Gulls Poems | Examples

Gulls Daub Dawn with Dabs of White

Dark green hills hugged up tight to black sea night,
Can see break-o-day light
Hear white gulls soaring into flight
Daub the dawn with dabs of white

FOR THE GIRL WHO NEVER KNEW

I placed all of which I am in your hands
Dreaming of the gulls in Long Beach
Your letter had the allure
Of perfume and whiskey
Salty kisses at midnight
I wrote words for you
Carried aloft by
Sparrows under moonlight
your reply was whispered
With passion's hungry tongue
And I was taken by you
Forever

The Pond Gulls

The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.

Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.

Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,

while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.

Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.

Cities of Gulls

The cities churn like a flock of seagulls
where fear comes from a broken unchained door
the masks of hunger hide in shadowed walls
fighting for scraps tossed on a filthy floor
buildings stand to decay where streets collide
garbage lay in piles, a strong smelly blight
change means nothing where the dying abide
to disturb the hate of a city's plight
children play where window glass is shattered
and the homeless sleep on cold darkened streets
where impoverished women's clothes are tattered
find their lives empty praying death defeats
Far from the rubble and graffiti walls
Greedy men of sworn oath toss scraps to gulls

Storms

The shrewd gulls fretted and flew,
veered inland to avoid the storm.
Some strutted over spiky rocks,
others flew low over the sea,
occasionally swooping into the cold
rough sea below, foraging
for tasty salty fish.
But when the storm was over,
they just flew up and ventured
to blustery pastures new.

Jagged

The ancient jagged rocks stand, like black sentinels along the waterside,
Protecting the land from the continuous raging tide.

They are perpetually black, either slicked with water or as a sharp silhouette against a blue crystal sky.
They dominate everything and are especially feared by every mariner that make their slow way by.

On their landward faces they offer protection from the wind,
And creatures shelter there, in a place where peace is so hard to find.

The tops are sharpened points, that seem to reach right up to the clouds,
The only sounds are the wind, the sea and the gulls screeching out loud.

These sounds are never ending they go on for eternity,
The sentinels just ignore it all and stand there protecting everything from the everlasting sea.

The Gulls Maw

A raw red crater of hunger;
the clacking tongue a buckram spear
shaken at all comers.

The gulls mouth is the gull,
the gullet is the gull
the torso, the snowy pale blue plumage,
that dark under-feathering
all the body of the bird
a perfect bow
for the arrowing beak
and its raucous bugle.

A neck stretched for greed;
above that gorge, hard-set and avaricious,
glint eyes long allied to savage seas.

The bird has the primal scream
of a scavenger,
the gall of the harassing hunter

- and yet is admirable,
sleekly beautiful, often graceful,

until,
rigid jaws agape
we regard its wide-open craw,
wince
as those shears clamp down
on some still wriggling shred.

On Seeing Gulls At Dusk

Out to the horizon I see
the yellow-orange of the sun
dripping such beauty with its glow.

Seagulls are soaring. They are free.
How I wish that I could be one,
flying high in the breeze’s flow.

If I were feathery and wee,
I could whirl, having so much fun
overhead moving to and fro.

I would swirl high above the scree,
squawking with glee till day was done.
Then long shadows would start to grow.

On water I’d then gently rock
while napping with my happy flock!

The Sea Gulls Came Home Potd

The horizon was brewing ominous clouds,
Dark as if they came out of hell.
The once azure sky became hazy
As the north wind chilly breezes
Puffed up more stratocumulus,
Rain-heavy clouds signified storms.

I rested against the balustrade
Of the promenade, looking down at the sea.
Waves upon waves dashed at the dark crags.
Seaspray washed my tired face.
Above the seagulls came to enjoy
The thunderstorm that would soon erupt
Above the small bay, now emptied of boats.

The seagulls were indeed a sight to see.
Only a hundred or so circled the inlet.
They plunged into the sea for food
Irrespective of where the chilly wind blew.
They were an elegant sight to see.

As the first drops of rain fell, I betook myself home.
My wife was waiting anxiously for me
Afraid I’ll get wet.  “Watching the birds?”
Clearly, she was not very much amused.

She turned her back on me, as thunder boomed
And lightning flashed but I went with the wind,
And clasped her round her winsome waist.  
She did not resist, and neither did I.

Gulls Ride Upon the High Sea's Tongue

What crashes into them
is the oceans voice beheaded.

Seabirds skim upon verge and crest,
a green swell of rise and fall.

Open mouths trawl the air
then plunge into a rising wave
to scoop a thrashing fin
that dangles now
between life and death.
Gullets gulp down then wide wings
swim on.

Indoor cats stare out of windows
as the heckling hunters tumble and dive
for shadows of silver iridescence.

Those engaged upon the land
hear the piratical calls of ocean winds,
the harsh and throaty feasting
above the seas rolling tongue.

A fishing village witnesses
this wild dance of catch and hide,
overhears that high cry above
the restless surf and spray;
and when the fishing boats return
they haul the harvest in.

Here under a shale roofed salty cottage
a portly house cat abides beside a tin dish
for its daily dine of scaly fish.
© 4 hours ago

The Pond Gulls

The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.

Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.

Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
  the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.

Again To the Sea

I went down to watch the ocean this morning - well, Long Island Sound anyway. My last chance for a while, classes start tomorrow. I wonder sometimes how I can be refreshed by that gray, drizzly, melancholy harbor - locked in winter’s intemperate grip - but I am.

The salty air seems thicker and richer, the sky bigger and wilder. There’s the relaxing sound mix of wave and gull. The ugly brown pelicans arguing like old, married couples, as a lone fisherman, in his yellow macintosh slicker, sorts his boat lines under the watchful, hopeful, hungry eyes of floating black-backed gulls.

Maybe I should become a sailor? Besides, I hear it’s a great way to meet guys.

Westering Sun

Temptation is in the sunset
To gaze behind the stern
Toward a distant landfall
To which I may ne’er return.

I will point my bow to westward,
Where yonder sets the sun,
Following true my guide star
Until the sailing is done.

I will never sing of lost loves
And things that might have been.
I will run before the wind
Unless I return again.          

Leave, furled in full sail glorious,
Damn what is in the wake!
Do not let the shore-bound gulls
Let me feel it's a mistake.

Doves and Sea Gulls

I never learned to dance, with humans or wolves;
But my cousin Jammie Ray could dance the night away.
And I would never for once consider 'running with the bulls'.
At my uncle's funeral, I did enjoy 'the releasing of the doves'.
And I really do miss walks alone the Pacific, watching sea gulls.

080321PSCtest, A Brain Strand 4 or 5 line, Brian Strand

Counting Gulls

gulls tuck in 
fledglings dream
                       of tomorrow at sea
         emerald sun - 
weeps




20th March 2021


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