If you’re reading this,

it’s probably because the world has grown teeth again.

Sharp ones.

And someone, somewhere,

has mistaken their fear for scripture.

---

I want to tell you something,

and I want you to remember it

like your own name in your own voice.

You are not a mistake.

You are not a contradiction.

You are not a sin

that snuck past the gates of Heaven

wearing a hoodie, and hoping not to be seen.

---

You are divine

in ways the pages of their ancient book

forgot how to describe.

You are every sunrise

they never looked up to witness.

You are love

before it’s been broken down

into rules, revisions, and red tape.

---

Listen to me very carefully,

because the world won’t always say it this plainly.

There is nothing wrong with you.

Not your softness.

Not your sharpness.

Not the way your truth

refuses to fold itself

into smaller shapes

just to make other people comfortable.

---

Some people will try to turn

Their Deity into a weapon

and aim it at you.

So remember,

anything that demands your erasure

to prove its holiness

is neither holy, nor worth your time.

---

Their sermons

are not stronger than my love.

Their bigotry

is not bigger than your light.

You never have to shrink to survive,

not while I have breath.

I will always stand

between you and their stones.

---

I will always be the place

you can come back to,

even if your voice is shaking,

even if your hands are tired

from building yourself over and over

in the aftermath of their ignorance.

And if anyone tells you

that your existence is an offense to their God,

look them in the eyes, and tell them:

---

“My father (who art in Devon) taught me

that love doesn’t need permission.”

We died.

Which is wild

because death is way too organized

for something that dramatic.

Clipboards.

Carbon copies.

A final “sign here please”

on the dotted line of our chests.

---

Turns out

“‘til death do us part”

wasn’t a metaphor –

it was a legally binding break-up clause.

---

Nobody warned me that love came

with terms and conditions.

Nobody told me that forever

had an asterisk the size of a heartbeat.

---

So now we’re single.

Technically.

---

Same café.

Same chipped mug.

Because habits are harder to kill than people,

and my heart still orders caffeine

like it never got the obituary.

---

You hover by the almond milk

like a multiple-choice question

we both answered wrong,

while we were alive.

---

You say, “hey!”

that thin, careful syllable

people use

when they’re not sure

they’re allowed to miss you yet.

---

Half-ghost.

Half-regret.

All the years we never unpacked.

---

You ask if I want to get coffee sometime…

like we didn’t already share toothbrushes,

like eternity didn’t just hit

the reset button

and hand us amnesia with good lighting.

---

I laugh… and

spill my whole damn soul on the counter.

Then say something stupid.

Because love has always turned me

into a human typo.

---

I say,

“Only if you’re buying”.

---

And just like that,

we’re dating again.

---

Not because we’re lonely.

Not because we’re scared of the silence.

---

But because even death

looked at us and said,

“Yeah… I don’t know where to file this”.

---

Some loves just don’t end.

They only lose their bodies;

learn how to haunt politely,

and keep showing up

Because the universe

forgot to evict them.

---

(c)BobChristian

Today the stores are full of flowers
wrapped in plastic smiles.

Card aisles rehearsing a script
about what a mother is supposed to be—
soft hands, warm hugs,
unconditional
written in pink cursive like it’s a guarantee.

But I know kids
who learned the word mum
by pointing
at someone
who didn’t give birth to them.

And nobody prints cards for that.

Nobody prints a card that says:
Thank you for staying
when leaving
would’ve been easier.

Or:
Thank you for showing up to the parent-teacher conference
while the teacher keeps calling you aunt…
like love only counts
if the DNA matches.

Some people think motherhood
is biology.

Like it’s hidden in blood cells,
stitched into last names,
certified by hospital bracelets.

But I’ve seen mothers
who never stepped foot in a delivery room.

I’ve seen mothers
learning to braid hair at midnight
from a YouTube tutorial
because the kid needed it done
in the morning.

I’ve seen mothers
working double shifts
then coming home
to help with the homework
they never got the chance
to finish themselves.

I’ve seen mothers
who were really grandmothers,
neighbours,
big sisters,
step-parents,
foster parents,
teachers with extra snacks in their desk
for the kid who swore they “weren’t hungry.”

I’ve seen mothers
in rain-soaked bleachers
screaming that’s my kid
with a voice loud enough
to argue with the whole world.

Because motherhood
is not nine months.

It’s the years after.

It’s packed lunches.
Late-night talks.
Text me when you get there.
I’m proud of you.

Tiny sentences
that stitch courage
into a child’s spine.

So today,
if you celebrate Mother’s Day

celebrate the woman who stayed.

The one who made space at the table.
The one who learned your fears
like a second language.

The one who chose you
again
and again
and again.

Because blood
might start a family.

But love—

love is the hands that stayed
long after the world said
they didn’t have to.

That’s a mother.
Even if the hospital
never wrote her name down.

(c)BobChristian

Last year I entered the Dark Poets Prize IV, with a poem called “The Garden Stirs”.

This is the sequel to my award-winning piece, called “The Eternal Garden of Shadows”.

Both of these pieces are part of my Life of Shadows series, which is currently a collection of seven poems, and I am adding to it at the moment.

I’m pleased to say that “The Garden Stirs” earned me a shortlist spot with the Dark Poets Club.

Peace is a liar.

It wears a mask of soil and silence,

But beneath the garden, something breathes.

Not worms. Not rot.

Something that remembers my hands. 

The farmhouse walls groan in tones too close to your voice.

At night, I hear footfalls in the hall…

Not the echo of my own,

But yours, dragging like broken promises. 

The mirror is the first traitor.

Where once I saw resolve, now your grin.

Eyes black, glistening with remembered laughter,

The kind that came before pain,

Before the belts, the cellar, the ‘lessons’.

I dug your grave deep,

But the earth is a poor keeper of secrets.

It whispers at dusk,

Sings lullabies in your tone, off-key and venomous. 

I burn sage. Salt. Books. My skin.

Nothing stops the smell of you:

Leather, sweat, basement mildew,

The musk of unholy patience

As you waited for me to cry. 

I found dirt on the floor by my bed.

Handprints leading to the wall.

No child’s, no animal’s.

The shape is familiar

I remember those fingers around my throat. 

Your voice is bolder now.

Less whisper, more command.

You tell me I did it wrong

That the grave is yours, but the punishment is mine.

I weep. The house shakes with laughter. 

I no longer sleep. I dig.

Every night, the same garden.

The same screams.

Not from below

From me. 

And the earth is getting soft again.

Something’s trying to come through.

Not worms. Not rot.

Something that remembers my hands.

(c)BobChristian

To Mrs Bob.

I thought I was whole
because I managed to stay alive in my own skin,
because I learned how to stand without shaking,
but I was wrong.

Endurance isn’t the same thing as arrival.
I didn’t know that then.
I thought standing alone was strength,
like isolation was proof I could never break.
Like I didn’t need anyone
to catch me when the world tilted sideways.

Then you showed up.

You didn’t fix me.
You didn’t bring a cape or a toolkit,
didn’t slap a label on me that said husband upgrade
or emergency masculinity.

You just stood next to me
and suddenly,
the darkness inside me started speaking in colors.

You are not my missing piece.
You are the language
my scattered, broken pieces
finally agreed to speak.

Before you,
I loved like a man afraid to love,
hands half-open,
heart still under lock and key,
as if the good things were borrowed
and scheduled to vanish before I could say thank you.

You taught me that love doesn’t wait at the door
it kicks it open,
moves in,
makes itself at home
and brews coffee before I even wake up.

You didn’t need to interpret my silences
you understood them.
You saw the parts of me that weren’t ready for words
and never once made me feel less
for still being under construction.

You didn’t complete me
by stacking yourself on top of who I was
you completed me
by pointing out the spaces I was hiding
because I was afraid I’d disappear.

With you,
I’m louder
without ever shouting.
Softer
without apologizing.
Braver
in ways that don’t need to rattle the earth to feel real.

You look at my mess
and call it a room
we can live in.

You turn quiet mornings
into proof that joy doesn’t need a crowd—
just two people,
choosing each other,
over and over again,
like breathing.

Loving you
feels like letting go of breath I’ve held for years-
like finally exhaling and realizing I never had to hold it.

I’m still me.
You’re still you.

But together,
we make a life that finally knows how to tell the truth.

And if someone asks how my wife completes me,
I’ll say this:

She didn’t fix me.
She didn’t make me whole.
She showed me I was already whole,
and taught me how to love myself like I always was

(c)BobChristian

It’s the middle of the night,
And I’m here, half-frozen,
Lying in the icy abyss of my side of the bed,
While she
The Duvet Bandit
Sleeps like a queen on her fluffy throne,
Curled up in the warmth of her stolen kingdom,
Oblivious to the tundra she’s left behind.

Each night it’s the same.
I think tonight,
Maybe tonight,
I’ll win the war.
I’ll slip under the duvet,
Feel the warmth,
Pretend this battle’s mine.

But she
She moves like a ninja in the dark,
A half-sleeping contortionist,
Tugging the duvet with the grace of a thief,
Taking the heat,
Leaving me with nothing but the cold,
A crisp reminder of her skill.

I could protest.
Start a midnight negotiation
“Hey, that’s my side!”
But look at her
Blissfully unaware,
Curled up,
In her fortress of fluffy dreams.
She doesn’t even know she’s won.
She’s in heaven,
And me?
I’m freezing,
But I’m smiling.

This
This is love.
This is the dance we do,
Night after night.
Her stealing the duvet,
Me, the coldness.
But somehow
Somehow
Her happiness wraps around me like a blanket too.
A little warmth in the chaos.

So I let her have it,
Let her keep it
The duvet,
The warmth,
The night.
Because in the morning,
She’ll stretch,
Give me that sleepy grin,
Like she’s just done me a favour.
“Thanks for lending me your half.”

She may steal the duvet,
But she never leaves me cold.
Because at the end of the night,
It’s not the duvet that keeps me warm,
It’s her love,
Her laugh,
Her way of finding her way back to me
Even if it’s just to swipe a little more.

(c)BobChristian

(Legal: Mrs Bob may or may not be guilty of duvet and or blanket theft)

We let the morning ring out
like an alarm clock that learned our names
and decided not to embarrass us.
Sunlight leans through the blinds
pitching productivity like a pyramid scheme.
We mute it.
Your shoulder is a country
I keep renewing my passport for.
We inventory the silence,
find it fully stocked.

I practice stillness
like it’s a vow I plan to keep.
Outside, errands pace themselves.
Inside, we go missing on purpose.
Someone once told me love isn’t fireworks
it’s the couch or a bed, the long exhale,
choosing the ordinary
and calling it holy.

(c)BobChristian

As we near the shortest day of the year, The Winter Solstice, and, more importantly (to me) my wedding anniversary, I usually write a scribble with Mrs Bob in mind. After all, a poem is for anniversaries, not just for valentines. So with that in mind, I give you…

Your Smile, the First Magic I Ever Believed In

Your smile is the kind of spell

That doesn’t ask permission. 

It just shows up,

Soft as a sunrise;

Huge as a meteor;

Certain as breath;

And suddenly, the whole room forgets

Whatever storm it was carrying. 

---

I swear, when you smile, gravity gets confused. 

The air lifts as if remembering an old song,

And my heart – that stubborn, earthbound,

Boots-in-the-mud heart –

Starts flipping like it got tired of pretending it doesn’t care. 

---

People talk about magic as if it’s hiding in a forest, 

Or pressed between book pages,

Or locked behind ghosts with Latin names. 

But magic – real magic –

Is simpler than all that myth-making. 

---

It’s the way your mouth curves like a crescent moon;

Teaching the dark how to unclench.

It’s the way the corners of your eyes crinkle

Like tiny arrows pointing to a doorway

Into warm-lit rooms,

Where love leans back and offers you a seat. 

---

Every time you smile,

Something in my chest loosens.

Like kindness remembering its own pulse;

Like hope peeling off its armour.

Because, for once, 

The world has stopped swinging at me. 

---

There are still sparks that refuse to go out. 

Still reasons to inhale at beauty. 

So, if you ever wonder what you are to me, know this :-

Your smile is the first magic I ever trusted…

The one spell I hope I never stop

Falling

Under. 

(C)Bob W Christian

---

As we near the shortest day of the year, The Winter Solstice, and, more importantly (to me) my wedding anniversary, I usually write a scribble with Mrs Bob in mind. After all, a poem is for anniversaries, not just for valentines. So with that in mind, I give you…

Your Smile, the First Magic I Ever Believed In

Your smile is the kind of spell

That doesn’t ask permission. 

It just shows up,

Soft as a sunrise;

Huge as a meteor;

Certain as breath;

And suddenly, the whole room forgets

Whatever storm it was carrying. 

---

I swear, when you smile, gravity gets confused. 

The air lifts as if remembering an old song,

And my heart – that stubborn, earthbound,

Boots-in-the-mud heart –

Starts flipping like it got tired of pretending it doesn’t care. 

---

People talk about magic as if it’s hiding in a forest, 

Or pressed between book pages,

Or locked behind ghosts with Latin names. 

But magic – real magic –

Is simpler than all that myth-making. 

---

It’s the way your mouth curves like a crescent moon;

Teaching the dark how to unclench.

It’s the way the corners of your eyes crinkle

Like tiny arrows pointing to a doorway

Into warm-lit rooms,

Where love leans back and offers you a seat. 

---

Every time you smile,

Something in my chest loosens.

Like kindness remembering its own pulse;

Like hope peeling off its armour.

Because, for once, 

The world has stopped swinging at me. 

---

There are still sparks that refuse to go out. 

Still reasons to inhale at beauty. 

So, if you ever wonder what you are to me, know this :-

Your smile is the first magic I ever trusted…

The one spell I hope I never stop

Falling

Under. 

(C)Bob W Christian

---