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About Bob W Christian

I’m Bob Christian; a husband, father, grandfather and cat dad. I’m a dyslexic poet. I am on the Autism Spectrum and I started writing poetry, or scribbles as I’ve always referred to them, to help me to process my thoughts and emotions. It’s also helped with my PTSD. It’s gone from there and after over 20 years is still going strong, I’m now finally dabbling in to photography as I’ve been told I have a good eye.

Be more pheasant

What are your favourite animals?

This is a really easy one for me. (Felis catus)

It’s cats without a shadow of a doubt, they’re the perfect companion for me. They’re not needy and I don’t have to walk them. I’ve nothing against walking, it’s just that everyone wants to stop you and talk if you have a dog. I’m not a social creature.

Cats are hard work emotionally as you have to earn their respect and they go out and walk themselves, sometimes bringing (half eaten) presents to plonk on your bare foot that’s hanging outside the duvet at 0230hrs. Does it show that I’m talking from experience?

They’re adorable…

Exhibit A “Little One”

The only downside side is that when you lose one, it hurts like hell.

Side note.

My Spirit Animals (or honourable mention) are Pheasants. They aren’t the brightest, can’t really fly, but they try to anyway, and look fabulous too.

I think we should all try to embrace our inner Pheasant. So let’s look fabulous and try doing that thing. You know, the one you’ve always been putting off.

If it doesn’t work you’re still fabulous!

Stay safe x

Father of Modern Physics

If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?

There’s so many figures from history I’d love to meet. So narrowing it down to just one person is particularly hard. That being said, I think I would have to go with Albert Einstein

The reason I have chosen him is that as someone who’s worked in science roles and has a love of quantum mechanics or theoretical physics. I’d love to just sit and discuss with him, the fact that his work has influenced so many lives and technological developments such as GPS, or his Nobel prize for photoelectric effect in 1921.

It’s about listening to yourself

Do you trust your instincts?

I tend to listen to my instincts, but sometimes I need a little help. At which point I reach for my oldest (20 yrs) and most trusted deck of tarot cards.

(Magician card)

While I do trust my instincts i usually find my cards will agree with my gut. The real trick is listening to your body and going with it.

October

What’s your favorite month of the year? Why?

I love October as it’s the best of the Wiccan Sabbats or holidays.

Yes I’m talking about Samhain or Halloween.

It’s the one holiday where the veil between living and dead is thinest and we remember those loved ones we’ve lost.

It’s also a great time to dress up and have a little fun before the nights really draw in and the cold winter days and nights set it.

Excerpt from “The Night the Dead Walk”

(Exclusive to Dark poets and buy me a coffee)

They told you Halloween was candy and costumes
cartoon witches, plastic masks, porch lights.
They lied.
This is Samhain, the true night.

Dark poets “Track 13”

This year, The Dark Poets Club had a new and interesting competition. The rules are simple… impress the judges with a dark poem, using fifty words or less.

This was a serious challenge for me as I’m usually quite loquacious in my pieces! I had to take a scalpel out and cut the words to its bare bones.

I trimmed and trimmed until I had a scribble called “Track 13”. It’s not for th faint-hearted, so please keep this in mind.

TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide


Track 13

My brain’s a broken record,

Skipping on the same cracked groove.

Just jump”, it whispers, “what’s left to prove?”

The rope, a promise. The chair, a stage.

One last breath before turning life’s final page.

A silent film fading to black.

No rewind.

No coming back.

(c) Bob Christian2025

Whispers of The Veil

(A Samhain Invocation)

The veil thins like torn silk,

Frayed at the edges where shadows crawl,

Night spills its ink across the sky,

And for once, just this once,

We are not afraid of the dark.


The air crackles with an ancient breath,

Whispers from the underworld rise like smoke,

Curling through the cracks in the ground.

It is the night when the dead wear their names again,

When skulls sing songs of forgotten fire.


We gather under the black eye of the moon.

Our hands hold more than candles,

More than just wishes…

We hold the weight of our ancestors;

The quiet knowing of those who’ve crossed the line

Between flesh and spirit.


They walk with us now;

Feel them, as the wheel spins faster. 


A circle, drawn not in chalk but in salt,

In blood, in sweat, in the body of the Earth.

Samhain.  

The turning. The cutting.

The breaking open of the time between times.


I reach out with my soul; my tongue; my fingers.

This is not a feast;

Not a dance for the living.

This is an invocation;

A celebration of endings and beginnings.


The magick is in the silence.

The waiting.

The listening for the footsteps that have long faded.

Yet we still hear them, don’t we?

In the crunching of the leaves; the rustle of the wind. 


Tonight, we are the bridge.

The living tether between two worlds.

The words we whisper are not for the living;

They are for the dead.

And the dead are listening. 

(C)BobChristian