#seagulls
Shoo seagulls, leave me alone,
I’m hungry and I’m heading home.
Just stopped in quickly for a bite,
I ain’t cooking when I get in tonight.
I ordered a salad, a burger, some fries,
Grabbed my bag with victory in eyes.
Made my way out, eager and done,
Dreaming of dinner, peace to come.
Got to the car, no reason to hide,
Opened the door, thought I’d already won as I got inside.
But hiding in plain sight, bold and bright,
Those air-born villains, little ****** took to flight.
They narrowed in and took their chance,
No warning given, no courting, no romance.
They swooped in hard without delay,
Stole my ****** chips away.
Shoo seagulls, what are you doing here?
******** on cars and spreading fear.
Aren’t you meant for the open sea,
Or beaches with your fish for free?
I’m seriously not impressed
You’ve turned my meal into a stress.
I spilled my salad, I spilt my drink,
You robbed my fries in half a blink.
What the hell’s a parking lot to you?
Is this revenge for what we do?
We took your fish, your ocean scraps
So now you strike with drive-thru traps.
Shoo seagulls… I just wanted fries.
Not feathered thieves with hungry eyes.
So maybe it’s not you I blame,
Just hands that played a greedy game.
i’m ****** off — truthfully
Not at the gulls, but humanity.
We drove them so far from their own sea…
And now you’re stealing fries from me!
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 8:06 PM UTC
There are still fewer people
than seagulls here.
Time is ticking, and our lives
are no longer just a dream.
I came here to find myself,
but instead, I feel lost.
Oh, waves, don’t call me yet
with your beautiful voice,
I'm still not ready to go.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 6:34 PM UTC
Shortly, the tram screams
in the bend of the beach road --
along with the gulls.
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 3:16 AM UTC
Ferry rocks on waves
Teddy bear reeks of *****
Seagull soars past me
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 4:23 AM UTC
I share a narrow window with the seagulls
I don't know if for them air is a magic fluid
for me it is a canvas waiting to be filled
the coal of time is burning our breath
away
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
The light is gloomy,
the gulls are squawking to me --
that rain is coming.
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 3:10 AM UTC
One advantage of living higher
than the flat roof next door,
is seeing how two infant chicks
grow and develop,
knowing that one day,
they'll look
and survive
just like their seagull mother.
What those lower down miss ...
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 9:06 AM UTC
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.
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 1:39 PM UTC
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.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 6:54 AM UTC
<•>
***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
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
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.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
I thought about Norfolk and Norfolk folk,
And Norfolk bricks and the Norfolk coast,
I thought of winds in a hollow dune and waveless seas
Where the heat washed a breeze -
Into a summer fret!
Where hawking gulls who balance by
point towards straight roads at sunrise
Where the hillocks fall down to
The summer's edge
In the wash of the Gibraltar flats
Reflected fractions of a perfect sky
Form blue pools in the heated sand
The stuff of dreams
That Norfolk
Land
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
in april my parents and i
went back to the
east coast, new england,
for a funeral.
my mother grew up there
and i was born there.
i hadn't seen the ocean in
11 years since we left.
i miss the waves
i miss the cool
sea breeze
the seagulls
the marinas
the houses on the water
the random shops
i miss everything
it's more of a home than
this house in the middle of
nowhere ever was.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
The ocean spray of salt
The everlasting sounds of waves
The sand, a locked vault
The tide, an unforgiving grave
The sun rises at the edge
The memories so celestial
I take my loyal pledge
My heart a sailing vessel
Sea shells, colorful in sound
Sea life, beautiful in sight
A dream I’ve finally found
The sunset, a hypnotizing light
The airborne seagulls calling me to sink
The surf alluring a magical peace
My endeavors start to shrink
The stars turn to be my timepiece
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Come to the sea
Hold my hand a while
Let the waves melt our feet
Into the sand
The seagulls land
On our shoulders
Calling out to the wind
The salt rust our bodies
How many years will it take
For our light
To burn out
For all sailors to see?
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
My head is a bay. The memory of you like the waves that swarm when the wind switches and the whistle of the ship is sounded. The longitude lines fall on a map, the navigation is helpless when I'm bowed in the presence of your eyes. That eyes which was made from the rainy season.
Your ships contain anxiety, vulnerable content, whereas love is a minor deviation from a cruise line. I am the dock for you. Anchored and wake the seagulls. For a long time no one leaned, or just reminded that the sea is not always blue.
Anchored and wake me up. Because your whisper is more patient than the air that hit the masts. Your presence is the reason why light is never lost at the top of the lighthouse.
Anchored and wake me up. Because the best morning is when my longing is covered with your eyelashes, my sleep is overgrown with black dots that hold your lip line, my vanish is ****** in a trough hidden behind your soul.
Wake me, with the most desolate shaking you have.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC