The salty breeze
Such a nostalgic smell
As we comb the beach
Looking for shells

As the gulls overhead
Squawk and they cry
We lie in the sun
Not a cloud in the sky

All these unique rocks
As far as can see
And each of them has
Their own story

My hair always tussled
By the breeze
I walk and I smile
And I look out to sea

I can hear gulls squawking
like catcallers in the streets
of New York City
but they're not talking to me,
they're speaking to the ocean breeze.
They'll be heading south soon.
Fall is coming
and you can taste it
even in the August heat.

I still have memories
of childhood summers
that lasted longer than some years
recently.
Can't help but think of the days
I wasted worried about
who I would be
and now I'm someone
sitting beneath a girthy oak tree
wearing a collared button up
that hangs on me a little too loosely.

I don't know what that means
but it may mean something
to somebody else
who writes love letters to life,
that might just double
as quiet cries for help
in a world so high on noise
it's forgotten poetry.

It was so hot yesterday
My armhair sweat,
My eyes were looking
Through a plastic bag,
My teeth were saturated.

I found the wind
Beneath the Bluewater Bridges
At the headwaters of the St. Clair.
Here I can relax my skin,
Watch the gulls maneuver,
Like your kite, Aine,
Against and with the blusters,
Gaining dive speed to vault the trestles.

The sun is burning my bones,
My blood rushes at four knots
With Huron's mouth.
I straddle the Shadow
To follow the birds,
Thinking of winter
I release a high-pitched laughing scream
That's carried back to the bridges
With my flapping shirt tails
Providing drag.

I once arose before the dawn
To seek a reason to go on
I kissed the rising sun just for fun
And set out on my merry way

It might have been a Tuesday now
I saw the grazing Holstein cow
A ship that had run aground it's bow
But no reason for this beautiful day

I walked along the concrete streets
I talked to strangers in bare feet
I queried everyone I'd meet
But no one could give me the OK

I swam across the snake filled river
I took bee's honey with a dibber
It made my stomach ache and quiver
So I lay down on the sands by the Bay

A horseshoe crab came racing by
He had no time for my questions why
Then I spied the hermit crab go sly
As he withdrew deep into his shell

Then the porpoise jumped and laughed
When I was quick to ask
They flashed off and left me daft
To the questions that I quelled

A sea turtle stroked on through
Eating up the jellyfish they do
But his conceit just left me blue
When he told me to go to Hell

I raised up my eyes to the air
Seagulls were flying everywhere
But they left white in my hair
That's when the hammer hit the nail

I then knew the secret to life
There would no longer be all that strife
Confusion was cut in two like a knife
I drew my gun and the seagulls fell

So the answer is ,
Don't let anyone **** on you

I
Put my
Coin into the

Slot
And watch the
Plastic horses
Galloping away.

Now my ears sing
And I lead straight lines to circles,
Into symbols for the eye inside the glass ball,
Its blinking is its calling.
I carry it,
Cables dripping from my sleeves
Stumbling out of
And from
The oceans favour,
Back to my own arms.

Feeding back the seagulls to the breeze.

The thunder feeds my compass
To a sun lost in a forest.

Thrown into boxes with carpeted walls;

I find myself playing

Heavy metal.

Sometimes I think poets are full of ****
Because so many of them use beautiful words,
When talking about birds.

I mean I only notice birds:
When they wake me up at nine am on Saturdays
Or **** on my dark colored car
Or mock my bored-eyed cat
Or beg for my sandwich at the beach

Honestly when you talk about listening to birds tweeting,
I think first of Twitter.

And when you talk about birds playing,
I think of professional football.

And even when you talk about the cool birds, the night birds,

I think of a particularly disturbing YouTube video of an owl's head going all the way around.

Yeah, I think what you guys like most about birds,
Is that they're easy to rhyme with words.

I’m back again
On the early train
And the clocks have gone back
So, it’s light in the morning

I can faintly smell
The salt of the low tide

A flock of seagulls
Races alongside my train

A man with a high visibility jacket, purple hat and a coffee
Gets on
I wonder what his day will be like

It is Monday
The beginning of a week
That will be like no other

dipping, soaring. swerving
with sounds of their symphony
which they could only know
I hear, I listen
I see, I believe
with so few words to say
I wish I could say more

Sara L Russell, 19/12/14 00:58am*


White gulls fly against darkness of winter trees
swirling in a reeling easterly;
bare branches stand in earthbound traceries
behind the birds that dance weightless and free.


There is a rhythm in this circling flight.
a lazy, slightly tipsy minuet;
a majesty in gliding wings of white,
a sign that better times are coming yet.


The dew has barely faded on the green,
two fountains bend before the icy breeze,
as seagulls, with a grace I've rarely seen
swirl heavenward, like flights of fantasies.