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LongJohnPaulBaldryPoems
Dawn doesn’t knock. It breathes—slow, silver. He’s already there. Boots in mud. Hands remembering. He casts— not just a line, but a life— wide into the quiet where hope swims unseen. 🐟 Stillness teaches. Not spoken— silent conscious Morning stretches. Sun rising without asking. He waits. Because he knows— the river answers when it wants. 🐟 Mist rolls in. Boats drift—ghostlike. Between cast and pull he feels them— the ones before him. Every ripple— a voice whispers. Every current— a named. 🐟 By noon— light fractures water. Scales flash. Brief— then Gone. He lifts the catch— not pride, just survival. A quiet agreement between man and tide. 🐠 But the sea— doesn’t whisper. It roars. Lines snap. Hooks bite. He stands—small, stubborn— against something that doesn’t care. Here, courage is quiet. It stays. 🎣 Rain falls. No warning. Soaks him through. Still—he doesn’t move. Each drop— a beginning. The sky reminding him— you belong to this. 🎣 Night softens everything. Moonlight—silver skin on water. Just him. The line. The pull beneath. No loneliness here. Only whole. Dreams tug gently. He listens with both hands. 🌙🎣 An old man waits at the shore— or becomes him. Stories in bone. Salt and skin. He speaks less now. But when he does— even water listens. 🪶 And still— he casts. Through empty nets. Through full ones. Through years. This is more than fishing. It’s inheritance. It’s healing. It’s words written in water. 🌊 Sunset bleeds gold. He doesn’t count fish. He counts moments. Balance. Breath. Space between casts. 🌅 Hands worn—steady. He reels in more than a day. He reels in a life. Lived— fully— on the edge of the endless tide. 🌊🐟 By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
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Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 5:03 AM UTC
Cast Into the Living Tide
Dawn doesn’t knock. It breathes—slow, silver. He’s already there. Boots in mud. Hands remembering. He casts— not just a line, but a life— wide into the quiet where hope swims unseen. 🐟 Stillness teaches. Not spoken— silent conscious Morning stretches. Sun rising without asking. He waits. Because he knows— the river answers when it wants. 🐟 Mist rolls in. Boats drift—ghostlike. Between cast and pull he feels them— the ones before him. Every ripple— a voice whispers. Every current— a named. 🐟 By noon— light fractures water. Scales flash. Brief— then Gone. He lifts the catch— not pride, just survival. A quiet agreement between man and tide. 🐠 But the sea— doesn’t whisper. It roars. Lines snap. Hooks bite. He stands—small, stubborn— against something that doesn’t care. Here, courage is quiet. It stays. 🎣 Rain falls. No warning. Soaks him through. Still—he doesn’t move. Each drop— a beginning. The sky reminding him— you belong to this. 🎣 Night softens everything. Moonlight—silver skin on water. Just him. The line. The pull beneath. No loneliness here. Only whole. Dreams tug gently. He listens with both hands. 🌙🎣 An old man waits at the shore— or becomes him. Stories in bone. Salt and skin. He speaks less now. But when he does— even water listens. 🪶 And still— he casts. Through empty nets. Through full ones. Through years. This is more than fishing. It’s inheritance. It’s healing. It’s words written in water. 🌊 Sunset bleeds gold. He doesn’t count fish. He counts moments. Balance. Breath. Space between casts. 🌅 Hands worn—steady. He reels in more than a day. He reels in a life. Lived— fully— on the edge of the endless tide. 🌊🐟 By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
My poem is themed on fisherman’s lives unfolding in spoken verse— cast, wait, endure, from rivers dawns to roaring seas, hopefully my poem captures and traces patience, struggle, and legacy, where each line becomes more than survival—it becomes a life shaped by water.
#spokenword#minimalistpoetry#fishermanslife#oceansoul#lifeinlines#modernpoetry
LongJohnPaulBaldry
Written by
LongJohnPaulBaldry
71/M/Saltcoats - Scotland
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 5:03 AM UTC
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