow, obsidian,
perched on his shoulder,
begins to covet
those vacant, glistening, tear-filled,
appetizing eyes.
Whereat the Spirit,
unready to collect its saint,
relents: they blink,
his mind returns;
Francis smiles at Brother Crow.
Original version
Afternoon, September sun;
standing deep in stalky,
gone-wild shrubbery -
blooms, all sizes, scattered from
knee- to eye-level, over which
loomed feeders with their wary birds,
temperature perfect,
sky lithographic, postcard-blue - I,
dazed by well-being, dozed,
absent of mind.
When the “vacancy” sign
in my eyes flickered off again,
three little birds, wrens, juncos,
were pecking ‘round my feet,
as if a statue of St. Francis of Assisi
had been erected in my absence,
and I was it.
One pictures him, in life,
St. Francis, likewise, but
more gloriously rapt, not
by mild sun or sapphire sky alone,
but Immanence in all,
the wonder and its majesty.
See him stand, stricken by
the great awe, absent of mind.
After time,
small birds begin, losing fear,
to pick brown woolen tufts
from Francis’ robe.
Gaining confidence, they,
in need of bindings for their nests,
start tugging grizzled hairs
from beard and tonsure
of the meditating man,
he, unaware, lost in delight.
Then, at the end, a crow, obsidian,
perched on his shoulder,
begins to covet
those vacant, glistening, tear-filled,
appetizing eyes.
Whereat the Spirit,
unready to collect its saint,
relents: they blink,
his mind returns;
he smiles at Brother Crow.
Absence of Mind
Edit2
Afternoon, September sun;
head-deep in seedy shrubbery
over which loomed feeders
crewed by wary birds,
sky temperate, postcard-blue.
Standing there I dozed,
dazed by well-being,
absent of mind.
When I awoke,
three little birds, wrens, junco,
were pecking ‘round my feet,
as if a statue of St. Francis
had been erected in my absence,
and I was it.
Then picture him,
St. Francis, likewise, but
more gloriously rapt, not
by worldly forms alone,
but Immanence in all,
the wonder and its majesty.
He stands, stricken by
the great awe, absent of mind.
After time,
small birds begin, losing fear,
to pick brown woolen tufts
from Francis’ robe.
Gaining confidence, they,
in need of bindings for their nests,
start tugging grizzled hairs
from beard and monk’s-fringe
of the meditating man,
he, unaware, lost in delight.
Then, at the end, a crow, obsidian,
perched on his shoulder,
begins to covet
those vacant, glistening, tear-filled,
appetizing eyes.
Whereat the Spirit,
unready to collect its saint,
relents: they blink,
his mind returns;
Francis smiles at Brother Crow.
Edit1
Afternoon, September sun;
deep in stalky, gone-wild,
flowering shrubbery,
over which loomed feeders
crewed by wary birds,
sky temperate, postcard-blue.
Dazed by well-being,
standing there, I dozed,
absent of mind.
When I awoke,
three little birds, wrens, junco,
were pecking ‘round my feet,
as if a statue of St. Francis of Assisi
had been erected in my absence,
and I was it.
Then picture him,
St. Francis, likewise, but
more gloriously rapt, not
by worldly forms alone,
but Immanence in all,
the wonder and its majesty.
He stands, stricken by
the great awe, absent of mind.
After time,
small birds begin, losing fear,
to pick brown woolen tufts
from Francis’ robe.
Gaining confidence, they,
in need of bindings for their nests,
start tugging grizzled hairs
from beard and monk’s-fringe
of the meditating man,
he, unaware, lost in delight.
Then, at the end, a crow, obsidian,
perched on his shoulder,
begins to covet
those vacant, glistening, tear-filled,
appetizing eyes.
Whereat the Spirit,
unready to collect its saint,
relents: they blink,
his mind returns;
Francis smiles at Brother Crow.
Original version
Afternoon, September sun;
standing deep in stalky,
gone-wild shrubbery -
blooms, all sizes, scattered from
knee- to eye-level, over which
loomed feeders with their wary birds,
temperature perfect,
sky lithographic, postcard-blue - I,
dazed by well-being, dozed,
absent of mind.
When the “vacancy” sign
in my eyes flickered off again,
three little birds, wrens, juncos,
were pecking ‘round my feet,
as if a statue of St. Francis of Assisi
had been erected in my absence,
and I was it.
One pictures him, in life,
St. Francis, likewise, but
more gloriously rapt, not
by mild sun or sapphire sky alone,
but Immanence in all,
the wonder and its majesty.
See him stand, stricken by
the great awe, absent of mind.
After time,
small birds begin, losing fear,
to pick brown woolen tufts
from Francis’ robe.
Gaining confidence, they,
in need of bindings for their nests,
start tugging grizzled hairs
from beard and tonsure
of the meditating man,
he, unaware, lost in delight.
Then, at the end, a crow, obsidian,
perched on his shoulder,
begins to covet
those vacant, glistening, tear-filled,
appetizing eyes.
Whereat the Spirit,
unready to collect its saint,
relents: they blink,
his mind returns;
he smiles at Brother Crow.
Non-practicing atheist