It’s coming to that time of year again, when we remember some past events and celebrate certain others.

This can be a very stressful time of year for some of us, not only for our furry friends and wildlife creatures who can’t speak up for themselves, but also for those brave individuals that have seen active service and who, along with many others suffer from PTSD.

Please do consider buying silent fireworks – they’re just as good, but have no bangs to cause such distress. Or if the bang is that important to you, maybe go to a formally organised display? I do get it, though; I was young once, and incidentally I was almost taken out by a firework, at which point my mate’s grandad sat in his wheel chair and said: “That was exciting, wasn’t it.”

Anyway, whatever you decide, can I just ask this of you … have a heart.

Remember

In the corner of the room, ears pinned back,  
The world outside explodes in bursts.
Fiery blooms paint the night sky.  
Each bang is a monster, unseen but felt.
Like the ghosts in the veteran’s eyes,  
Whispering stories of battles past.  
I curl tighter, a small ball of fur and fear,  
As he sits, eyes distant, heart pounding,  
Two souls caught in the echoes of thunder,  
Seeking refuge in the silent spaces between.

(c)BobChristian

This is the first result of several of the competitions I’ve entered this year. So I’m very proud to announce I managed an honourable mention.

Around two decades ago, following the advice of a therapist, I decided to write my feelings down in a journal. I was having some trouble in processing my emotions, and the therapist believed it would help me.

I did this for a while, and gradually, I began to take the things I’d written, and turned them into what I called scribbles, but the very few people I showed called it poetry.

These original ideas were fundamental in helping me make sense of what would turn out, ten years later, to be a formal diagnosis of Autism and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The therapist was right … my scribbles really did help me to process and explain my feelings. I started writing more earnestly, sometimes for family members, but I mostly hid them away for myself. It was only after reading a piece I had written and performed about my niece when I became one of her responsible adults (godparent) that people asked me where I’d found that piece of poetry. I was genuinely surprised at how complimentary they were, and it made me think that maybe I could write more, and start sharing it wider.

I kept writing until I had enough to put together in a book, which I called Behind the Mask. I also took a pseudonym, as I was writing about some very personal and emotional stuff. My pen name was based on a man who meant the world to me – my first real male role model; my maternal grandfather, W S Christian. Incidentally, I really don’t like that book now, as it was very rough, basic and extremely angry. It reflected where I was in my life at that time (2004).

I had neither read poetry previously, nor had any interest in it, other than writing it as a means to help myself mentally. However, that changed when I came across a group of poets on YouTube from the Button Poetry stable. Neil Hilborn and another poet called Guante, aka Kyle Tran Mhyre. These people weren’t producing the “Lonely as a cloud” type old-style works that I thought of as ‘real’ poetry. This was fresh, angry, and discussed topics of mental health and other societal issues.. things that really resonated with me. I was hooked. After listening to Guante’s poem “Ten responses to the phrase man up” I wrote my own version, called “Cheer up”. I was so sick of people telling me that I needed to think happy thoughts to cure my suicidal depression. People who didn’t grasp the concept of clinical depression, and it made me really furious. Guante, thank you for the inspiration, and I sincerely apologise for my effort back then!

Twenty years and one hell of a lot of hard work later, after many late nights and frank discussions with my ‘creative director’ over the direction of my work, and if I’m honest, me being a total diva at times, I feel as if I’m evolving into the kind of poet I’ve longed to be, I’m writing slam style free verse poems about things that matter to me and my peers, or current affairs. I’ve finally found my voice, and I need to now try to use it as a force for good.

As part of that evolution, I’ve done live reads at literary festivals and been named on a poster for an event, and published five poetry books. More recently, thanks to the encouragement of my wife, (the lady you all call Mrs Bob) I’ve had the courage to submit my work for competitions and publications.

So far I ’ve had a couple of the pieces I submitted accepted for various literary projects, I’ve had an honorable mention in another competition., and I’m not finished yet. This year, I’ve made it my mission to really go for it and see what I can achieve.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you believe in yourself the way others believe in you , you will achieve so much more than you ever dreamed possible. Who knows, one day I may be able to do this writing full time – that’s the dream. Live performances are always going to be difficult for me, due to my condition, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

I want to say thank you… to the people that inspire me, the people that believed in me, and ones who’ve supported me. I appreciate it so much.

Stay Safe

BC

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