About Bob W Christian

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.

Mother

Posted on 7 Mar 2021 by Bob W Christian

By Bob Christian

Mother

My mother has something about her.
By day, a sense of dedication
She worked hard to provide a happy home.
By night, she desperately tried to keep a vicious
Monster hidden from her children’s tender eyes.

She would always tell us not to worry.
Working two jobs to provide for us,
When our father wouldn’t. This was the woman
Who loved me, even when I couldn’t love myself.
She carried my burdens for me.

Now I’m fully grown, and I know how hard
It is to parent two children well, I’m even more
In awe of her. She sometimes talks so much,
I wonder how she can breathe.
But I’m just grateful I can still hear her.

45

Posted on 8 Jan 2021 by Bob W Christian

The greatest trick this devil ever pulled
wasn’t smoke, wasn’t mirrors—
it was the algorithm.

It was teaching you to doubt your own pulse.
Convincing you the fire alarm is just
background noise.
Convincing you the cage is a corner office
with a flattering filter.

Perception becomes policy.
Policy becomes posture.
Posture becomes prayer.

And suddenly
up is a rumor,
down is a conspiracy,
and truth is a freelance contractor
waiting on late payment.

We scroll past the smoke.
We double-tap the collapse.
We outsource our outrage
to a headline written in disappearing ink.

No one stops to ask
why the air tastes metallic.
No one wants to inventory
an unpleasant existence—
it’s easier to binge another distraction,
another blue-lit anesthesia
dripping from the ceiling of the feed.

Facts grow thinner.
So thin they’re transparent.
So transparent they pass through bone
without resistance.

You blink—
and the blink is curated.
You blink—
and the world has been gently rearranged
like furniture in a house you swear you know.

They call it perspective.
They call it balance.
They call it both sides.

But it feels like standing in a funhouse
where every mirror insists
you are the distortion.

And somewhere, softly—
almost kindly—
a voice says:

Don’t think too hard.
Don’t look too long.
This is normal.
This is fine.
This is freedom.

We repeat it
because repetition feels like stability.
We repeat it
until the echo sounds like evidence.

So tell me—

When the ground shifts
and the headlines applaud,
when the lie wears a flag
and the truth wears fatigue,

is it all fake news—

or did we just forget
how to see?

(c)BobChristianpoetry

Solutions

Posted on 6 Sep 2020 by Bob W Christian

By Bob W Christian

Please don’t worry, this isn’t written about me, it’s about a close family member.

My morning coffee.
Unlike me, is strong.
I say morning, actually
It’s when I come round.
After another of those,
Unforgettable nights.
I just can’t remember.

Strength, something
I lost years ago. Now
A way of measuring.
How much solution,
Is poured out. While
Revisiting the regrets.
In this endless story.

I’ve told anyone who’d
Listen. While continually
Poisoning myself, slowly,
Desperately. Fighting the
Inevitable. One last shot,
To stop my life, becoming
A sad statistic of addiction.

(c)BobChristianpoetry

Snapshots

Posted on 16 Aug 2020 by Bob W Christian

by Bob W Christian

So many memories left here.
Photos – a snapshot of you.
Pieces of paper, scattered.
Your essence lingering on,
Haunting this old house.

Reading your scribbled words:
Always thought this moment
Would come without warning.
Waiting for the right time could
Take forever, you see.

We both know it’s been coming
For a while now. It’s not you, it’s
Me. It’s kept me awake trying to
Tell you. I’ve been scared for a
Long, long time now.

I can’t understand how we can
Forgive each other, for words not
Spoken until it’s too late, while trying
To move forward with our lives.
What would Social Media say?

How can someone be around one
Minute, then disappear? How do I
Cope with the disappointment of all
The things I didn’t accomplish?
It‘s best I go. All my love always.

The end, then? Or a beginning?
A whole new chapter in your life?
Left, wondering. Searching for
Clues. Will I ever know
The end of your story?

(c)BobChristianpoetry

Haunted

Posted on 2 Aug 2020 by Bob W Christian

By Bob W Christian

If this place could talk,
The stories it would tell!
Trapped within these
Walls for their eternity,
Gliding along corridors.

Pictures gathering dust,
Snapshots of the past.
This gallery of memories,
Life frozen, doomed to be
Repeated on an endless loop.

Voices call to me from
Empty rooms. Ghostly
Echoes from the past.
Whispers from beyond
My reality, now falling silent.

Memories, emotions,
Regrets. Forever
Haunting me.

(c)BobChristianpoetry

Panic Disorder

Posted on 2 Aug 2020 by Bob W Christian

By Bob W Christian

Here we are again.

You.
Me.
The silence between us loud enough to rupture my ribs.

I call you companion because calling you monster
feels like admitting defeat.
Feels like saying you win.
Again.
Again.
Again.

You’ve given me so many nightmares,
I should be charging rent for all the nights you’ve made a home in my head.
I wake up sweating through the sheets
like maybe if I soak them enough, you’ll drown in the flood.
Spoiler alert:
You don’t.

Your memories play on loop in my skull,
like a cursed mixtape I never asked for.
And every time I press eject,
you just laugh
and rewind.

I thought I’d outgrow you.
Like acne.
Like imaginary friends.
Like bedtime fears and monsters under the bed.
But instead, you crawled into the bed.
Under my skin.
Built a goddamn shrine in my mind and lit candles for every time I tried to forget.

Aren’t I supposed to be a grown-up now?
Aren’t I supposed to be brave?
Aren’t I supposed to know how to lock the door to my own brain?
Because that’s where you live.
That’s when you thrive
when I’m alone
inside my own skull.

You’ve haunted me like clockwork,
never missing a season,
never skipping a visit.
We’ve grown up together, side-by-side.
Not friends.
More like…
cellmates.

I’ve tried evicting you.
Kicking you out.
Burning the lease.
But you always come back,
like a cockroach in winter,
like bad WiFi,
like me.

Still you’re my oldest companion. I’ve tried
Staying awake, hoping you’d sleep before me.
Tried drowning you – you’ve learnt to swim.

Always awaiting your return now.
I guess
this is what forever feels like
when you don’t get to choose who stays.

(c)BobChristianpoetry

Here lies

Posted on 25 Jul 2020 by Bob W Christian

By Bob W Christian

I remember the day that
Time, like your life,
Stopped. Your body,
Laid out like your
Obituary.

Paragraphs of your
Life for all to read.
Documenting the lies
The excuses, the games,
Played.

Hide and seek champ
37 years running
Away. Stretching
Truths, ducking all
Responsibilities.

When it’s my time,
I’ll can rest in peace
knowing, I may be no
angel. Still, I’m nothing
Like you.

Hoarding

Posted on 18 Jul 2020 by Bob W Christian

Misplaced. Stashed. A collection
There’s a use for everything here –
Lost but never forgotten.

It’s here somewhere, Amongst
Ceiling-high papers, seemingly
Empty boxes, or In a cupboard.

Searching room by room, almost
Drowning in a labyrinth of memories.
It’s here somewhere, I know it is.

I can’t dispose of it, I might
Need it one day. Until then it
Sits with the rest, gathering dust.

Memories, heartache, evidence of
Past mistakes stack up Hoarding
Emotions, never letting go of pain.

No longer needed, still I’m unable
to discard them. Until they’re too much –
Crashing over, pulling me under.

It started way back in high school. A break
up, losing a loved one. I
Kept them all, not wanting to lose anything.

Ever again, no matter what, how ever
Much it hurt. But it’s time let go now. To Spring
Clean – declutter, before it’s too late.

Time, Gentlemen, please …

Posted on 11 Jul 2020 by Bob W Christian

I’ve spent most of the last decade trying to make a career in an industry in which, let’s be frank, someone on the autism spectrum like me probably doesn’t belong.

Working in customer-facing roles in hospitality, has pushed me way out of my comfort zone, and at times it’s been a huge struggle. Sometimes I’ve been pushed to the point of physical and mental exhaustion, especially during the extremely busy times in summer, But I’ve never given up – I have kept trying and I’ve worked hard at trying to understand all the subtle social stuff: facial expressions, workplace politics and all the things that your average neurotypical person seems to find so easy to understand.
I am proud to say that during my time in this demanding industry, I’ve managed to hold managerial positions. The thing with being in that type of position is that I find some things very difficult.
One – the hours: I’ve been at work for an average of ten and half hours a day, five days a week, always working evenings and Bank Holidays, and often, weekends too. This may not sound much, but when you’re constantly having to socialise – or to “people” as I like to put it – this can be incredibly draining.

Two – the “Peopling” itself. I pride myself on being able to interact with the public – trying to understand them and the subtle hints they drop about things. It’s another thing entirely to spend all day trying to mask and pass yourself off as neurotypical. It makes it even harder when you find that customers have left reviews commenting on my inability to hold eye contact or taste the beer myself (as I’m coeliac and therefore allergic to wheat and barley).
Three – I find it difficult to understand some rather fluid rules. Normally rules are easy to follow. It’s not hard to understand that if you drive drunk, you’ll be arrested and lose your license. But some rules in the hospitality trade seem to be very flexible, and if you get it wrong, it can be a massive deal. Rules that apply to most customers, don’t apply to regulars, or those who the owners know and like. It’s like saying that on certain days, or in a particular coloured car, speeding is acceptable, but those special days and colours can change, without warning. That’s how I feel when I’m told we have certain rules then I’m expected to be able to know when and who those do and don’t apply to. I think even a neurotypical would struggle with this.

All of these things cause me to realise that maybe I would be better in a role where there are set (but not too many) hours, and the rules apply to everyone and everything. I think I could also do better in any given job if people above me were not just aware I’m autistic, but also know how to manage it and maybe even help me develop. I can show them what qualities and positives someone on the spectrum can bring to the table.

So, in light of the current pandemic situation, and the fact that both Mrs Bob & I are at high risk due to lung issues, I’ve made the difficult & emotional decision that it’s time to call last orders on this chapter in my life. It’s a time I will look back on with great nostalgia and a sense of accomplishment that I’ve managed to achieve things that years earlier I would have never thought possible.

I would like to thank those people who took a chance on me and allowed me to show them (and myself) what I am capable of.
It’s time now for a complete career change, and possibly a return to my science and aerospace engineering background. I’m not sure yet. So stay tuned and above all…
Stay Safe X

Old School

Posted on 14 May 2020 by Bob W Christian

Old School

by BobChristianPoetry

I’m an OG.
Original Geek.
Back when geek wasn’t cool—
it was a quiet kind of rebellion.
Back when liking sci-fi was a secret handshake,
and knowing how to fix a floppy disk
was basically a superpower.

I was 8-bit before it was retro,
before Sega had Genesis dreams
and Nintendo hadn’t even found its Power yet.
We had cassette tapes—
forty-eight kilobytes of pure imagination.
You don’t know the struggle
’til you’ve heard the hiss
of a game loading like it’s whispering
its soul into the screen,
’til you’ve waited minutes
for a world to appear—
pixel by pixel—
while your whole weekend
waited behind a dungeon door.

We lived in basements and back rooms,
summoned dragons from graph paper,
fired imaginary bullets with our fingers,
painted miniatures
like we were building gods.
The dice hit the table
like war drums,
like thunder,
like the heartbeat
of a revolution
no one else saw coming.

Mayor West was Batman.
And Batman?
Was everything.
We didn’t just watch heroes—
we became them.
Every lunch table a secret lair,
every hallway a hidden galaxy,
every insult we ate
was just fuel
for the origin story.

I’m talking
D20-wearing,
Sindarin-speaking,
comic-con-craving,
MMO-grinding,
keyboard warrior
with a spellbook in one hand
and a joystick in the other.

I was lore before TikTok.
Canon before cosplay.
I didn’t grow into this—
I was born with it,
wrapped in a cape,
rocking light-up shoes
and quoting Yoda like scripture.

So yeah—
you can wear the title.
Call yourself geek,
nerd,
fanboy,
fangirl,
whatever fits.

But try walking in these pixelated shoes.
Try carrying this legacy
like a lightsaber at your side.
Try loving a thing
so hard
you built whole worlds
just to live in it.

Because me?
I’m not just a fan.
I’m the blueprint.
The origin story.
The one who rolled initiative
before the world knew
what the game even was.

NB You can also call me Rhiluron of Rivendell