Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Tags
#poetryofplace
… 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)
0
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)
Continue reading...
64
I do not want the key back to the room I locked. The dust can settle there in patterns I no longer trace. Let the garden I did not plant grow wild without my watching, let the path I swept accept the scatter of new leaves. My ship is not tied to that dock, its shape is gone from the horizon's line. The tide I catch now fills a different sail, pulls me toward a deeper, wider blue. I have pressed my palms into this new earth, felt its warmth, its willing yield. Where I am now has asked for roots, and I have given them. The view from here is enough. The sun arrives at a kinder angle. I do not miss the old shadows, or the furniture of my former weather. I am fine where I am. The compass in my chest has stilled, its needle pointing down, simply saying: here.
0
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 5:09 AM UTC
shoaib005
Solid Ground!
I do not want the key back to the room I locked. The dust can settle there in patterns I no longer trace. Let the garden I did not plant grow wild without my watching, let the path I swept accept the scatter of new leaves. My ship is not tied to that dock, its shape is gone from the horizon's line. The tide I catch now fills a different sail, pulls me toward a deeper, wider blue. I have pressed my palms into this new earth, felt its warmth, its willing yield. Where I am now has asked for roots, and I have given them. The view from here is enough. The sun arrives at a kinder angle. I do not miss the old shadows, or the furniture of my former weather. I am fine where I am. The compass in my chest has stilled, its needle pointing down, simply saying: here.
Continue reading...
24