Bucolic
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
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