#nottingham - Hello Poetry

… L 🪶 J … I feel it call— not loud, not urgent, but constant… a pull beneath my footsteps leading me back home. Nottingham— you sit in my bones, steady, known… every street a heartbeat I never really left. I remember— brick, lace, coal dust stories in the air… a city built from struggle and the pride of standing tall. Football roars— through crowded Saturdays, voices rise… while cricket hums softer, like summer stitched in time. By the Trent— I slow down, breathe it in, finding myself… water carrying whispers of every year I’ve lived. Goose Fair nights— lights dancing on faces, sugar and smoke… toffee apples, laughter, childhood spinning in colour. Stone lions wait— unchanged, unshaken, watching all… while deer move quiet and free, like secrets the city keeps. History speaks— Saxon roots, Norman echoes, stories burn… Robin’s shadow still lingers in corners we half-believe. They used to say— six girls to every boy… maybe true… but it’s the friends, the moments, that made this place my own. Because I miss— more than streets and skylines, more than sights… I miss the voices that knew me before I knew myself. And maybe soon— or maybe someday still, I’ll Walk Back… not as I was when I left, but still belonging the same. I am from here— no matter the distance, no matter when… a Nottingham heart beats on, calling me home again. … L 🪶 J … By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

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Mar 23

Mar 23, 2026 at 7:45 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

Where My Heart Returns

… L 🪶 J … I feel it call— not loud, not urgent, but constant… a pull beneath my footsteps leading me back home. Nottingham— you sit in my bones, steady, known… every street a heartbeat I never really left. I remember— brick, lace, coal dust stories in the air… a city built from struggle and the pride of standing tall. Football roars— through crowded Saturdays, voices rise… while cricket hums softer, like summer stitched in time. By the Trent— I slow down, breathe it in, finding myself… water carrying whispers of every year I’ve lived. Goose Fair nights— lights dancing on faces, sugar and smoke… toffee apples, laughter, childhood spinning in colour. Stone lions wait— unchanged, unshaken, watching all… while deer move quiet and free, like secrets the city keeps. History speaks— Saxon roots, Norman echoes, stories burn… Robin’s shadow still lingers in corners we half-believe. They used to say— six girls to every boy… maybe true… but it’s the friends, the moments, that made this place my own. Because I miss— more than streets and skylines, more than sights… I miss the voices that knew me before I knew myself. And maybe soon— or maybe someday still, I’ll Walk Back… not as I was when I left, but still belonging the same. I am from here— no matter the distance, no matter when… a Nottingham heart beats on, calling me home again. … L 🪶 J … By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

64

For them to write a haiku, for us is to define two variables in a curved relationship.  If our form of encoding sound wasn't as it already is: we wouldn't have statistics - say X and β f(-) and ε the succinct - hard to orientate units of encoding  as complete meaning Majestic.

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Nov 12, 2020

Nov 12, 2020 at 9:52 AM UTC

AngelXJ

Secret of the Nottingham Duck

For them to write a haiku, for us is to define two variables in a curved relationship.  If our form of encoding sound wasn't as it already is: we wouldn't have statistics - say X and β f(-) and ε the succinct - hard to orientate units of encoding  as complete meaning Majestic.

6

I stand in the dilapidated chapel. Paint peeling from the walls like the bark of a silver birch. Dull light cascades in from high archways. I now approach the manor, in through the kissing gate kissed with moss and dew. A ****** of crows battle across the battlements in still air.

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Mar 18, 2020

Mar 18, 2020 at 1:31 PM UTC

Misser

Wollaton park

I stand in the dilapidated chapel. Paint peeling from the walls like the bark of a silver birch. Dull light cascades in from high archways. I now approach the manor, in through the kissing gate kissed with moss and dew. A ****** of crows battle across the battlements in still air.

7