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Anne Aug 3
Oh flightless seabird,
I think you are lovely.
Mouth unfed,
feathers untethered.
Sitting pretty on the creek,
friends and families tasting the blue.
No wind under your feet,
not yet.

They think fondly of you,
seabird.
That’s a choice they’re allowed to make.
The higher they fly, the further away you become.
The weakest love you,
pity turns to self love.
At least they can fly,
at least they’re not alone.

You know better,
my seabird.
I saw you,
and so I knew you.
Easy.
It is you and you alone who grins at lilac kisses,
melts the silver sparks.
Sour grass midnight and
rusted dawns alike agree that you see,
therefore you are.

Flightless seabird,
We’re looking back with glass eyes.
You are here,
and you are loved.

You are not alone.
Jennifer Mar 27
concrete castles, brick battlements,
chimneys billowing black smoke.
sky, leaden and forever dull;
this is the city of the guls.

perched upon red brick walls
and slated rooftops
they unleash their cries of battle
and dive, strafing as they fly;

gutting wheelie-bins, squabbling
over human trash and muck.
this is treasure to the guls,
their feathers diseased and their

necks sporting plastic trophies.
they ****** from grubby human hands
and swallow all they can;
their gullets hold no guilt or shame

for the human filth called 'man.'
the guls know their city: every cranny
and every nook. they have always ruled
from their royal perches:

ruthless, ***** and proud. they look
upon human men with beady eyes
as they leave humble offerings,
and they cackle

chorusing with their high-pitched
squawks. for humans are
mere pests
among those mighty guls.
haven't written in a while! go easy on me ;) thank u to Jolyon for supporting my poetry n for helping me with this one <3
Where Shelter Sep 2017
<•>



for all the Ella's of the world,
who wonder
"what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun."


<•>


one day when you arrive,
visiting, at my isle,
of Where Shelter,
(with signed parental permission slip),
resting upon weathered worn, Adirondack non-slip covered thrones,
in the official Poetry Nook,
a seashell throw from bay and dock, where the seagulls
thrive and dive, in between pooping, pollinating, and
rest up after day trip visiting the town dump

then,
together we will write a poem about
what the seagulls talk about all day long

having employed them long time as co-conspirators,
editors and a test audience (assayers of my essays),
sadly must report they
occupy themselves in mostly matters culinary,
local gossip of my neighbors and other avian interlopers
(geese and osprey)

hoping this doesn't disappoint,
but know this,
it was the sand, the breeze, the trees,
the moon and setting sun, the waving waters,
animals of all kinds,
that together, taking years,
taught me to write like this:

<•>

the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its morning glory reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

recall that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
but!
its childlike insistence,
while stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world, insistent,

"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow tonight will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure conception

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now,
suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to la vie en rose,
our wine glasses, ****** the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling, tippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice

to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting,
dying rays of setting,
answering the question, at long last,
a finale,

here,
here is shelter!
  ^

<•>

so be quietly patient and never
write in regret,
for you are but sixteen years old,
and could teach to this old grandpa,
(who, by the by, has an Ella-all-his-own that is
of your proximate age,)

how to write
with the simple grace,
and the fresh wisdom,
of being
sixteen years young again
^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2044967/the-solstice-of-their-perfection/
<•>

https://hellopoetry.com/ellapopov/

f r e e l y.
all alone on the evening beach. able to take in the moment alone.
slowly falling back into the sand. as if I'm trying to sink and hide into it. grabbing the sand in my hands and counting each grain because I have all the time in the world.
  letting the ocean crash unto the shore, slipping me it's deepest secret. making me laugh as the Novembers chilling air plays with my hair, trying to convince me it's secrets are much more scandalous than the waters.
  wondering what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun.
  I stand back to run freely, away from my daring problems. as I run, the wind whips my face, blowing my hair back. making me feel the need to let my arms back.
Tommy Randell Jun 2019
There's a Gull on my roof
I live a long way from the sea
So the Gull's probably a metaphor
For something that's wrong with me

It's hard to tell these days
Everybody claims perfect knowledge
The whole world has Google
And can look up the symbolic

My pal wants to shoot him
The errant Gull
But he's just an idiot
And attacks problems with impulse

I want to watch and see what he does
I do that with metaphors
The Gull might have reasons
Maybes and Whyfors

And he's not hurting anyone
Up there on my roof
He might be a theorem
Looking for a proof

I appreciate I am giving this Gull
A whole lot of things to be
And maybe he just wants
To be away from the sea

You know like the Devil
In that Netflix series
He just wants a break
From where his real life is

Perhaps my roof
Is where life is greener
Where he can be free
To be a day dream believer

Nah the Monkee reference
Is just a distraction
He's a Gull looking for another Gull
Metaphors are just poetry in action!

But the Gull is still on my roof
Fast becoming a cliche
I can no longer deny he's there
When I thought my troubles seemed so far away
Chicken Mar 2019
Theresa's gone too lizard brain
It has grown big,
and juicy, and fat

Seagulls a'floating, eyeing it up
ready to eat it, and
turn it into crap.
Don't forget your hat girl :D

Just for fun.
Chicken Mar 2019
Look up, out, and down
at the seagulls
cascading in the wind

blow out a wave
of ego death

as they scrummage through the bins.

and the voices who
want to be heard
will not be silenced
no matter what type of violence
is brought to the game

the truth in it all
can always be heard

when the call of the
seagull sounds again.

Look up, out, and down
at the seagulls
cascading in the wind

no fear of falling from the sky
not too glamorous for bins.
Repetitive bin song.

Slightly political. Slightly spiritual/.

Different views are all around.

Seagull: bird of truth :) Seagulls will call you out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-79gD1gMco
Chicken Mar 2019
I can hear you calling
At 3am across the sky

Is this supposed to be romantic?
Cause I’m thinkin’ I might just die.
It’s a little love song from the earth, sunrise, birds singing, early morning, but three fucken’ a.m?

Isn’t it supposed to be around four ish things are stirrin’?
Austin Bauer Dec 2018
My thoughts of you
are like hundreds of seagulls
on two sides of a bridge,
some perched on small
islands of ice, others
floating on frigid water.

Or maybe they are
like roses in the wintertime -
budding but not blooming,
waiting for some warmth,
or like the once fragrant petals
now fallen to the ground.
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