By Bob W Christian

 

In this relentless circus of headlines and chaos,

A tweet isn’t just a tweet, it’s a Molotov cocktail;

Igniting wildfires in the minds of millions.

And there he stands, the world’s biggest victim and victor.

A jester with a crown, screaming injustice at every trial,

Trials that flicker, fade, then explode again.

Witch hunts, they call them. Justice wrapped in a shroud of spectacle.

Still, he wears resilience like a badge;

A fortress against the barrage of scrutiny.

 

In this landscape, this barren wasteland of soundbites,

Where leadership’s been bought and sold like cheap perfume

He stands: scapegoat and king.

A smudge of division across the canvas of humanity.

Yet he claims the stage,

A marionette controlled by other hands,

Reflecting us back at ourselves.

And it’s ugly. It’s raw.

The tapestry of humanity shredding at the seams.

 

Forget the policies, forget the platforms.

This is about the soul of the office,

The gravity of every word hurled into the void.

Each rally cry reverberating, breaking glass ceilings.

Echoes that remind us power is a tool,

Capable of more than constructing walls.

Capable of bridging chasms;

Of stitching together the wounds that fester

If we dare to look past the glittering spectacle.

 

The stage is a battlefield of bravado,

Lines aren’t just drawn, they’re chiselled into stone.

Fragmenting unity’s fragile foundation.

This twisted game of thrones,

Where empathy is slaughtered on the altar of ego,

We yearn for a leader, not a puppet.

Someone who can rise above the noise,

To hold space for every voice;

To be the light in this suffocating darkness.

 

We deserve more than a cartoonish figure,

More than a leader swathed in fear and loathing.

We need someone who listens – really listens,

Who builds bridges, with hands wide open,

Who feels the pulse of our collective heart,

Not from a gilded throne, but with the earth beneath their toes.

We reach for a future where every heartbeat counts,

Where we stand, not in judgment, but in unity.

Embracing the raw, beautiful possibility of connection,

In a world where everyone belongs.

(c)BobChristian

This is an open letter, I sent to my sperm donor sorry biological father, after years of wanting to say how I felt towards him. (Note I’ve edited out names & places to protect innocent parties)

Father

Well, I say ‘father’, but let’s face it, you haven’t been a father to me, have you?  You walked out on us all, but worse, only a few years ago, I was told that after Grandad, your father, died, you had instructed your legal official that I am “not a member of the family, he’s just someone who’s tacked my name onto the front of his surname, for financial gains”. You formally disowned me as your child. 

My only memories of you are of an almost bipolar-type parent. One minute you were coming in from work all smiles and laughter – play fighting; the next, throwing plates at the wall and using it as an excuse to storm out and go to back to the pub. The rages and violence to mum and me only stopped  when you finally snuck out of the family home while I slept, on the night before Mother’s Day. A nice touch. 

You had left to go to your new family – your new girlfriend, her kids and my half-sister. You let me stay with you, until she made you choose between them and me. Of course, you chose them, and you left me at my mother’s, in the garage, with a damaged watch and some money to ring you if mum didn’t turn up. She did, of course. She always did turn up. 

I’m angry that you discarded me so easily, without a thought.

I’m angry at the repeated broken promises you made to me as a young child. Repeatedly failing to show up to spend time with me at weekends. I’m sure you always had an excuse handy, but I waited for hours for you and you never showed up.

You refused to pay your fair share for your children… me and my little sister. I remember so clearly how you would wait until the very last point… until the bailiffs were taking action to make you pay the maintenance you were required to pay. Then, and only then, making the minimum payment, so that the games could continue.

When I split from the mother of my two children, I went without food to make sure they had what they needed. That’s what a decent parent does, but I guess you don’t understand that.

All that combined is pretty low by anyone’s standards, but to have yet another child by a third woman, and tell her she’s an only child when she is actually one of FOUR, is simply cowardly and disgraceful. Your own parents told me they thought that was despicable.

I’ve nothing against my half sisters, it’s not their fault. It’s yours. You have denied your children the chance to know each other as children, and fed misinformation to the youngest. Fake news has nothing on you.

Anyone might think that I’d be messed up by all these things and your serious drink problem. I’m the eldest and remember much more about your behaviour than my little sister. Well, I’d like to say two things to you……

1) Thank you, for showing me how NOT to do things as a parent. I’m by no means the perfect father – I have made mistakes like any man. But I have learned from my mistakes and accept responsibility for them. You do not, and never have. I have learnt from all of your vile behaviour about how to look after and support my offspring financially and emotionally. I know how to be a decent and loving father and grandfather. You have missed out on so much.

2) Despite everything negative that you’ve done, and all the things you haven’t done as a father, grandfather and great grandfather, I wish you no ill will. I’ve had my own tough times but I’ve become a well-balanced, happy and stable individual. I’ve made a successful career, have a wonderful life near the sea.

I want you to know that I forgive you. I feel sorry for you and your struggles with alcohol. It’s a battle you’ve fought hard since I was a small child and it’s an illness. I hope that one day you’ll get some help, and maybe find clarity, strength and some inner peace from the demons that still haunt you.

In the ink of night, where shadows dance like whispers,  
Rides the Dullahan, headless, relentless.
Upon a steed as black as the void it carries.  
Eyes that are not there, see everything.
A mouth that does not speak screams silently.
For he is the herald of death,  
The unyielding messenger of the inevitable.

The road stretches endlessly under the moon’s cold gaze,  
As if the earth itself shudders at his coming.  
The Dullahan rides, a figure draped in darkness,  
Where laughter dies in the throat,  
Where hope flees like a hunted thing.  
He holds his head high, cradled like a grotesque lantern,  
Its grin wide, eyes rolling… searching
For the soul he seeks; for the life he will claim.

The air hangs heavy with the weight of his curse.
The clatter of hooves a dirge,  
An echo of finality that chills the marrow.  
Villages dare not whisper his name,  
Lest they summon his wrath;
Lest they feel the sweep of his unseen gaze.

No lock can bar his path.
No gate can halt his ride.  
For the Dullahan is unbound by the chains of the living,  
A spectre of grim purpose;
A harbinger of the end we all must meet.

And when he halts,  
When his steed rears before a trembling door,  

Silence falls like a shroud,  
And the air thickens with dread.

Yet, even as the Dullahan rides on,  
There is a flicker of something more.  
A mirror to our own mortality;
A reminder that the end is not an end,  
But merely the dark side of the moon.
A passage to the unknown.

So, listen for the hooves in the night.
Feel the chill that climbs your spine,  
And remember:  
The Dullahan rides for us all,  

One by one,  
Until the end of time.

(c)BobChristian

The three stages of life: Youth, manhood, old age. The reaper uses his scythe To sever the thread of life,

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I once told my wife she was wrong. Yeah, that only 

happened once.  

The walls took a deep breath like they were about to dive into drama,  

The clock decided to take a coffee break.

Even the cat gave me that “Dude?” look  

before moonwalking out of the room.

(c)BobChristian

A fluffy feline, all cuteness and coos,

Lulls the world with her innocent ruse.

But when the lights dim, a switch she flicks

Her furry façade hides her secrets and tricks.

---

For under the moonlight this agent elite

Prowls with a purpose, a master of sneak.

Leaping through shadows, her movements so fleet,

Unraveling mysteries, the world at her feet.

---

This furry ‘James Bond’, this cat of intrigue,

Keeps the world safe, though she acts like a geek.

By day she’s a kitten, all purrs and delight,

But by night she’s a warrior ready to fight!

(C)BobChristian