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

---

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

The sky cracks open

like an old photograph,

each flash a sharp reminder

of the silence we can’t outrun.

Fireworks are just bombs

with better PR,

but we still stand,

mouths agape,

staring at the chaos above,

wondering if we’ll ever

look at the sky

without waiting for it to fall.

(c)BobChristian