Short Bucolic Poems

drifting
on a bucolic sea
of perfumes



posted on June 29, 2019...

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bucolic perfumes
galoping unbridled
jumping sunrays



posted on July 8, 2019...

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Bland  bucolic scene
      hidden behind a light rain
        a herald cock crows...

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clear  Central Park day
      a bucolic tour reigns loose,
      a pluralism ride......

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Apple skin body !
       sweet perfume of pink mango,
              wish be your orchard...!...

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Unexpected, no less bucolic,
between the slabs of buildings,
surprising  morning rooster crowing!...

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In front of a still blank paper
   the poet imagines poetic movements
      watching leaves in the wind,...

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Sexually Gamble
nookie
bookie
Hangover in the Suburb
alcoholic 
bucolic



Just trying something different...

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in summer twilight
cattle run to shed with dust
tired cowboy with stick 



-Thursday, June 13, 2019 Chattogram...

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along country roads
barns crushed by the fall sun ~
and weight of time



AP: 2nd place 2020

Posted on July 8, 2019...

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chickens pecking in the backyard
         tenderize the already bucolic air
          ... the poet is already poetizing......

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Stock-still statues
  Bucolic totem-poles
    Munching fly-swatters 
      Lazily grazing ... 

Invisible to driverless cars...

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sea of greens and golds
floating on scented carpets
of bucolic dreams



AP: Honorable Mention 2021

Posted on October 5, 2018...

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CHERUBIC QUINTESSENCE 

bucolic beauty
of branches with ruddy leaves ~
Autumn’s chubby cheeks

9/24/2017...

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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...

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I can feel your breath,
dance on peach fuzz,
honeysuckle smoke,
whispers in my lung,
every follicle tuned, 
we are two of one,
quietly a buzz,
bucolic beds state,
unassuming,
the morning’s hour,
delicate....

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Kid With Colic

Am a cute kid with case of the colic;
It made me so sad I became bucolic;
Testy have been,
Without a grin;
No wonder  my wife was an alcoholic.

James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet...

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The bucolic scene spread before her full white hair
That stupendous beauty whose silver did flair
Overlooking the planted fields, waiting for harvest
Youth, prodigious life in the past waiting to go the farthest...

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Harbingers...
   Bucolic Sounds...
     Efflorescence in Abundance...
       Petrichors of late Summer,
         Redolent of Propinquity to Creation,
       Erstwhile Demesne of God. 
     An Ephemeral Dalliance,
   Serendipitous Timing...
 EPIPHANY !...

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Demure young maiden
A bucolic bungalow
A fallen hero

Situation hot
Gray thick diaphanous smog
Cannot cool it

Desultory dance
A quick surreptitious
Fine country wedding

Grandma’s tailsmen
The bride adorned with daisies
Murmurous rumors

A nonchalant groom
A sempiternal set up
Quintessential joy...

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In an island amidst the seamless seas, 
Gaping at the bucolic beauty of rippling rivulets, 
Listening to the gurgles of the whirling waterfall, 
Soothed by the serenity of the still silvery streams, 
Lulled to sleep by the rustle of pristine palms, 
I lay beside you in a perfect paradise.


...

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Such a grand memory I set aside,
Passing time in the French bucolic countryside
Passing lazy days away
Sipping sweet, sweet wine.

Lifting spirits, jousting melancholic ways
Experience expunging naivete
The Louvre, or the opera
Blessing a bravura shrine
Seeking serenity, here and now,
I long to stay, this place mine...

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Under the orange tree, the baby
in her woven basket boat, sailing
on the green-green grass.

Peeling the orange fruit, sibling
in a  blue-teal dress. Juicy
orbs on the plentiful grass.

Toddler in christening dress, and
white cap. Bucolic blessings in
habitat. Repose, under orange oasis....

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An old green tractor next to a red barn;
Horses, cows, and ducks fill up the pasture;
Surrounded by foliage at every turn
I inhale deep the sweet smell of nature;  
A farm full of fruit trees for that I yearn,
they taste perfect like a caricature;
Roosters silhouette as the Sun's rising,
bucolic scenes right out of a painting....

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Make hay!
Meant the macaw's epiphany
Coming in propinquity of the demesne
Pondering the erstwhile efflorescence of dalliance, she chirped
The bucolic redolent was everywhere, smelling petrichor in the air
This land is her home, she whistled with serenpidity
Harbinger of ephemeral life, she chattered: 
While the sun shines,
Make hay!...

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