#longjohnpoetry
In the corner,
where shadows play,
a boy sits,
wrapped in stillness.
His poetry books
hold life’s lore,
each quiet word
unlocking unseen doors.
The sun dips
with golden rays,
lighting gentle realms
of dreams he knew.
Adventures etched in
ink and rhyme
stretch far beyond
the bounds known.
He reads seas
that glitter, roar,
and mountains kissed
by drifting clouds.
His heart leaps
with falcon flight;
his soul settles
in starlit calm.
A stanza hums
of love’s embrace;
another whispers
fate’s fleeting trace.
Each poem forms
a fragile bridge
from where he’s
been to becoming.
His eyes shine,
a beacon’s flame;
in every story
he carves presence.
Binding his spirit
to tales untold,
to truths burning,
to dreams golden.
The books breathe
and softly sing
of daring quests
and gentle hope.
Between the pages
he finds place—
a realm holding
endless wonder’s space.
He reads on
as twilight bends,
a journey flowing
without clear end.
Immersed in poetry,
life’s turning spins,
the boy becomes
the story within.
Mar 14
Mar 14, 2026 at 4:56 AM UTC
Verse 1
There once was a line, finely spun,
Where life and its grammar were one.
With pauses that teach,
And commas that reach—
We learn as the sentences run.
Verse 2
For breath is the space where we see,
The meaning of what’s meant to be.
In each subtle shift,
Life’s lessons uplift—
And depth finds its way naturally.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 11:24 AM UTC
*
WINGS OF THE SPIRIT
Dream - born wings unfold
Sky kisses the waking soul
Spirits learns to fly
****
WHISPERED EDGES
Dreams dance at sleep’s edge
Soft whispers we try to hold
Secrets slip like mist
****
TIMELESS EMBRACE
Dreams outrun all time
Moments held beyond the clock
Eternity stays
***
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 9:00 AM UTC
If I climb this hill,
will you come with me?
Will you hold my hand
when my burdens get heavy?
Will you lighten my load?
When my heart bleeds,
will you embrace me
and tell me all will be fine?
If I take to the valleys,
will you come with me?
Will you guide me
through the twisting turns
that befall me?
If I become lost,
will you be my compass
and guide me back to the right path?
If I step into these caverns of darkness,
will you come with me?
Will you hold a light so I can see my way?
Will you call to me,
and guide me to the path to your home?
Please—come with me,
and show me the way.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 4:59 AM UTC
He lies quiet, aye —
but it’s no peace.
It’s the kind of pause
a man takes when the world
has worn the edge off him.
No clash of memory,
no grind of purpose,
just that heavy hush
you hear in old steel
left too long in the rain.
Time’s a patient *******
It waits for no one.
It eats.
It stains.
And silence — once a shelter —
turns into the slow, red creep
that claims a blade
no longer swung.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:19 AM UTC
Beneath moonlit sky,
River flows with gentle grace,
Whispers to my soul.
Patient fishermen and Rods
Silhouette against the dawn,
Casting dreams with hope.
Silver-scaled treasures,
Dancing in the river's tease,
Unveil their secrets.
Open fire roars bright,
Fishermen rejoice in feast,
Nature's gifts ablaze.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 5:50 AM UTC
All the world’s just a stage,
Where we strut, fret, and age.
Men and women appear,
Play their roles year by year,
Then exit — life turns the page.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 5:51 AM UTC
Echoes of Lost Friendship
In the silent chambers of my heart, a friend is lost, a pain so deep,
In the echoes of laughter, a friend is lost, memories weep.
Once we danced in the glow of the golden sun, in joy's leap,
Now in the shadow of absence, a friend is lost, sorrow seep.
In the canvas of time, our stories were painted, moments to keep,
In the fading hues, a friend is lost, wounds cut steep.
We sailed on dreams, under the moon's silver sweep,
In the sinking ship of reality, a friend is lost, the sea is steep.
In the garden of love, we planted seeds of companionship, reap,
Now in the barren field, a friend is lost, loneliness creep.
Oh, in the melody of life, our notes were in harmony, in tune's heap,
In the silence of the song, a friend is lost, silence seep.
In the book of existence, our tales were written, in destiny's leap,
In the torn pages, a friend is lost, my ink does weep.
In the journey of life, we walked together, promises to keep,
Now in the lonely path, a friend is lost, I'm left to weep.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 5:28 AM UTC
There once was a spark born anew,
Where verses rose up from the blue.
For poetry’s flame
Lives deep in our frame—
And colours the world blue.
Mar 12
Mar 12, 2026 at 5:41 AM UTC
There once was a soul in dismay,
Who pondered life’s path day by day.
“To be… or not be?”
He asked quietly —
As the world kept its answers at bay.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 5:54 AM UTC
Echoes of Lost Friendship
***
In the silent chambers of my heart, a friend is lost, a pain so deep,
In the echoes of laughter, a friend is lost, memories weep.
Once we danced in the glow of the golden sun, in joy's leap,
Now in the shadow of absence, a friend is lost, sorrow seep.
In the canvas of time, our stories were painted, moments to keep,
In the fading hues, a friend is lost, wounds cut steep.
We sailed on dreams, under the moon's silver sweep,
In the sinking ship of reality, a friend is lost, the sea is steep.
In the garden of love, we planted seeds of companionship, reap,
Now in the barren field, a friend is lost, loneliness creep.
Oh, in the melody of life, our notes were in harmony, in tune's heap,
In the silence of the song, a friend is lost, silence seep.
In the book of existence, our tales were written, in destiny's leap,
In the torn pages, a friend is lost, my ink does weep.
In the journey of life, we walked together, promises to keep,
Now in the lonely path, a friend is lost, I'm left to weep.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 4:28 AM UTC
Prologue
In the quiet heart of Nottinghamshire, tucked within a peaceful village, stood a small but remarkable shop called "Three Little Pairs". Its name, a playful nod to the many pairs of shoes lining its shelves, hinted at the whimsy waiting inside.
Stepping through its door felt like entering a gentler world. The warm scent of leather, polished wood, and finely woven threads wrapped around every visitor, slowing the rush of the outside world. Time seemed to soften there, as though the shop itself offered a moment of stillness.
Yet beneath its charming surface, something more extraordinary stirred. Among the neatly arranged shoes—laces tied, patterns aligned—rested secrets of quiet enchantment. These were no ordinary shoes. And nearby, placed upon a velvet cushion, lay the socks: fibres spun from dreams, threads shimmering with moonlit magic. Even a fleeting glance invited wonder.
Day after day, shoes and socks watched customers come and go, listening to footsteps echo across the floor. Each pair longed for the moment they would be chosen, imagining the adventures they might share—stomping along cobblestones, dancing under starlit skies, or wandering through ancient forests.
In this haven of footwear dreams, shoelaces waited to be tied with purpose, and socks yearned to warm the feet of travellers destined for faraway paths. None of them knew that their hopes would soon entwine with the stories of those who stepped through the door of "Three Little Pairs"—and that with each journey begun, the ordinary would give way to the extraordinary.
All the characters in the following poems, are themed on my family and friends.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 6:43 AM UTC
Soft downy feathers
Nestled in branches of oak
Tiny heart beating
Wings slowly growing
Stretching thin and fragile self
Mother's song echoes
First trembling branch hop
Courage flutters in small breast
Testing gentle winds
Feathers now sleek black
Strength building with each new flight
Leaving nest behind
Soaring high above
Boundless sky embraces wings
Blackbird freely sings
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 4:25 AM UTC
A boy walks down...
a golden path.
Each day — a gift,
both bright... and vast.
A chance to cherish...
brave... and hold.
In fleeting moments,
beauty gleams.
A quiet spark...
ignites his dreams.
With gratitude,
he lights the way —
through shadowed trails...
to brighter days.
With every step,
his future’s sown.
In courage found,
his spirit grown.
Whispers of truth...
sail on the wind.
The boy evolves...
through wit —
and will.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 7:25 AM UTC
If I climb this hill,
will you come with me?
Will you hold my hand
when my burdens get heavy?
Will you lighten my load?
When my heart bleeds,
will you embrace me
and tell me all will be fine?
If I take to the valleys,
will you come with me?
Will you guide me
through the twisting turns
that befall me?
If I become lost,
will you be my compass
and guide me back to the right path?
If I step into these caverns of darkness,
will you come with me?
Will you hold a light so I can see my way?
Will you call to me,
and guide me to the path to your home?
Please—come with me,
and show me the way.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 5:03 AM UTC
In Nottinghamshire's enchanting hold,
Three Little Pairs, a magic unfold.
Come, let your dreams and fantasies pursue,
For within these walls, wonders accrue.
Moonlit Glide, like shadows they prance,
Stars twinkle upon their soles in a dance.
Igniting dreams, they carry us afar,
To realms unknown, where wishes are mar.
Emerald Soles, for the brave and bold,
Journey through realms untold, untold.
With every step, a new adventure is found,
Conquering fears, on hallowed ground.
Cupcake Slippers, oh sugary delight,
In frosted realms, they spin with delight.
Whisking us away to lands so sweet,
Where sugar blooms and joyous hearts beat.
Rainbow Galoshes, fearless and strong,
Through stormy clouds, they carry us along.
With vibrant colours, they brighten the way,
Keeping weariness at bay, at bay.
And dear socks, with wild hearts untamed,
Searching for tales yet unnamed.
From hidden paths, they never stray,
Ever yearning for new quests each day.
Gossamer Threads, light as a breeze,
Comforting souls with their gentle ease.
Through dreams and whispers, they gently guide,
Leading weary hearts to the other side.
Darkling Argyles, with shadows profound,
In twilight's embrace, their magic is found.
They weave secrets in moon's tender glow,
Captivating all with their mystical show.
Feather-mist Socks, elusive and rare,
Whispering tales of clouds in the air.
With each step, they fill the world with grace,
Floating softly like a feathered embrace.
In Nottinghamshire's tender embrace,
Three Little Pairs, love finds its place.
Step inside, let the magic resound,
For dreams come alive when dreams are found.
In Nottinghamshire, where dreams reside,
Three Little Pairs, a whimsical guide.
Let your spirit soar, your heart take flight,
In this magical shop, dreams ignite.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 6:46 AM UTC
If I climb this hill,
will you come with me?
Will you hold my hand
when my burdens get heavy?
Will you lighten my load?
When my heart bleeds,
will you embrace me
and tell me all will be fine?
If I take to the valleys,
will you come with me?
Will you guide me
through the twisting turns
that befall me?
If I become lost,
will you be my compass
and guide me back to the right path?
If I step into these caverns of darkness,
will you come with me?
Will you hold a light so I can see my way?
Will you call to me,
and guide me to the path to your home?
Please—come with me,
and show me the way.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 4:54 AM UTC
There once was a walk by the sea,
Where memories drifted back free.
With a smile held tight,
And a tear in the light—
The waves whispered, “Remember… just be.”
Mar 12
Mar 12, 2026 at 5:45 AM UTC
There once was a bloom in the rain,
That whispered, “We rise through our pain.”
For storms that we meet
Make new roots complete—
And strength is the gift we attain.
Mar 12
Mar 12, 2026 at 5:44 AM UTC
In the quaint village of Nottinghamshire,
There stood a shop, so small and fair,
"Three Little Pairs," its name proclaimed,
A haven for footwear, socks untamed.
Within its walls, a magical scene,
Of shoes so fine, and socks pristine,
But amidst it all, two friends did dwell,
Charlie, the shoe, and Samson, the sock, their tales to tell.
Charlie, a shoe of charming brown leather,
With laces so neat, a beauty to treasure,
He stood tall, upon a shelf so grand,
Watching the world with a yearning hand.
Beside him, Samson, a pair of grey stripes,
With coziness in thread, they felt the vibes,
Both of them longing for adventures unknown,
Their dreams ablaze, their spirits brightly shone.
As customers came, and customers left,
Charlie and Samson, on the shelf they'd be left,
But within their hearts, dreams would arise,
Imagining the world through curious eyes.
Oh, the tales they wove in their secret minds,
Of landscapes vast, of laughter that binds,
They dreamt of mountains, towering and steep,
Or underneath the waves, where sea creatures sleep.
They loved to play hide and seek, you know,
Charlie would hide, and Samson would go,
Searching the shelves, high and low,
Their joy infectious, their friendship would grow.
In their moments of solitude, they whispered soft,
Of the journeys they'd take, aloft and aloft,
Through bustling cities, vibrant and alive,
Or in grassy meadows, where peace did survive.
But as days went by, their dreams grew deep,
It was time to awaken, to break from their sleep,
For one blessed day, a family arrived,
Eager to purchase, their hearts were revived.
The mother tried on Charlie, feeling a perfect fit,
While the son chose Samson, with eyes all lit,
And just like that, they were no longer confined,
Charlie and Samson, ready to leave their behind.
They bid farewell to the shop they once adored,
For their journey had begun, they were thoroughly toured,
Through meadows and forests, they ventured free,
Experiencing the world, as they had always dreamed.
The quaint village of Nottinghamshire may miss them so,
But Charlie and Samson, together they would grow,
Through their shared adventures, a bond was forged,
In the enchanting tales of Nottinghamshire, their legacy forged.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 6:50 AM UTC
By LongJohn
There’s a certain way a Number One speaks —
calm as a Sunday morning,
sharp as a fresh sharpened knife,
and carrying enough authority
to make even the cockiest lad
stand up a bit straighter.
He didn’t need to shout.
Didn’t need to swagger.
Just a quiet, steady
“Stand by…”
and every man on the det
felt the world tighten into focus.
You learned to trust that voice —
in the rain, in the dark,
in the moments when the air itself
seemed to hold its breath.
He knew his gun
like other men know their children:
every quirk, every mood,
every sound it made
when it was happy, angry,
or about to misbehave.
And when the order came,
his voice cut through the chaos
like a lighthouse beam,
guiding you through the noise
to the one thing that mattered:
doing the job right,
first time,
every time.
Years later,
you still hear it —
that calm, unshakeable tone
that made you believe
you could hold the line
against anything.
A Number One doesn’t just command a gun.
He commands confidence.
And that’s rarer than ammunition.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:30 AM UTC
By LongJohn
A yomp doesn’t start with a step —
it starts with a lie.
Someone cheerful says,
“It’s not that far,”
and every man within earshot
knows he’s talking *******
but shoulders his bergen anyway.
The weight hits you first.
Not gently.
Not politely.
Just bang —
like someone’s strapped a small family car
to your back for a laugh.
Then comes the weather.
Rain sideways,
wind that hates you personally,
and mud with the grip strength
of a jealous ex.
But you keep moving.
One foot, then the other,
because stopping
is how you discover
you can’t start again.
The Marines stride ahead,
all long legs and smug fitness,
and you match them
because you’re a Commando Gunner
and pride weighs more than any bergen.
Somewhere around mile whatever-it-is,
the jokes start —
dark, stupid,
and exactly what you need.
A shared misery
is still misery,
but at least it’s shared.
And then, without warning,
the world opens up —
a ridge, a coastline,
a stretch of land so wild
it makes the pain worth it.
You stand there,
sweating, aching,
smelling like a wet dog
that’s had a bad week,
and you feel it —
that quiet, stubborn joy
of lads who refused to quit.
A yomp doesn’t end at the finish.
It ends when the bergen hits the ground
and you realise your legs
are still attached
and your sense of humour
survived the journey.
And that’s when you know
you’ve earned your place
among the ones who keep going
long after sane men would’ve stopped.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:43 AM UTC
In Nottinghamshire, a village fair,
Stood a shop, Three Little Pairs,
Known for footwear, high in fame,
And socks exquisite, they would claim.
Amongst the shoes, with radiance gleam,
Stood Helen, ballet shoe of golden beam,
And Wendy, socks with silver stripes,
Their dreams ignited like dancing lights.
From their shelf, they saw the day,
Customers bustling in casual array,
Whispers of needs and wants were heard,
As Helen and Wendy dreamt and stirred.
They longed for more, oh what a sight,
To dance and twirl, under moon's soft light,
Their hearts yearned for the grandest stage,
The Royal Ballet, where dreams engage.
Helen imagined pirouettes on her toes,
Gliding gracefully, as the music flows,
She dreamt of applause echoing wide,
As she danced with elegance and pride.
Wendy envisioned her glittering feet,
Dazzling the crowd with every beat,
Her stripes shimmering, swift and fair,
Enchanting all who'd stop and stare.
Together, they shared their tales and dreams,
Inseparable, like moon and sun's beams,
With every day that passed them by,
Their longing grew, and tears would dry.
Until one day, a curious pair strolled in,
With dreams of dance, deep from within,
They spotted Helen and Wendy with delight,
Seeing their passion, their spirits took flight.
A young ballerina, nerves hiding beneath,
In search of shoes to adorn her feet,
And a tap dancer, craving rhythm's embrace,
Eager to find socks to match his pace.
Their eyes met, their souls intertwined,
As destiny's path began to unwind,
The ballerina slipped on Helen with grace,
A perfect fit, an enchanting embrace.
The tap dancer, drawn to Wendy's shine,
Adorned the socks, his steps to refine,
And as they twirled and tapped along,
A symphony of dreams, a harmonic song.
Helen and Wendy, dreams now ablaze,
Danced through nights and enchanted days,
Their spirits soared, their hearts set free,
In the Royal Ballet's grandest spree.
In Nottinghamshire, the villagers cheered,
As a tale once distant now appeared,
Stories echoed through their quaint abode,
Of Helen and Wendy, on a grand dance road.
For in that shop, Three Little Pairs,
A golden ballet shoe, a pair of striped wares,
Two friends united, in steps and hearts,
Leaving footprints on enchanted arts.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 6:52 AM UTC
By LongJohn, honouring the Royal Artillery motto and spirit
They say the infantry hold the ground,
the cavalry takes the glory,
and the gunners…
well, we just change the landscape.
Our thunder isn’t borrowed —
it’s earned,
forged in steel and sweat,
carried on the backs of lads
who know exactly what it means
to serve a crown you’ll never meet
but feel in your bones.
When the order comes,
there’s no hesitation —
just the calm of men
who’ve rehearsed the end of the world
often enough to make it look tidy.
The gun speaks,
the earth answers,
and somewhere in that rolling crack
you hear the history of the regiment —
from Flanders mud
to Afghan dust,
from the smoke of Waterloo
to the cold rain of the Falklands.
We don’t shout about it.
We don’t need to.
The guns do that for us.
And when the smoke clears
and the world steadies itself,
we stand there —
boots planted,
ears ringing,
hearts steady —
knowing we’ve added our own small echo
to the King’s thunder.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:24 AM UTC
Direct fire — the layer’s true arena
By LongJohn
There’s nothing gentle about direct fire.
No time for poetry,
no time for second guesses —
just the sight,
the target,
and the knowledge
that the moment you squeeze the trigger
you’ve lit a ****** great arrow
pointing straight back at yourself.
That’s when the layer earns his keep.
One eye shut,
the other sharp as a knife edge,
breath held,
hands steady,
heart doing its own thing
but you ignore it.
The gun bucks,
the world flashes white,
and before the smoke even clears
you’re shouting for the next round —
because speed is life,
and accuracy is survival.
“Get them before they get you,”
that’s the rule.
Simple.
Unforgiving.
True every time.
The layer doesn’t wait for applause.
He doesn’t look up to see
if anyone noticed.
He just adjusts,
leans in again,
and finds the next target
like it personally owes him money.
And when the day’s done
and the gun cools
and the adrenaline finally lets go,
he’ll sit there quiet,
hands still trembling a bit,
knowing he did what few can do —
hit fast,
hit true,
and walk away from a job
that doesn’t forgive mistakes.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:35 AM UTC