a poem
"Seagulls"
The seagulls sail the seas of the sky
or else float above heavenly, trash bin banks
Sketched neath the clouds on clear blue canvas
following the trails
of man’s filth
thrown from sails
and from decks and from masts,
then float to the bottom
of the deep dark oceans,
to rot with the rest that is there.
The seagulls that screech o’er head
are reflected in ripples
which keep coming and going in waves.
My mind also flitters
happily hollow
blown back and forth
over seas.
Emptily ashen
the grave sides are lonesome
yet the birds here,
they do not mind
they peck and they perch
on the limbs of dead trees
and then they fly back home
to the sea.
The seagulls sail the seas of the sky
or else float above heavenly, trash bin banks
Sketched neath the clouds on clear blue canvas
following the trails
of man’s filth
thrown from sails
and from decks and from masts,
then float to the bottom
of the deep dark oceans,
to rot with the rest that is there.
The seagulls that screech o’er head
are reflected in ripples
which keep coming and going in waves.
My mind also flitters
happily hollow
blown back and forth
over seas.
Emptily ashen
the grave sides are lonesome
yet the birds here,
they do not mind
they peck and they perch
on the limbs of dead trees
and then they fly back home
to the sea.