Tag Archives: #Gulls

Gulls: Jacks or Jills?

You can tell by the gills

of the gulls

whether they are Jacks

or Jills.

Unless gulls don’t have gills.

I have checked:

a gull has no gills,

they are not fish,

and, probably, never were.

The plumage is the thing

to catch the gender of the… gull.

But, even then, only an expert,

or a very experienced non-expert

can truly tell.

Well, who knew? Not I,

not you.

They used to be called Mews,

and went around in ones or twos –

that was long, long, long ago,

and they are now called that

by nobody

that I know.

But, if you hear a poet

saying that his muse has left him (or her)

it might (but shouldn’t) occur

to you

that he is talking about

his gull.

That scenario

I have to doubt.

A seagull?

I saw a gull above the sea,

but not a seagull he, or she;

they tell me there is no such thing,

they are all just gulls upon the wing

Three Gulls

Three gulls,

sea gulls,

stood on a wall;

each one hungry,

shrilly they call.


Observant, aware,

waiting opportunity

to grab a tasty morsel,

a chip or a tuna tea.


Some love them,

some hare them,

but highly I rate them the most,

the seaside patrollers,

of Cornwall’s fair coast.

If only… (blast from the past)

Any illustrious illustrators out there able to draw the safety headwear that I have created below? There will be a free cream tea in it for you.

My task is to create a device for the safe eating of pasties in Seagull-occupied areas.

If only I was an inventor…

And not a writer.

A hood
Might be good
With an area covered
Safe from attack
From the front
And the back.

With a space for the pastie to be held;
Like those masks
Of those people that weld;
But, with a little more space
For the pasty to face
One’s face.

Perhaps with a shelf inside
To rest the pasty
Between bites;
And maybe a light
For eating pasties at night.

What about a plastic Eagle
Perched upon the crown?
Seeing one of those might
Cause the seagull to think twice
About swooping down.

A Golden Eagle
With flapping wings
That you could operate
With carefully positioned strings.
And mirrors like you get on a Mod’s Lambretta
To allow for approaching seabird vigilance.

Thinking along these lines
Makes me feel better
That the ‘gulls can be deterred;
They won’t beat my Super-Gull-Proof Helmet;
They’re not that clever a bird…
Are they?

One hundred colourful seagulls

One hundred colourful seagulls

stormed the Devon coast,

not after your chips,

your ice-creams,

your early morning toast;

no, just after your interest,

your looks, and kindly words,

for, after all, they are so like

the loveliest of birds.




NB ‘Wonky Words’ which features more like this is available now at all good Amazons (other Rivers and Rainforests are available).

Fields full of seagulls

Fields full of seagulls;

and, when I say full,

I do not mean full;

but, there were quite a few;

and we are nowhere near the sea,

Between you and me,

I think that the seagulls have kidnapped the cowls,

or are their stunt doubles,

when time allows,

Or they are just standing in

whilst the cows go down the pub,

metaphorically speaking – rub-a-dub-dub.

The seagulls are in the field, of my vision,

and I can take nothing for granted.

Six seagulls in Morrisons car park

Six seagulls in Morrisons car park!

That’s six in number,

and not sexy gulls!


they were patiently waiting

for a bite to eat,

pacing nonchalantly

on their twelve gull feet;

calling to each other with the latest news;

and hoping for a morsel

to light the fuse.

Never share your lunch with a seagull,

Never share your lunch with a seagull

never even offer him a bite;

never share your lunch with a seagull,

because you know he just might…


take more than his fair share,

he might just take the lot;

and when you look at what he’s left you

you might not have a jot.

Offering: a Conversation

So, what’s that then?

It’s an offering to the gods.

What that?


The knob end of your pasty?

Sorry, I meant it’s an offering to the gulls.

Oh, now that makes a bit more sense.


SFX Echoing Gull squawk

The silent seagulls soaring skywards

“ ‘The silent seagulls soaring skywards—‘ “

“Ooh! sounds like a poem!”

“Could be.”

“What’s the next bit?”

“The next ‘bit’ is,

‘aloft, upon the breeze, breathless blown—‘ “

“No, it’s a bit too frilly for my liking. Can’t you make it into a Limerick? That would be better.”

“I could, but it would lose any noble quality that it has.”

“That’s as maybe, but it’ll be a lot funnier.”

“Oh, dear. ‘There was a young seagull from Looe,

Who got caught in a ‘How-do-you-do?’,

It welcomed all sorts,

to one of Cornwall’s fishing ports,

and only stopped when the season was through.’ “

“Needs work.”

“Thank you Mr. Poetry Critic.”

“You’re whelks!”

“I suppose I am.”