Bob W Christian has been writing poetry for more than 20 years. He started as a way to help to process his thoughts and emotions as an autistic man, and to address the impact of CPTSD. As he wrote, and slowly gained the confidence to share his poems, he was given incredibly positive feedback, which spurred him to write more. During that time, he has written six books, and had numerous guest publications in books and magazines around the world. His work has earned several accolades recently, including recognition in the Dark Poet’s Club 2025 competition. Alongside poetry, Bob enjoys photographing nature and birds, and is often praised for his keen eye behind the lens. A husband, father and grandfather, he regularly shares his observations, reflections and creative work through his personal blog, The Ramblings of Bob Christian.
Share a story about someone who had a positive impact on your life.
The people who had the biggest impact on my life?
Not the rich ones. Not the famous ones. Not the loudest in the room.
It was the quiet people.
My grandfather, teaching me that being a good man had nothing to do with muscles or money and everything to do with kindness, honesty, and turning up when it mattered.
My wife, who’s stood beside me through storms I wouldn’t have survived alone.
My children and grandchildren, who unknowingly taught me that love is measured in presence, not presents.
And strangely enough… a handful of poets on a screen late at night, showing me that words didn’t have to be polished to be powerful. That broken things could still speak.
Funny really.
Most people who shape us never realise they’re doing it.
People talk about it like it’s always something huge. Life-changing moments. Breaking chains. Standing on mountaintops shouting at the sky while dramatic music plays somewhere in the background.
But truthfully?
I think freedom is usually much smaller than that.
And far more important.
Because when someone asks me what freedom means, my mind doesn’t go to politics or grand speeches. It goes to ordinary moments most people barely notice anymore.
The little things.
Freedom is waking up naturally before the alarm and realising you’ve nowhere urgent to be for once.
It’s that first sip of coffee when the house is quiet and nobody wants anything from you yet.
It’s putting your phone on do not disturb and not feeling guilty about disappearing from the world for an hour or two.
It’s laughing loudly in your own home without worrying what the neighbours think.
It’s driving with no destination because your head needs clearing more than your shopping needs doing.
Funny enough, the older I get, the more I realise freedom has very little to do with having everything.
It’s more about not feeling trapped by everything.
Not trapped by expectations. Not trapped by appearances. Not trapped by trying to please people who would never be pleased anyway.
That sort of freedom changes you.
You stop apologising for needing rest. You stop explaining yourself to everyone. You stop carrying every argument around like it’s your responsibility to fix the world.
And there’s peace in that.
Real peace.
I think many of us spend years chasing some imaginary version of happiness without noticing life has already been quietly offering it to us in tiny pieces.
A walk in fresh air. Rain against the windows. The smell of proper coffee. Music that takes you backwards in time. The sound of people you love laughing in another room.
Those moments matter.
More than the expensive stuff. More than the online nonsense. More than keeping up appearances for people who barely know us.
That, to me, is freedom.
Being able to breathe properly in your own life.
To feel calm in your own skin.
To stop performing for the world and simply exist as yourself without constantly feeling like you’re falling behind at something.
Maybe freedom isn’t loud after all.
Maybe it’s quiet.
Maybe it’s simply reaching a point in life where peace means more to you than proving anything to anyone.
Not because of party politics, but because of character, leadership, and the damage I believe he has done to ordinary Americans.
In my view, he has deepened division, openly enriched himself and the wealthy elite, and shown very little regard for the hard working people who actually build and sustain America.
As a veteran, I also find his comments about fallen soldiers being “suckers and losers” deeply offensive and impossible to ignore. Especially from someone whose family wealth helped him avoid military service himself. That speaks volumes to me about respect, sacrifice, patriotism, and integrity.
Then there’s the long-documented association with Jeffrey Epstein and the infamous “grab them by the pussy” remarks about women — comments that revealed a level of arrogance, misogyny and disrespect I simply cannot support from any public figure, let alone a president.
Leadership should unite, serve, and elevate people. I believe America deserves far better.
People ask this question as if life comes with a neat little ordnance survey map.
Five-year plan. Ten-year projection. Colour-coded ambition. A LinkedIn post with a sunrise photo and the words “grind now, shine later.”
But if there’s one thing fifty years on this spinning blue green space marble has taught me, it’s this:
Life rarely sticks to the plan.
And honestly? I’m alright with that now.
The 9–5 Plan? Retirement.
Simple as that.
Not because I hate work. Not because I’ve suddenly developed dreams of becoming one of those people who drinks wine at noon and talks about property prices.
But because after decades of alarms, routines, deadlines, and dragging yourself through days even when your head or body isn’t entirely on board…
You start to realise peace has value too.
At fifty, my career plan for the day job is retirement somewhere on the horizon. Not a dramatic exit. No fireworks. No emotional farewell montage.
Just quietly stepping away from the grind and finally exhaling properly.
I think there comes a point where you stop measuring success by productivity and start measuring it by time.
Time to think. Time to breathe. Time to notice things again.
And I’d quite like a bit more of that.
But Here’s The Important Part…
Retirement isn’t the end of anything for me.
It’s the beginning of focusing on the things that actually make me feel alive.
The scribbles. The photography. The side hustle that never really felt like work in the first place.
Poetry has been with me for over twenty years now — helping me process the noise in my head, the chaos of life, and all the things that are easier written than spoken.
And photography?
That’s become another way of slowing the world down long enough to really see it.
A bird balanced on a branch. Morning light through the trees. A face caught in an honest moment.
Tiny fragments of life most people rush straight past.
So What’s The Plan?
The plan is simple.
Work less. Create more.
I want the poetry and photography to become the thing I pour myself into once the 9–5 finally fades into the background.
Not because I’m chasing fame. Not because I expect to become some millionaire artist living in a converted lighthouse drinking artisanal coffee.
But because creativity gives me purpose.
And purpose matters.
Especially as you get older.
I don’t think people talk enough about that part of retirement — the need to still be something beyond your former job title.
Some people garden. Some travel. Some spend their days playing bowls, or bingo in the village hall.
Me?
I’ll probably still be scribbling in notebooks and crouching awkwardly in bushes trying to photograph birds that absolutely refuse to stay still long enough for a decent shot.
And honestly… that sounds pretty perfect to me.
Success Looks Different Now
When I was younger, career plans sounded bigger.
More ambitious. More impressive.
Now?
Success looks quieter.
A peaceful morning. A camera in hand. Words flowing onto a page. Enough time to enjoy the people I love. Enough headspace to appreciate ordinary days.
That’s the goal.
Not endless hustle. Not climbing another ladder just to discover it’s leaning against the wrong wall.
Just a life with a little more meaning… and a little less noise.
So what’s my career plan?
Retire from the job.
Lean fully into the art.
Keep writing. Keep photographing. Keep finding beauty in ordinary moments.
And if I’m lucky…
Spend the next chapter of life doing the things that made surviving the earlier chapters worthwhile.
The last live performance I saw was Judge Jules at The Foundry — and what a night that was.
There’s something magical about live music when the bass kicks in, the lights blur, and for a few hours the outside world fades into obscurity.
Judge Jules absolutely owned the room; the energy was relentless, nostalgic, and uplifting all at once, and the atmosphere was pure electric. It’s like you were among old friends (that you’d only just met) who like you were just there for the music.
As someone who spends most of his time buried in poetry, photography, and thought, it was great to step into pure noise, rhythm, movement and a state of musically induced euphoria for a change.
Sometimes the soul needs a poem… and sometimes it just needs a dance floor.
People often (wrongly) assume community involvement has to mean standing on a stage in front of the local press with a giant cheque, organising massive events, or constantly shouting about “making a difference.”
Truth is, I think it usually starts much smaller than that.
For me, one of the biggest things I try to do is support local businesses whenever I can. Independent cafés, market traders, small shops, local creatives — the people who put their heart and soul into what they do.
Places with character. Places with stories. The sort of places that still remember your name when you walk through the door. That sense of community and connection is something I value deeply, and it’s something I’ve written about before when talking about places like the market in Totnes and the small family-run cafe culture I love so much.
I shop local because I genuinely believe communities survive through the people willing to invest back into them.
And because I have a platform through my writing and social media, I also try to publicly promote local businesses, markets, events, and good people doing good things. Sometimes all it takes is sharing a post, recommending somewhere to others, or encouraging people to support independent traders instead of automatically heading to the big chains. Small gestures matter more than people realise.
The other side of my community involvement is a little quieter.
I’m a member of a fraternal organisation — Freemasonry — and while it’s often misunderstood, one of the biggest parts of it is charity and supporting local causes. Over the years, we’ve helped raise money for community groups, local charities, and people who simply needed a hand when life became difficult.
It isn’t something I talk about constantly, because I’ve never believed charity should be performative, but it’s something I’m proud to be part of. The sense of brotherhood, mutual support, and community responsibility genuinely means a lot to me.
At the end of the day, community involvement doesn’t always have to be loud.
Sometimes it’s supporting the local café instead of the (tax avoiding) multinational.
Sometimes it’s sharing someone’s business page because you know they’re struggling.
Sometimes it’s quietly raising money behind the scenes for people who need it most.
And sometimes it’s simply showing up consistently for the place and people around you.
What’s a job you would like to do for just one day?
Funny question, that.
Because my first instinct is to say something sensible, something practical. Something that sounds like it belongs on a CV rather than in a silly daydream.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from scribbling my way through life, it’s that the honest answers are rarely the sensible ones.
So here it is—
If I could do any job for just one day… I’d spend it looking after giraffes.
Not for the glamour (I imagine there isn’t much when you’re elbow-deep in hay and whatever else comes with the territory), but for the quiet of it. The kind of quiet you only really get when you’re stood beside something that doesn’t rush, doesn’t shout, doesn’t demand explanations.
Just… exists.
There’s something about the idea of it that feels right.
Feeding them, watching those impossibly long necks sway as they move, seeing the world from a slightly different height—literally and otherwise. No emails. No noise. No rushing about trying to keep up with everything.
Just you, a creature that couldn’t care less about your worries, and a moment that asks nothing of you except that you’re there.
And maybe that’s the point.
Not the giraffes, really—though I wouldn’t complain—but the stillness. The stepping outside of your own head for a while.
Because sometimes, the best job in the world… is just one that lets you breathe a little.
Pull up a chair, grab a coffee… and let’s have a little natter about brands.
Not the flashy, billboard-plastered, “look at me” kind of brands. Not the must have ones that shout the loudest or charge the earth.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt while muddling my way through life, it’s this:
Comfort beats style. Every. Single. Time.
The Truth About “Favourite Brands”
I’ve been asked before—what’s your favourite brand?
And the honest answer?
I don’t really have one.
Never have.
Never really felt the need for one either.
You see, I’ve never been one for chasing labels or trying to keep up with whatever’s currently strutting its stuff in shop windows. Life’s complicated enough without worrying whether your T-shirt has the “right” name stitched into it.
Give me something that fits well, feels right, and doesn’t make me itch, tug, or regret my life choices halfway through the day… and I’m happy.
Because when you’re comfortable, you’re not thinking about what you’re wearing.
And when you’re not thinking about what you’re wearing… you can just get on with living.
That Said… There Is One That Keeps Turning Up
Now, I did say I don’t really have a favourite.
But if I’m being honest (and I try to be, even when it ruins a good dramatic build-up), there is one that seems to sneak its way into my wardrobe more often than not…
Zoo York T-shirts.
Not because they’re trendy. Not because they make some grand statement.
Just because… they’re comfortable.
Simple as that.
They sit right. They feel right. They don’t try too hard.
And there’s something I quite like about that.
It’s Never Really Been About the Brand
If you’ve spent any time here before, you’ll know I’m not overly fussed about appearances. Never really have been.
Jeans, a T-shirt, and something on my feet that doesn’t complain more than I do—that’s about as complicated as it gets.
Because the older I get, the more I realise…
It’s not about looking the part. It’s about feeling alright in your own skin.
Final Thought (Before the Tea Goes Cold)
So no… I don’t have a favourite brand.
Just a preference for comfort, a soft spot for a decent T-shirt, and a quiet appreciation for anything that doesn’t make life more awkward than it already is.
If it happens to say Zoo York on the front?
Fair enough.
If it doesn’t?
Also fair enough.
Because at the end of the day… it’s just a T-shirt.
List the people you admire and look to for advice…
When people ask “who do you admire?” they’re usually expecting something neat, polished, maybe even a little bit safe.
Those who know me, know that’s never really been my style.
I don’t look up to people who make things tidy.
I look up to the ones who make things real.
The ones who stand on a stage, or behind a mic, or in front of a page… and bleed a little truth into the room.
The kind of truth that doesn’t sit comfortably.
The kind that makes you shift in your seat.
Or nod a little too hard because, yeah… you’ve felt that too.
For me, that’s people like Kyle Tran Myhre — better known as Guante.
There’s a sharpness to his work. Not just clever for the sake of it, but purposeful. Words aimed like arrows at the things that need questioning. Systems. Assumptions. The quiet nonsense we’re all taught to accept.
He doesn’t just write poetry.
He uses it.
And that matters.
Then there’s Neil Hilborn.
If you’ve ever heard him perform, you’ll know what I mean when I say it doesn’t feel like performance.
It feels like confession.
Messy. Honest. Unfiltered in a way that most people spend their entire lives trying to avoid.
He showed me that poetry doesn’t have to wear a suit and tie.
It can sit on the floor, back against the wall, saying the things you’re not supposed to say out loud.
And Rudy Francisco…
There’s a rhythm to his words that pulls you in before you even realise it. But underneath that rhythm is something deeper.
Compassion. Anger. Humanity laid bare.
The kind of poetry that doesn’t just want to be heard…
It wants to change something.
And that’s the thread that ties them all together for me.
They taught me that poetry doesn’t have to be:
Polite. Stuffy. Or locked away behind big words and bigger egos.
It can be angry.
It can be passionate.
It can be messy as hell.
More than that…
They taught me it can be useful.
Not in the “tick a box” kind of way.
But in the way that it can raise awareness. Start conversations. Shine a light into places people would rather keep dark.
The kind of poetry that says:
“Look at this. Listen to this. This matters.”
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching, reading, and listening to voices like theirs…
It’s this:
Words don’t have to be perfect to mean something.
They just have to be honest enough to land.
Still scribbling. Still learning. Still trying to say something that matters.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 