Wings
Pearl-gray is the sky,
And high within it, sailing by,
Three sea-gulls fly.
Pearl-white are they
Against the sky's obscurer gray—
Sea-foam astray.
Gulls, sea-gulls white,
Drift of the day, drift of the night,
Mine be your flight!
Out—out, with you
Beyond the noise, into the blue!
Ah—if I knew!
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Old Magic
Gray is the sea, and the skies are gray;
They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday;
And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream
Like tortured souls in an evil dream.
There is white on the wings of the sea and sky,
And white are the gulls' wings wheeling by,
And white, like snow, is the pall that lies
Where love weeps over his memories.
For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought
Of good unfound and of wrong unsought;
Yet from God's good magic there ever springs
The resurrection of holy things.
See--the gold and blue of our yesterday
In the eyes and the hair of a child at play;
And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled
Is woven anew in the laugh of the child.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Fisher's Widow
The boats go out and the boats come in
Under the wintry sky;
And the rain and foam are white in the wind,
And the white gulls cry.
She sees the sea when the wind is wild
Swept by a windy rain;
And her heart's a-weary of sea and land
As the long days wane.
She sees the torn sails fly in the foam,
Broad on the sky-line gray;
And the boats go out and the boats come in,
But there's one away.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Tides
Love in my heart was a fresh tide flowing
Where the starlike sea gulls soar;
The sun was keen and the foam was blowing
High on the rocky shore.
But now in the dusk the tide is turning,
Lower the sea gulls soar,
And the waves that rose in resistless yearning
Are broken forevermore.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Shades Of Grey
If you start here late no one will know what you did
No the streets are straight its the soul thats crooked
Ive been treated fine Ive been treated elegantly
But Im not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is east west is west
And bowery is screaming while delancey rests
Well Im south of the skating but Im north of the cash
I could sure use the money but Im ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last nights rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
Theres at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all to prove I was there
And I love the curses but Im not one for the trenches
And I do love the walking but thank God for the benches
Its hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second had is working but the minute hand is broke again
I know time will pass but I dont know when
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here but where I cant tell
Theres dreams here a plenty but theyre being withheld
And Im more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock thats broken
The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures
And trash is art and cash is culture
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Birds
The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting
on the headland,
Hovering and darting, their heads northwestward,
Prick like silver arrows shot through a curtain the noise of the
ocean
Trampling its granite; their red backs gleam
Under my window around the stone corners; nothing gracefuller,
nothing
Nimbler in the wind. Westward the wave-gleaners,
The old gray sea-going gulls are gathered together, the northwest
wind wakening
Their wings to the wild spirals of the wind-dance.
Fresh as the air, salt as the foam, play birds in the bright wind,
fly falcons
Forgetting the oak and the pinewood, come gulls
From the Carmel sands and the sands at the river-mouth, from
Lobos and out of the limitless
Power of the mass of the sea, for a poem
Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters,
musically clamorous
Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong, and ungainly
Gray hungers fledged with desire of transgression, salt slimed
beaks, from the sharp
Rock-shores of the world and the secret waters.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Seagulls
crying out
the gulls
melancholy cry
seeking a dream?
souls locked in flight
chasing a dream?
crying out
these gulls
a medium
for this living soul
my dream
loud as the sea
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Shades Of Gray
If you start here late, no one will know what you did
No, the streets are straight, it's the soul that's crooked
I've been treated fine,
I've been treated elegantly
But I'm not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is East,
West is West
And The Bowery is screaming while Delancey rests
Well, I'm south of the skating, but
I'm north of the cash
I could sure use the money but
I'm ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last night's rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
There are no shades of gray in between
There's at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all, to prove I was there
And I love the curses, but I'm not one for the trenches
Yes I do love the walking , but that God for the benches
It's hard to tell where green begins, and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second hand is working, but the minute hand broke again
I know time will pass, but I don't know when
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here, but where I can't tell
There's dreams here a plenty, but they're being witheld
And I'm more impressed with the closed doors
Than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock that's broken
The pigeons are ravens, and the gulls are vultures
And trash
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gull In An Aery Morrice
Gulls in an aery morrice
Gleam and vanish and gleam . . .
The full sea, sleepily basking,
Dreams under skies of dream.
Gulls in an aery morrice
Circle and swoop and close . . .
Fuller and ever fuller
The rose of the morning blows.
Gulls, in an aery morrice
Frolicking, float and fade . . .
O, the way of a bird in the sunshine,
The way of a man with a maid!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Another Near To Perfect Day
In the sky the sun brightly shining the blue sky with some clouds of gray
On an afternoon in late October another near to perfect day
The white surf waves are gently rolling one reason no surfer in sight
And the silver gulls on the white beach search for food in the warm sunlight
An artist may well sketch such beauty and writers about it may write
By the coastal town on the surf beach there is beauty in peace and quiet
Today the ocean is not roaring no big waves for surfers to ride
The waves on the beach gently lapping so timid the sea at low tide
In the park the magpie larks calling the only notes they sing pee wee
And wattlebirds on the flowering coastal banksias their harsh calls familiar to me
On a beautiful day in the Springtime of around 24 degrees
And there is a cool sort of freshness in the cool freshening coastal breeze
Save for the silver gulls the beach is deserted and so clean is the fresh coastal air
A good memory to keep and to cherish and a good memory with others to share.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Drift Glow
Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of bright sky heaven fresh
Mighty in its blue
Into going and renew
Drift glow
White as snow
I hear the birds singing
Outside - in a tree
Wonderful tones bringing
Up and down the scale free
Love songs for their nest
And hope to come and see
When with young it's blessed
And cared for compassionately
Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of space and clear enmesh
Something to come here through
When tomorrow is up to do
Drift glow
White as snow
In with its many days singing
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Drift Glow (from, MySpace)
Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of bright sky heaven fresh
Mighty in its blue
Into going and renew
Drift glow
White as snow
I hear the birds singing
Outside - in a tree
Wonderful tones bringing
Up and down the scale free
Love songs for their nest
And hope to come and see
When with young it's blessed
And cared for compassionately
Drift glow
Drift glow
As white as snow
Into the openness
Of space and clear enmesh
Something to come here through
When tomorrow is up to do
Drift glow
White as snow
In with its many days singing
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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The White Waves At Port Fairy
The white waves at Port Fairy they make a loud din
As on to the long beach the tide does roll in
And the dainty looking silver gulls mew as they fly
As the sun disappears in the gray evening sky
Thousands of centuries before the first Humans came to this great Land
The tide at Port Fairy rolled up the gray sand
Long before the first dinosaurs from their eggs pecked their way free
The huge white waves rolled in the Southern Sea
Though to the Port Fairy locals mine is a strange face
I do feel at home in this beautiful place
The artists have sketched it, the writers of it write
Their stories and poems for to read and recite
A special place to many and a special place to me
Port Fairy where the land does meet with the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Child on the Cliffs
Mother, the root of this little yellow flower
Among the stones has the taste of quinine.
Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun shines so bright,
And the grasshopper works at his sewing machine
So hard. Here's one on my hand, mother, look;
I lie so still. There's one on your book.
But I have something to tell more strange. So leave
Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear, -
Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place -
And listen now. Can you hear what I hear
Far out? Now and then the foam there curls
And stretches a white arm out like a girl's.
Fishes and gulls ring no bells. There cannot be
A chapel or church between here and Devon,
With fishes or gulls ringing its bell, - hark! -
Somewhere under the sea or up in heaven.
'It's the bell, my son, out in the bay
On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day.'
Sweeter I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales.
I should like to be lying under that foam,
Dead, but able to hear the sound of the bell,
And certain that you would often come
And rest, listening happily.
I should be happy if that could be.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Subway Wind
Far down, down through the city's great, gaunt gut,
The gray train rushing bears the weary wind;
In the packed cars the fans the crowd's breath cut,
Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.
And pale-cheeked children seek the upper door
To give their summer jackets to the breeze;
Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roar
Of captive wind that moans for fields and seas;
Seas cooling warm where native schooners drift
Through sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep,
Waiting for windy waves the keels to lift
Lightly among the islands of the deep;
Islands of lofty palm trees blooming white
That lend their perfume to the tropic sea,
Where fields lie idle in the dew drenched night,
And the Trades float above them fresh and free.
poem by Claude McKay
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The Gulls
I
Soft is the sky in the mist-kirtled east,
Light is abroad on the sea,
All of the heaven with silver is fleeced,
Holding the sunrise in fee.
Lo! with a flash and uplifting of wings
Down where the long ripples break,
Cometh a bevy of glad-hearted things,
'Tis morn, for the gulls are awake.
II
Slumberous calm on the ocean and shore
Comes with the turn of the tide;
Never a strong-sweeping pinion may soar,
Where the tame fishing-boats ride!
Far and beyond in blue deserts of sea
Where the wild winds are at play,
There may the spirits of sea-birds be free
'Tis noon, for the gulls are away.
III
Over the rim of the sunset is blown
Sea-dusk of purple and gold,
Speed now the wanderers back to their own,
Wings the most tireless must fold.
Homeward together at twilight they flock,
Sated with joys of the deep
Drowsily huddled on headland and rock
'Tis night, for the gulls are asleep.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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In My Wild Flights Of Fancy The Ocean I Can See
The blueness of the saltwater the white waves rolling free
In my wild flights of fancy the ocean i can see
The silver gulls and black backed gulls above the white beach cry
And the sun is shining brightly in the clear and sunny sky,
The children in the shallows they laugh and splash and run
In the coolness of sea water their way of having fun
On a pleasant day in Summer of 25 degrees
And there is a soothing freshness in the freshening ocean breeze,
The distinctive smell of the seaweed washed in by the last tide
A refuge from beach predators for tiny sea things to breed in and hide
Coastal people love the ocean and near the ocean they choose to stay
And in the coastal cemeteries their last remains do lay
The rumble of the ocean the white waves running free
And in my flights of fancy the sea is calling me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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There Isn't Any Doggerel There
There isn't any doggerel there this morning
The inspiration well in me is dry
I hear the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk
And silver gulls along the foreshore cry.
And on the silky oaks house sparrows chirping
For house sparrows don't have a song to sing
And magpie lark the black and white bird whistling
His pee wee notes have a familiar ring.
And through it all the noise of passing traffic
And gas and smog pollute suburban skies
And Humankind I feel is the big loser
Where voice of Nature compete with man created noise.
Of any inspiration i feel empty
I feel burnt out from scribbling doggerel
The poets are gone to join the poets of heaven
And i am bound for the poetasters hell.
On silky oak the plain house sparrows chirping
And magpie lark is whistling pee wee
And man created noise compete with Nature
And silver gulls are calling by the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Colour of Warmth
You cannot spin the suns rays
For they are golden light
Clothing earth with warmth
Encompassing, coloured green
A rainbow of colour so bright
Growing the flowers, the smell
Seeing the sweet taste
Tasting the colours on your fingers
Bright as a bird in flight
White as a gulls feathered wings
Blue as the flooding tides
Gray as the ebbing, yellow as the sand
You cannot spin the suns rays
For they are golden light
Clothing the earth with warmth
A rainbow colour of sight.
poem by Andrew Shiston
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I Stand Alone
A falcon hovers at the edge of the sky.
Two gulls drift slowly up the river.
Vulnerable while they ride the wind,
they coast and glide with ease.
Dew is heavy on the grass below,
the spider’s web is ready.
Heaven’s ways include the human:
among a thousand sorrows, I stand alone.
For me, the summer will be pure gray - mother-of-pearl gray, very pale gray. To me, this is the big statement for summer. Then we have light blue, light turquoise, lots of pink.
quote by Gianni Versace
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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