Why do they call me Jonathan,
when my name is Syd;
is it because of that book they read
when they were but a kid?
.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
by Richard Bach it was;
and how do I, a gull, know this?
Well, you may ask,
and I should not tell,
but, suffice it to say,
I’ve read that book as well.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Gull, #JonathanLivingstonSeagull, #LooeGulls, #poetry. #poem, #Seagull, Cornwall
I drew a picture
of a gull,
it had flown from within my mind,
and not from Hull
(or another place
that does not rhyme)
and there it was
upon the page,
looking sad;
because,
after an age
of standing there,
it hadn’t flown off anywhere.
The seagull flew
across the sky,
and spied a Rainbow
passing by;
the seagull asked
‘Where do you go,
when the Sun and rain are through?’
The Rainbow replied,
‘When they have gone,
when the rain has fallen,
and the Sun has shone,
I follow after,
in their wake,
until another bow
I should take.’
.
The seagull flew,
the Rainbow faded,
life carried on,
though now slightly jaded.
I’m here,
and this is where you’ll find me;
and I know you just have to remind me
that this is not the beach,
and that the seaside is out of reach;
but, to tell you the truth,
ever since I was a youth
I have been a seeker seeking follies;
and, here, I can chase the trolleys.
I’ll always remember the day:
it was a Saturday,
the day
that a jackdaw
pinched my pasty.
“A jackdaw?” you ask,
“Was it up to the task?
It’s normally a gull
that, perceiving a lack,
will snaffle your snack!”
“‘Twas not a gull,
from Looe or from Hull,
that pinched my pasty,
it was a jackdaw,
of that I am sure.
Black and shiny,
sleek and smart,
was the fearless jackdaw
who practiced his art
to take possession of my lunch,
a wholesome pasty,
on which ‘it’ did munch.”
That day has now been circled
on the calendar of my strife,
as a day I’ll remember
for the rest of my life.
The seagull and the jackdaw
took flight one day,
as only a seagull and a jackdaw may;
following the currents
that flow in the air,
lifting their wings
to where all eagles dare;
carousing and calling
in utter delight;
‘til they called it a day
at the coming of the night.
Golden, and yet white;
the Icelandic Gull
shines so bright.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Gold, #Gull, #Icelandic, #Language, #NonHaiku, #poetry. #poem
I looked out upon the world,
and the world looked back at me;
I saw a seagull flying by
heading for the sea;
I called out ‘Gull, where be you to?”
he looked a while at me
and answered “I be off to Looe,
it’s time now for my tea.”
And I was happy at that.
Gull.
From wingtip to wingtip,
from beak to tail feathers,
from back to claw;
the gull is complete,
and ready to fly
into the yonder blue sky.
The seagull flies,
and, having flown,
espies a chip, a pasty, scone;
whereupon, said gull calculates the angles
required for a heist,
and gains a Vegan Moroccan pasty,
very tasty, yet quite spiced.
.
The gull had never heard
of Montezuma’s Revenge –
until now.
And gull pledged to gain his own revenge upon
the silly people whilst the Sun it shone.
.
So, flying high, it chose its victim
aimed, and released, splattering poor Tim
from Sunderland,
who wore his badge of pride
with warmth inside,
and white-splotched coat
that in the Sun it dried,
forming a new pattern for e’er to be,
of his being a target
at Looe-on-Sea.
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Graeme Sandford 