Southern Rata (is a stunning Kiwi Tree)
Red or scarlet harlots instead...a bucolic frolic..
Tranches spread as if bulbous branches have gorgeously bled..
Overpowering flowering towers glimmer…fanciful fairytale shimmers showering...
Such vim...swim on a whim..sprouting on an outing from their pouting wooden limb....
A delight..refining..shining bright.. defining.. these bizarrely beautifully gnarly trees...
Crimson collage..insisting snarling tendril darlings..timber tentacles twisting…a magical mirage....
Marooned yet cocooned in a festooned lagoon...wouldn't barter anything…
To swoon at the miracle..spectacular boon of Southern Rata ...
In front of a still blank paper
the poet imagines poetic movements
watching leaves in the wind,
Bucolic
Bucolic, what a word.
I learned it from John Lloyd.
A poem like this, is it absurd?
And will it get you annoyed?
Imagine the grassy countryside.
The milk & honey flowing land,
or waves breaking at high tide,
crashing loudly at God’s command.
Bucolic, what does it mean?
A pastoral poem, beautifully written.
A scenic view, very serene.
There we were, completely smitten.
I love this word, bucolic.
I learned it from John Lloyd.
She blessed me with a frolic,
her loving arms I enjoyed.
As we drove down the coast,
bucolic views of ocean blue,
they were indeed a glorious host,
honeymoon passion we did pursue.
Now it’s done, no more left.
We’re parting ways too soon.
My heart so broken and bereft,
surely it’s not a bucolic tune.
Yet God is in that word,
I learned from John Lloyd.
It sounded wonderful as I heard,
bucolic now, no more deployed.
John Stasukevich
6/12/23
chickens pecking in the backyard
tenderize the already bucolic air
... the poet is already poetizing...
He ran the palm of his hand across the canvas,
Felt its soft, smooth surface, excellent fabric.
It was well primed with gesso, and he was sure
The end result would be an immortal masterpiece
The quintessential fragrance of daffodils,
a carpet of yellows in secluded woodlands,
new-born lambs on wobbly legs bleating for milk,
bees irresistibly drawn to luscious nectar.
male cotton less cottonwood trees flourish
as do the blooming peach trees erupting in fruit.
And birds flying here and there, chirping delightfully.
On one side a cottage, beautifully thatched,
with a rivulet wending its way from the water mill,
on the other, a bench beneath an alder leaf birch.
There sat a young maiden fair to behold,
on his knees was a young shepherd hand outstretched,
barely touching, proposing, as she smiles happily.
The painter looked satisfied. It had taken days
But finish it he did. The Museum would be satisfied.
After all weren’t all his vast landscapes immortal?
Apple skin body !
sweet perfume of pink mango,
wish be your orchard...!
Bland bucolic scene
hidden behind a light rain
a herald cock crows
golden paddies sway in sync as soft wind strokes their
cheeks ~ white herons squawk
Date: 08/15/2021
For A Brian Strand 1,2,3,4, or 5 Line Poetry Contest
ON BUCOLIC SETTING
Earth dressed in foliage with lush verdure,
leafy green revolution to assure.
Undisciplined non-mowed lime-green meadow
growing wild weeds for cattle, camel, deer, and doe.
Charcoal clouds in platoon started to frown.
From verdant valley I was stepping down
to wide pastoral field.
Sudden gust made me thrilled.
I walked on furrows in wrinkles
where periwinkle twinkled.
I leaped on ridges and creases of uneven path
kicking tiny stones and pebbles in fake wrath
Wet leaves spread feral fragrance as clouds melted to pour
Intermittent showers moistened soil arousing petrichor.
Words picked: verdant , clouds, assure, wild, sudden
10/10/20
Third Place
'Mystery Word Find' Contest by Caren Krutsinger
I see a rock wall in the woods,
I wonder where it goes…
To some forgotten forest glade
that only whitetails know?
To some abandoned farm graveyard
where small stones stand in rows?
To some shattered, ancient tree trunk
knocked down by the wind’s blow?
To a New England stone-choked stream,
gurgling out its flow?
Through what was once broad pasture land
farmers no long mow?
Through newfound forest on the rise,
so quickly the trees grow…
Or to a swampy, mossy bog
where water settles low.
Some say I should walk that rock wall,
I’ve heard them tell me so,
but mystery brings spice to life,
I won’t see where it goes.
in summer twilight
cattle run to shed with dust
tired cowboy with stick
-Thursday, June 13, 2019 Chattogram
bucolic perfumes
galoping unbridled
jumping sunrays
posted on July 8, 2019
along country roads
barns crushed by the fall sun ~
and weight of time
AP: 2nd place 2020
Posted on July 8, 2019