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.
Whether calling the army “camping” makes it… well… camping.
And the answer?
Yes.
But only in the same way a storm is “a bit of rain.”
Because life has a funny way of dressing things up in softer words. We take something harsh, something structured, something built on discipline and grit… and we wrap it in a term that feels familiar. Comfortable. Almost harmless.
Camping.
Like a weekend away. A flask of tea. Maybe a dodgy tent and a damp sleeping bag.
But this isn’t that.
This is early mornings that don’t ask if you’re ready. It’s mud that doesn’t care about your boots. It’s carrying more than you think you can, and then being told to carry a bit more.
And yet…
Strip it back, and what is it really?
You’re outside. You’re sleeping rough. You’re dealing with the elements. You’re learning what you’re made of when the comforts are gone.
It’s not at a desk. Not in front of a screen refreshing emails like it might suddenly mean something.
It’s when I’m in the shed.
There’s something about stepping into a space that’s unapologetically mine—tools within reach, half-finished ideas lying around, the quiet permission to make a mess. No expectations. No noise. Just the rhythm of doing. You pick something up, you start, and before long you’re deep in it—completely unaware of time slipping past.
Or I’m behind the camera.
That’s a different kind of focus. Sharper. More deliberate. The world narrows to a frame, and suddenly everything becomes about light, timing, and instinct. Photography has this way of pulling you into the present—forcing you to see rather than just look. And in that moment, you’re not thinking about productivity… you just are productive.
I’ve found that productivity isn’t about squeezing more into your day. It’s about being in the right place—physically and mentally—where things flow without friction.
I’ve got loads of other interests, then sure there’s Life, memories, the usual things maybe even the weather. There’s one topic I love, comics? That’s the constant. That’s the thing that never really fades into the background.
It started years ago with Watchmen—the moment I realised comics weren’t just colourful distractions. They were layered. Thoughtful. Sometimes darker than anything else on the shelf.
And then there’s Batman.
No powers. No shortcuts. Just discipline, intellect, and a refusal to quit. That’s what makes him interesting. Not the cape—the mindset.
So if you ever wonder where the conversation’s heading…
It’ll probably circle back to Gotham.
And I won’t apologise for that.
Stay safe
Bc
Ps incase your wondering
Adam West was my first Batman. I mean the Anti Mechanical Shark Repellent, it was iconic and better than the other two previous tv Batmen
Rob Pattinson is my favourite, as controversial as it maybe, I loved his first outing and combined with Penguin I loved it. I think it’s got a Zero Year or No Mans Land sequel vibe.
Issue Five of AEOS Magazine is out now. Its bold collection of art, literature, and original talents. There’s even a poem of mine nestled in the pages.
If you’d asked me 15 years ago what “risk” looked like, I’d probably have pictured something dramatic.
You know the sort of thing… Skydiving. Quitting a job on a whim. Throwing caution to the wind and hoping the universe catches you.
But life—real life—rarely deals in those neat, cinematic moments. It’s usually quieter than that. Messier. Less obvious.
And the biggest risk I ever took?
Well that was packing up what I owned, and everything I knew… and moving all the way to Devon.
Not for a job. Not for convenience. Not because it made perfect, logical sense on paper.
But for her.
Mrs Bob.
Now, I won’t dress it up as some grand heroic leap.
It didn’t feel brave at the time.
It felt… uncertain.
Leaving behind the familiar—your routines, your places, the little corners of the world that feel like yours—it has a way of rattling you. Even more so when you’re someone who already finds the world a bit loud, a bit overwhelming at the best of times.
There’s comfort in the known. Safety in the predictable.
And I walked away from that.
Because sometimes life gives you a choice.
Stay where it’s safe… Or go where your heart is pulling you.
And the truth?
I didn’t know how it would turn out.
There was no guarantee. No neat little roadmap. No voice from above saying, “Go on, this one works out.”
Just a feeling.
A quiet, stubborn certainty that this was someone worth risking it for.
And here’s the part that matters.
I don’t regret it. Not for a second.
Because what I found wasn’t just a new place—it was a life.
A shared one.
The kind built in small, ordinary moments… the kind I’ve come to realise matter far more than any grand plan. The routines, the laughter, even the occasional chaos—those are the things that quietly shape a life into something meaningful.
People talk about risk like it’s all adrenaline and big gestures.
But sometimes…
The biggest risks are the quiet ones.
The ones where you choose love over certainty. Where you step into the unknown, not because you’re fearless—but because something matters more than the fear.
Moving to Devon was one of those moments.
A gamble, if you like.
But some gambles don’t feel like losing, even when they’re uncertain…
It’s funny, the things that can knock you off balance.
Not the big, dramatic moments. Not the obvious stuff you can see coming a mile off. Life has a way of dressing those up with warning signs, flashing lights, a bit of build-up so you can brace yourself.
No… it’s the quiet ones that get you.
The ones that slip in under the radar.
The ones that arrive with no context, no explanation, and absolutely no warning.
“Can we talk?”
That’s it.
No follow-up. No tone. No hint as to whether you’re about to be congratulated… or maybe fired.
Just four words, dropped into your day like a stone into still water.
And suddenly, your brain does what brains do best…
It fills in the gaps.
Badly.
You replay every conversation you’ve had in the last week.
Was it something you said? Something you didn’t say? Did you miss something obvious? Did you accidentally offend someone without even realising?
Your mind doesn’t just go to one possibility either—it goes to all of them.
Simultaneously.
Like a greatest hits album of worst-case scenarios.
The thing is—and I’ve learned this the hard way more times than I care to admit—most of the time, it’s nothing.
Or at least… nothing close to what your brain has cooked up.
But that doesn’t stop the initial jolt.
That little spike of unease.
Because, as I’ve scribbled about before, it’s often the unexpected that throws us the most .
We like a bit of warning. A bit of context. Something to hold onto so we’re not just guessing in the dark.
“Can we talk?” with no warning is the conversational equivalent of being told to wait outside the headteacher’s office as a kid.
You don’t know why you’re there.
But you’re fairly certain it can’t be for anything good.
And maybe that’s the real point.
It’s not the conversation itself that makes you nervous.
It’s the space before it.
That gap where your mind is left to wander… and inevitably wanders somewhere it shouldn’t.
So if you ever find yourself about to send that message to someone, do them a favour.
Give them a clue.
Save them the internal meltdown.
Because trust me…
Their brain has already written ten different versions of that conversation.
I’m not here to preach about algorithms or strategies. No complex tutorials, no tips for “growing your following.” I’ve always believed in keeping things simple. So here it is, straight from the heart:
I use social media to raise awareness of my poetry and photography. That’s it.
I’m not chasing likes or trying to go viral. I don’t have a content calendar or a carefully crafted aesthetic. What I do have is a passion for my craft, and social media is the platform I use to share it with you. It’s as simple and raw as that.
Platforms like Instagram and TikTok are my canvas. They’re not perfect — they’re messy, sometimes chaotic, but that’s what makes them real. They let me share my work, let it breathe, and find its way into the lives of people who might never have found it otherwise.
And that’s the magic of it. It’s not about being polished or chasing numbers; it’s about creating a space for my poetry and photography to live and evolve in real-time, without the constraints of traditional publishing.
Sometimes, a post will be nothing more than a quick snapshot of a fleeting moment, paired with a line that feels just right. Other times, I’ll share a more personal reflection — a deeper dive into the thoughts behind the work. But each time, it’s about sharing the essence of what I do.
No bells, no whistles. Just me, my art, and the quiet hope that it resonates with someone out there.
So, how do I use social media? I use it to share what’s in my heart. To give my poems and photos a home beyond the walls of my studio and to create something real and unfiltered, just for you.
And if one of my words or images makes you pause, even for a second, then I know it’s all worth it.
That’s how I use social media. Simple, honest, and always from the heart.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 