#poetryofwar
“The Compass That Led Me Home”
Men go to war
for all sorts of reasons —
duty, pride,
orders,
habit.
But they come home
for one.
Her.
Him.
Family.
The thought of their laugh,
their voice,
their hand in mine —
that was the compass
that pointed me back
every time.
When the nights were long
and the cold cut deep,
I’d picture them waiting,
lights on,
kettle ready,
like the world hadn’t changed
while I was away.
And maybe it hadn’t.
Maybe they kept it steady
so I’d have something
worth returning to.
That’s why I came back.
Every time.
Every mile.
Every ****** step.
To stand silently,
smiling in my home.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 3:13 AM UTC
Blue Bird Over Britain
***
Ninety summers on—
still the silver wings endure
in memory’s sky.
From quiet fields they first rose,
guardians of a nation’s breath.
Warm July trembles,
distant engines thread the air
over England’s green.
History gathers in clouds
where fire will write its name.
They came in dark waves—
shadows crossing shining coasts
toward a waiting land.
Sirens stitched through every town,
hearts held beneath open sky.
Spitfires climbing—
sleek arcs of defiant grace
cut through the blue vast.
Hurricanes beside them turned
fear into a fighting chance.
Young hands-on cold steel,
eyes set beyond fear’s whisper,
they rose into storm.
Courage burned in narrow skies
where seconds measured a life.
Dogfights wheel and break—
white trails torn by tracer lines,
engines cry and fall.
The heavens become a forge
where freedom is hammered bright.
Below, Britain waits—
in doorways, fields, and stations,
listening for wings.
Every distant hum returning
carries a fragile hope home.
“The Few” still whisper—
through ninety years of clear air,
through silence and peace.
Their light remains in the sky,
unfading as summer clouds.
Time turns, yet they fly—
not in war, but memory’s arc
above grateful lands.
Spitfires still hold the line
where history meets the sky.
Look to the skies now—
see the Blue Bird trace the light
through quiet blue air.
Not for war, but memory,
a living portrait of the Few.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 2:52 AM UTC
Poetry: By Eva Tur
***
you play with death
as if it were a kitten
what’s this life worth, anyway?
i’ve fallen in/out of love
run away shut my mouth
found and buried
breathe in/breathe out
i wanted a clean slate
instead i’m a blank page
write/draw/crumple —
no meaning
no substance
no life
just an imitation
another word
a burp from a distant civilisation
whose current descendants
by force of habit
or ancient custom
may well support a tyrant
if not for the shame:
what would the world say?
just an imitation.
a parody of something
following suit
a fake
a sham
a proxy
a rerun
life
i’m old enough
to know how to live
utterly alone in complete darkness
even when there’s light
i’m old enough
to be friends with the bogeyman
and not be afraid
to sleep with bare feet
if he gets me, so be it
i’m old enough
to play with death
as if it were a kitten
if the missile strikes so be it
if the bullet hits so be it
if this love ends so be it.
roulette with an adjective
beginning with ‘r’
too vile to speak
but the world needs to know
and to hear
and to hear
and to hear
the killer’s name
every day
every hour
every second
but
there is always a ‘but’
when you’re a blank page
a kitten’s plaything
you don’t want to say the killer’s name
it’s like letting him under your skin again
and reliving
the deaths
of those you loved most
again
and again
and again
but
you draw your own blood
to write words
on your blank self
words beginning with ‘r’:
russia
russian
russians
read these words, world,
written on me
a blank page
the plaything
of a kitten
or death
By Eva Tur
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 6:30 AM UTC
In silence,
He stands alone,
Heart pounding like distant drums,
Courage battles fear within,
A soldier’s breath.
Ghosts of doubt
Whisper in shadows,
Yet he tightens his grip tight,
The weight of honour, steadfast,
He moves forth.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 7:02 AM UTC