I was lucky enough recently to join a community set up for the sharing of ideas with other poets, writers, musicians etc. so we could take each others work and create new paintings, demo signs etc for the second No Kings Day.

AMERICA 2026: A USER’S GUIDE

They will say “Freedom“

Like it’s a brand name.

Like it comes prepackaged with an anthem.

And a pair of boots (made overseas).

---

But you know better. You’ve felt it.

Freedom isn’t surveillance with better marketing

It isn’t red, white and blue flash bangs

Disguised as parades.

---

They don’t teach you this in school

Because it doesn’t fit on a standard test.

Democracy isn’t something you inherit,

It’s something you build… Then rebuild.

And then defend with your whole damn soul.

---

So:

---

When they build walls at the border,

High enough to scrape God’s face,

You leave your porch light on.

You bake extra bread.

You learn to say “Welcome” in 10 different languages…

And mean it. 

---

When they outlaw assembly, you gather anyway.

In living rooms. In libraries.

On sidewalk thick with riot gear breath.

When they rewrite history, you write it back. 

On bathroom stalls,

On your grandmother’s voicemail,

In margins, on street corners and cyphers.

---

There are no kings here. Only mirrors.

Only questions such as:

What kind of country would call itself free,

But then silence its own heartbeat?

---

Look…

---

Every school board meeting is a revolution in miniature

Every librarian who won’t pull the band book

Is a warrior.

Every sunflower planted in the shadow of a drone

Is an act of refusal.

---

This is not a manual.

This is a mixtape for the days when it’s hard to remember

That kindness can be resistance too.

But the real anthem is how we hold each other

When no one is watching.

(c)HiramAspliff

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

---

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

This piece was originally written for the Dark Poets competition III where it went on to achieve a shortlist. It’s an incredibly personal scribble, but my dark poetry is like that; I guess it’s a form of therapy. (Since then it’s been featured in a number of other publications.)

---

“Hello Old Friend”

I’ve met you in hospital rooms,  
Where the air hums with the rhythm of machines,  
And the fluorescent lights paint shadows  
On walls that remember every whispered goodbye.  
You sat in the corner,  
Silent,  
Patient,  
While I tried to bargain breaths for a chance at life.

I’ve seen you in the rear view mirror,  
A flash of headlights on rain soaked roads,  
The roar of a motorcycle cutting through the night,  
Your touch like a lover’s whisper,  
Close enough to feel the chill,  
Yet distant,  
Like a promise not yet fulfilled.

We’ve danced in the space between heartbeats,  
In the pause where life hesitates,  
Waiting for the next pulse,  
The next inhale,  
The next moment that says,  
Not today.

You are the stranger at the end of the bar,  
The familiar face in the crowd,  
The one who knows my stories without words,  
Who nods in understanding,  
As if to say,  
I’ve been here before.

So when you came to my door,  
With your suitcase of silence,  
I was not afraid.  
I opened it wide,  
And welcomed you in,  
Like an old friend returning,  
After years of wandering.

We sat together,  
In a room that held memories like stars,  
In the quiet where breaths become echoes,  
And I knew,  
This was not an ending,  
But the echo of an embrace  
That had waited lifetimes to be felt.

(c)BobChristian2022