Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Kristine O'Connell George - Seagull Comments


Yesterday was—

                                        flap— flap— flap like crazy.

Headwinds from here to there,
Headwinds everywhere.

Yet, today—

                                         glide— soar— glide lazy.

Tailwinds and thermals from there to here —
all I have to do is steer.

 ©Kristine O'Connell George. All rights reserved. 

Isn't it amazing how Kristine O'Connell George makes you feel a seagull's point of view? Like... I totally believe this is what a seagull would think and say. (And... here's a prompt: write a point of view poem. Maybe it's an animal's point of view... or choose any item, really, or anything that isn't you.)

If you've read any of Kristine O'Connell George's books, of course, you wouldn't be surprised at the skill and fun of the poem here. if you haven't read them... well, no time like the present to be lost in the worlds she creates, I tell ya. (And honestly, every seagull I know thinks you should, too.)


Tabatha said...

Love this! Thank goodness every day isn't a headwind day.

KarolinaS said...

Prompt challenge accepted:

An Evening Stroll
by the possum who darted out in front of my car that one time

I think I can make it...

But seriously, I'll try my hand at a more serious POV poem soon!

Kristine said...

Thanks, Greg! This is such a terrific project and I look forward to reading the poems per your prompt! ...
And ...once the beaches reopen, let’s meet and practice our seagulling ...

Janice Scully said...

All the outdoor noise we are used to makes the normal sounds of nature seem extraordinary, and they are to me now, also. Good to read your poem, Kathi. It's a perfect for this moment.

Heidi Mordhorst said...

Greg! How is it possible that I missed learning that you have revived 30 Poets/30 Days?! This is very exciting indeed! Now I have to go back to the very beginning!

KarolinaS said...

OK - my more serious attempt:

Where did they go?

The one with the messy blond curls and the light-up shoes who loved to slide, slide and slide again?

The one with the sticky fingers and missing front tooth who climbed the metal bars of my rocket ship to the tippy-tippy top?

The littlest ones strapped into my littlest swings, their fear of the unfamiliar quickly giving way to the exuberance of swish, swoop, swish, and cries of, “Higher! Higher!”

The big ones who sat on my benches and bathed in our shared sun?

When will they come again, to swing and slide and build sandcastles?
To run and race and merrily-go-‘round?

I converse with the birds and squirrels and ladybugs.

But I miss my friends—even the naughty ones who liked to press wads of gooey gum onto the back of my WELCOME sign, a sign now boarded-over with an unwelcome new message:


Where did they go?
And will they return?

My painted-metal heart tells me they will.
When they do, my rides will be ready.