Tag Archives: Bucolic

DAILY PHOTO: Brahma Bull and Other Pastoral Scenes

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A Brahma Bull in a pasture outside of Mussoorie, Uttarakhand, India.
Photograph of grazing cattle in a pasture near Mussoorie, India.
Photograph of cattle grazing in a pasture surrounded by evergreen trees near Mussoorie, India.

“The Shepherd” by William Blake [w/ Audio]

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How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
 From the morn to the evening he strays;
 He shall follow his sheep all the day,
 And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lamb's innocent call,
 And he hears the ewe's tender reply;
 He is watchful while they are in peace,
 For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

“The Pasture” by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]

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I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
  I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
 (And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
  I sha'n't be gone long.  -- You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
  That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
  It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
  I sha'n't be gone long. -- You come too.

Alpine Meadow [Haiku]

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cattle graze,
 in an alpine meadow,
  under giant pines.

Frenetic Idyll [Haiku]

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rushing water cuts
 through a bucolic scene;
  yet, it's still calming.

DAILY PHOTO: Bucolic Kyrgyzstan

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Taken in August of 2019 in Karakol Nature Park

Storied Lands [Sonnet / Idyll]

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In mountain meadows, bleating sheep abound,
and green grass grows as high as their hunger
allows -- about as high as cricket grounds,
but I am lost in fantastic wonder.

It seems to me this is a storied land,
not merely grazing space, but where dragons
once flew, and one might see giants, firsthand --
a place that's never known a plow 'r wagons. 

It's where magic must once have arisen,
if ever such a place had existed --
where sparkling streams still burble and glisten
whose secret is kept ever tightfisted.

If you stumble into this storied realm
don't let its siren sight overwhelm.

POEM: The Shepherd Dream [PoMo Day 23 – Eclogue]

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I lie on the sloping hillside;
damp grass tickles my neck.
I hear the bleating beasts kibitz
as dogs keep them in check.

My eyes closed to the azure dome,
until eyelids grow dim.
I open wide to see the sky,
and note that it grows grim.


It's time to consult my sheepdog,
"Should we beat it, or stay?"

He barks to me, "Now can't you see,
the clouds 're dirty wool gray?"

"I see it clearly as my hand,
but what does that shade mean?"

"It means you're not a shepherd, and
you may need the latrine."