#serviceandsacrifice - Hello Poetry

Part 1 *** The Unexpected Path Orders lead me on. Roads I never thought to walk. Purpose found in dust. *** Calm Within Chaos Gunfire fades to breath. A still mind in the madness. Calm between heartbeats. *** Life’s Delicate Balance Armour on, heart soft. Strength and fear walk side by side. Balance forged in fire. *** Woven Brotherhood Laughs, loss, silent nods. Threads of lives stitched into one. Brothers stand as one. *** Embrace the Unknown New ground under boots. Change comes with each dawn we face. Step into the dark. *** Rhythm of the March Bootsteps drum the earth. Hearts beat in a steady line. Marching into fate. *** Hidden Lessons Scars beneath the kit. Lessons learned in silent watch. Wisdom earned, not told. *** Turning Deployments Tours come, tours will end. Stories carried home within. Chapters etched in time. *** Steady in the Storm Rain, fire, and long nights. Hold the line through every storm. Strength stands unbroken.

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Mar 28

Mar 28, 2026 at 5:10 AM UTC

ThePoppiesStillBloom

Haiku Poems Military Service

Part 1 *** The Unexpected Path Orders lead me on. Roads I never thought to walk. Purpose found in dust. *** Calm Within Chaos Gunfire fades to breath. A still mind in the madness. Calm between heartbeats. *** Life’s Delicate Balance Armour on, heart soft. Strength and fear walk side by side. Balance forged in fire. *** Woven Brotherhood Laughs, loss, silent nods. Threads of lives stitched into one. Brothers stand as one. *** Embrace the Unknown New ground under boots. Change comes with each dawn we face. Step into the dark. *** Rhythm of the March Bootsteps drum the earth. Hearts beat in a steady line. Marching into fate. *** Hidden Lessons Scars beneath the kit. Lessons learned in silent watch. Wisdom earned, not told. *** Turning Deployments Tours come, tours will end. Stories carried home within. Chapters etched in time. *** Steady in the Storm Rain, fire, and long nights. Hold the line through every storm. Strength stands unbroken.

47

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.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 7:24 AM UTC

ThePoppiesStillBloom

"The Queens Thunder"

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.

36

By LongJohn There’s a moment, right at the end, when the noise fades, the smoke thins, and the gun sits there cooling like an old dog catching its breath. You’ve fired all you were given, done what was asked, and now there’s just one round left — the last round. It’s never just ammunition. It’s a marker. A line in the sand. A quiet nod to the lads beside you and the ones who aren’t. You handle it different — not softer, but with a kind of respect that doesn’t need explaining. The det feels it too. Voices drop. Movements sharpen. Everyone knows the weight of it. “Last round…” The Number One says it calm, like he’s announcing the weather, but you hear the history in it — every battery, every battle, every gun that ever stood its ground. The layer leans in, the loader steadies himself, and for a heartbeat the whole world holds still. Then the order comes, the gun speaks one final time, and the echo rolls out like a curtain closing. After that, there’s no cheering, no swagger — just the quiet satisfaction of a job done right and the knowledge that the gun will sleep tonight because you didn’t let her down.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 7:43 AM UTC

ThePoppiesStillBloom

"The Last Round"

By LongJohn There’s a moment, right at the end, when the noise fades, the smoke thins, and the gun sits there cooling like an old dog catching its breath. You’ve fired all you were given, done what was asked, and now there’s just one round left — the last round. It’s never just ammunition. It’s a marker. A line in the sand. A quiet nod to the lads beside you and the ones who aren’t. You handle it different — not softer, but with a kind of respect that doesn’t need explaining. The det feels it too. Voices drop. Movements sharpen. Everyone knows the weight of it. “Last round…” The Number One says it calm, like he’s announcing the weather, but you hear the history in it — every battery, every battle, every gun that ever stood its ground. The layer leans in, the loader steadies himself, and for a heartbeat the whole world holds still. Then the order comes, the gun speaks one final time, and the echo rolls out like a curtain closing. After that, there’s no cheering, no swagger — just the quiet satisfaction of a job done right and the knowledge that the gun will sleep tonight because you didn’t let her down.

45

By LongJohn I’ve never been much for churches, but I’ve said a few prayers in the rain, in the dark, and once or twice with my face in the mud wondering what the hell I’d done with my life. So, here’s a gunner’s prayer — plain, unpolished, and true. Keep the lads steady, the sights clean, and the Number One calm when the world starts shaking. Keep the layer sharp, the loader quick, and the signaller awake even when he swears, he is. Keep the rounds dry, the fuses honest, and the gun behaving herself long enough to do the job. And when the smoke settles and the echoes fade, keep us humble enough to remember why we’re here and who we stand beside. If there’s mercy to spare, give it to the young ones — they’ve got more to lose and less to hide behind. As for the rest of us, we’ll take whatever comes with the same stubborn pride that’s carried the regiment from the first gun fired to the last. Amen, or whatever word a gunner uses when he means it.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 7:50 AM UTC

ThePoppiesStillBloom

"The Gunners Prayer"

By LongJohn I’ve never been much for churches, but I’ve said a few prayers in the rain, in the dark, and once or twice with my face in the mud wondering what the hell I’d done with my life. So, here’s a gunner’s prayer — plain, unpolished, and true. Keep the lads steady, the sights clean, and the Number One calm when the world starts shaking. Keep the layer sharp, the loader quick, and the signaller awake even when he swears, he is. Keep the rounds dry, the fuses honest, and the gun behaving herself long enough to do the job. And when the smoke settles and the echoes fade, keep us humble enough to remember why we’re here and who we stand beside. If there’s mercy to spare, give it to the young ones — they’ve got more to lose and less to hide behind. As for the rest of us, we’ll take whatever comes with the same stubborn pride that’s carried the regiment from the first gun fired to the last. Amen, or whatever word a gunner uses when he means it.

44

By LongJohn Night firing has its own kind of tension — a quiet that isn’t peace, just the world holding its breath waiting for the first order. You work by touch at first, hands knowing the gun better than your eyes ever could. The dark presses in, thick as wet wool, and every sound feels sharper than it should. But the real work starts when the call comes down the line: “Illumination fire.” That’s when the battlefield changes. Charge bags checked twice — because if anything must stay dry, it’s them. Wrong charge, wrong height, and you light up the wrong patch of earth or worse — you leave the Marines and Infantry blind in the dark. The layer leans in, finding a sky he can’t see, trusting the map, the angles, and the Number One’s voice. “Stand by…” and the night waits. The gun fires, and the world explodes into daylight — a white flare blooming overhead, drifting down on its parachute like a ghost lantern. Shadows stretch long and strange, and for a few minutes the battlefield is laid bare for the lads moving forward. Then darkness again, as if the night is angry you dared to interrupt it. Round after round, flare after flare, you keep the sky alive — lighting the way for men who trust you more than they trust the moon. And when the last illum burns out and the stars return, you feel it — that quiet pride of knowing you were their eyes when they needed them most.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 8:24 AM UTC

ThePoppiesStillBloom

"Night Firing"

By LongJohn Night firing has its own kind of tension — a quiet that isn’t peace, just the world holding its breath waiting for the first order. You work by touch at first, hands knowing the gun better than your eyes ever could. The dark presses in, thick as wet wool, and every sound feels sharper than it should. But the real work starts when the call comes down the line: “Illumination fire.” That’s when the battlefield changes. Charge bags checked twice — because if anything must stay dry, it’s them. Wrong charge, wrong height, and you light up the wrong patch of earth or worse — you leave the Marines and Infantry blind in the dark. The layer leans in, finding a sky he can’t see, trusting the map, the angles, and the Number One’s voice. “Stand by…” and the night waits. The gun fires, and the world explodes into daylight — a white flare blooming overhead, drifting down on its parachute like a ghost lantern. Shadows stretch long and strange, and for a few minutes the battlefield is laid bare for the lads moving forward. Then darkness again, as if the night is angry you dared to interrupt it. Round after round, flare after flare, you keep the sky alive — lighting the way for men who trust you more than they trust the moon. And when the last illum burns out and the stars return, you feel it — that quiet pride of knowing you were their eyes when they needed them most.

55

By LongJohn They told us it’d be character building. They weren’t wrong — just dishonest about how much character they planned to build in one go. Commando training wasn’t a course, it was a long conversation between your body and your willpower, with your body shouting, and your willpower pretending it couldn’t hear. Rain? A constant. Cold? A lifestyle. Mud? A religion. But somewhere between the log runs, the rope climbs, the endless yomps that made your legs question their contract, you realised something— you weren’t breaking— You were sharpening. And when you finally earned the right to stand beside the Marines as a Gunner — not an honorary anything, but a Commando Gunner — you felt it in your bones. Not pride exactly. More like belonging. A quiet, stubborn truth that you’d gone through the same hell and come out the other side still standing, still laughing, still ready for whatever came next. And when the green berets nodded at you like you were one of their own, you didn’t need a speech or a ceremony or a pat on the back. You just nodded back — because respect, real respect, doesn’t need noise.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 8:35 AM UTC

ThePoppiesStillBloom

"Commando Gunner"

By LongJohn They told us it’d be character building. They weren’t wrong — just dishonest about how much character they planned to build in one go. Commando training wasn’t a course, it was a long conversation between your body and your willpower, with your body shouting, and your willpower pretending it couldn’t hear. Rain? A constant. Cold? A lifestyle. Mud? A religion. But somewhere between the log runs, the rope climbs, the endless yomps that made your legs question their contract, you realised something— you weren’t breaking— You were sharpening. And when you finally earned the right to stand beside the Marines as a Gunner — not an honorary anything, but a Commando Gunner — you felt it in your bones. Not pride exactly. More like belonging. A quiet, stubborn truth that you’d gone through the same hell and come out the other side still standing, still laughing, still ready for whatever came next. And when the green berets nodded at you like you were one of their own, you didn’t need a speech or a ceremony or a pat on the back. You just nodded back — because respect, real respect, doesn’t need noise.

48