#longjohnwrites
***
Still That Boy
There once was a lad sat in Carlton town,
By an old oak tree where he’d often sit down,
Not lost in a daze—
But deep in his plays,
With whole other worlds spinning round.
I saw myself brave with a sword in my hand,
A knight riding strong through a faraway land,
Fighting dragons and flame,
For honour, not fame,
Doing things only dreamers had planned.
Then I’d turn to the sea with a shift of the day,
A pirate now sailing wherever I may,
Through storms I would steer,
With no sign of fear,
Captain of all in my way.
Travelling farther again—past the stars I would roam,
No longer on earth, no longer at home,
Through galaxies wide,
With courage as guide,
Finding places no one had known.
But I never stood there on my own in any fight,
There were others beside me, steady and right—
A wizard so wise,
A warrior who’d rise,
And a healer who carried the light.
Together we faced whatever would come,
Dark forces, hard roads—we never would run,
Each strength played its part,
Head, hands, and heart,
And somehow the battles we won.
But life has a way of quieting dreams,
Or making them smaller than how they once seemed,
I thought I’d outgrown
The worlds I had known,
And left them behind— merely dreams.
Till a time in my life when I felt off my feet,
Unsure of my path, not steady or sure,
And I reached back inside
Where those old voices hide,
And found the boy was still there.
Those heroes I made weren’t just in my head,
They were lessons in how I should walk where I tread,
Be brave when it’s tough,
Be kind when it’s rough,
Stand firm in the words that I said.
I picked it back up—not the sword, but the way,
Not the ship, but the choice of how I would stay,
Facing life as it came,
Still playing the same old game—
Just with real things that come each day.
Because truth is, that lad never really left me,
He still sits by that oak where the world used to be,
And when I write lines,
It’s his voice undermine—
Still shaping the man that you see.
Not a knight, not a pirate, not lost up in space—
Just a man trying hard to stand in his place,
With a bit of that fire,
That old, quiet desire,
And a boy— still writing truth through his voice.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 7:54 AM UTC
(A fresh poem echoing the weary humour and fatalism of old gunner ballads) “The Gunner’s Road” — after the traditional Gunner’s Lament. By LongJohn, in honour of the traditional Royal Artillery song.
The road was long before us,
and longer still behind,
with the guns trundling steady
like they had a mind of their own.
We cursed the mud,
laughed at the rain,
and shared what little warmth
a battered flask could offer.
But when the order came,
we stood to —
no grumbling then,
just the quiet pride
of men who knew their craft.
And though the world forgets
the ones who walked that endless road,
we remember each other.
That’s enough.
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 6:02 AM UTC
for Dad
by Paul Baldry (Long John)
I spoke with you once, beside the stone—
a quiet chat, just you and me.
I told you of the brickyard days,
the donkey loose on Carlton Hill,
the axe too tall for my boyish hands,
and the train set Santa brought at four.
We laughed, you and I,
until tears came softly,
and I wiped them away
like a soldier trained not to cry.
Since then, I walk the beach alone—
Saltcoats, my town,
where the sea knows my name.
Each step a memory,
each wave a whisper of you.
I see you in the curve of the tide,
in the gull’s cry overhead,
in the hush between footsteps
where your quiet laugh still lives.
I speak to you often,
not aloud, but in the rhythm of thought—
about the things I missed,
the chess games never played,
the fence posts pitched like monuments
to a childhood I carry like a medal.
You are not in our homes now,
but you walk with me still.
In the salt air,
in the wind off Arran,
in the hush of low tide
where memory meets the sea.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:16 AM UTC
The Road That Made Me
***
Cavendish Road,
my street, my home.
My first memories—
Stanley Road school, then Westdale Juniors.
The training started early,
walking that steep hill on Cavendish Road,
age six,
legs burning on the way up,
freedom flying on the run back down.
Back in the ’60s,
the road was our playground—
full of adventure.
Through twitches and alleyways we ran,
racing push bikes from the Cavo Pub to the hilltop,
then tearing back down—
no helmets, no pads,
just bare skin and courage,
scrapes and bruises the prize.
The good old days, we say.
Knock knock on doors,
everyone knew everyone—
and it didn’t take long
for Mum and Dad to know.
And back then,
it wasn’t a soft talking to—
body armour was comics
down the back of your pants.
Wednesday nights were swimming,
and in summer,
Brickyard ponds.
Pirates and Redcoats—
until we lost George.
He just disappeared.
We didn’t understand.
Time and resilience brought us back,
but we never played pirates again,
never swam those ponds.
The teenage years came fast.
Off to Cavo secondary—
good years.
Not much time in class,
always somewhere else—
gymnastics, trampolining,
cross country running.
Anything but sitting still,
writing page after page
about history, science,
or the English language—
something I’m still learning.
I liked the girls though.
Then came a time
they liked me.
What a street I lived on—
everything I needed.
Life was full.
At fifteen,
I joined the Army—
Junior Leaders Regiment, Royal Artillery.
A life of its own.
Coming home on leave,
back to my street—
at first, nothing changed.
Then slowly,
people I knew moved away.
Years later,
back in the Cavo Pub—
the Cavendish, to give it its name.
Old school friends,
old times,
banter, darts, pool.
But shock hit hard—
so many of the lads and gals
lost to drugs of every kind.
I loved my street.
I loved what it taught me—
love, joy, pain, loss.
But life moves on,
and so did I.
A new home,
twenty-six years lived—
but the games were real now:
real pain,
real fear,
far too many losses.
Still—
resilience,
and the pull of memory,
brought me home.
I still love my street.
Cavendish Road—
my foundation.
still that boy,
from my street—
with a life of poetry within.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 6:47 AM UTC
Don’t chase the egg
you’re told.
It isn’t ready.
And neither are you.
The shell will crack
when it’s meant to.
Not by force,
not by fear,
not by someone else’s clock.
You are the hen—
awkward, restless,
feathered with questions
and half-formed wants.
Feed what’s here.
Scratch where you stand.
Grow into the weight
of your own wings.
The future will come.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:24 AM UTC
Pride
I built a high wall
and crowned it with my own name—
no doors, only mirrors.
Even kings lose their kingdoms
when they kneel to their own face.
Envy
I watched your garden
and cursed my barren soil—
green turned into grief.
Jealousy is a hunger
that eats what it cannot grow.
Wrath
I struck without thought,
a storm inside my own chest—
lightning with no aim.
Anger burns what it touches,
even the hand that holds flame.
Sloth
The day passed me by,
soft as dust on a closed book—
I did not turn it.
Laziness is a silence
that forgets how to begin.
Greed
I took and I took,
until even gold grew dull—
still, I reached again.
Greed is a hollow echo
that never learns how to stop.
Gluttony
I fed every want,
not with need, but with craving—
full, yet never whole.
Excess is a kind of thirst
that drinks past satisfaction.
Lust
I touched for the flame,
not the warmth or the meaning—
just the burning skin.
Desire without devotion
leaves the soul cold in the end.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:28 AM UTC
In winter’s hush, the rust becomes my crest,
A quiet badge that time cannot undo.
Like tools asleep in my shed, I take my rest,
And wake in spring made sharper, born anew.
The sun returns, a coach with gentle hand,
Its warmth a summons pulling me outdoors.
My garden awaits, stirs and calls across the land,
And I step forth to tend its waiting chores.
Through summer’s stretch of long and golden days,
I wander slow, with tender, easy care.
The season hums in soft, unhurried ways,
And life grows full in the warmth of forgiving air.
Then winter folds me back to fire and snow,
Where stillness works its magic deep below.
The world lies hushed, yet every root and seed
Prepares its rise—renewal guaranteed.
The stillness of rust returns when seasons slow,
A quiet settling where my labours fade.
It waits in patience under winter’s glow,
Knowing Spring will sharpen what time has made.
Through toil and grind the dullness breaks its crust—
And shine comes rising honest from the rust.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 4:09 AM UTC
A new beginning starts
from the end of another beginning.
Life is not a straight line—
you will need to make adjustments.
Some days seem longer than others.
That’s the perception of an empty day.
Yesterday is just history.
Today is just another day.
Tomorrow is just the future.
Mirror, mirror on the wall—
you will not find answers here,
only an image.
A dream may be a wish.
A wish is hope.
There’s always hope.
A passing life gave a future.
A life builds a future.
A new life is the future.
Purpose gives reason.
Reason needs cause.
There will always be cause.
It’s like riding a bike—
it’s learned.
Life is learned.
But we still forget.
Favourite.
Misunderstood.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:11 AM UTC