I stand here, 

My promise hanging in the air

Like a ghost. 

My words echoing in my mind 

“I’ll see you again, I promise.” 

But life has a way of rewriting our scripts, 

And I never got the chance to say 

Goodbye.

 

You were the man 

Who taught me the art of stories.

Who could weave magic with paint.

Your laughter a warm blanket 

On cold winter nights, and now…

There’s an empty chair at the table.

An absence that feels like a weight 

That I can’t shake.

 

I thought we had time.

I thought there would be more moments.

More days filled with your wisdom.

But time slipped through my fingers, 

Like sand; like your last breath 

I never got to witness.

And I’m left here, clinging to memories 

That feel too fragile to hold.

 

The hurt wraps around me, 

A heavy cloak of guilt, 

Because I promised you, 

And I wonder if you heard me?

If you knew I meant it.

If you felt my heart breaking from a distance.

If you smiled that knowing smile 

And whispered, “It’s okay.”

 

But what if it’s not okay? 

What if the weight of my absence 

Is something you carry, too? 

What if the silence between us 

Is filled with unspoken words?

With the “I love yous” 

That got lost in the shuffle of life?

 

I’m haunted by the doubt, 

The what-ifs that circle like vultures:

What if I had been there? 

What if I had made that call? 

What if I had held your hand 

Just one more time 

And whispered all the things 

That now hang heavy in my chest?

 

But deep down, 

I know you’d forgive me. 

You always did. 

You were a man of grace, 

A wellspring of understanding, 

And I can almost hear your voice, 

Soft and steady, saying, 

“Don’t carry that burden, let it go son.”

 

It’s hard to let it go, grandad.

It’s hard to release the guilt.

To accept that life is unpredictable;

That love doesn’t always come with guarantees.

But I carry you with me.

In every laugh, 

In every tear, and in every moment

I feel the weight of your absence.

 

I remember you, 

And I find comfort in the thought 

That you’re watching, 

That you’re still here, 

In the spaces between breaths, 

In the love I give,

In the stories I tell, 

In your name.

 

So I’ll carry you with me, 

Not as a weight, but as a reminder 

That promises might falter, 

But love endures.

That forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves, 

And that one day, when the time is right, 

I’ll see you again.

Not as a ghost, but as a part of everything I’ve become.

(c)BobChristian2020

In December last year, a small group of poets I belong to online, (I say small, but there’s 400 or so) came up with an idea. Each person could submit up to two poems to the group each month for a year, and a prompt would be sent each month to remind you, if you took part. Then at the end of the year, all of those pieces submitted would form an anthology – the group’s second, as far as I know. The resulting book would then be sold to raise money for charity.

This is the second, and hardest, of the two projects I’ve embarked on this year. I’m pledging to create one poem each month during 2025 to help the group with this worthy cause.

The other project I’m involved in is an anthology called “Fragments of an Unquiet Mind”. This is an anthology about mental health – a subject with which I have some experience. I have written about it in many forms through the years. This will also be sold for charity.

I feel very privileged to be able to be involved in projects like these; joining with other poets to make a real difference with my scribbles.

A while ago I told you that I’d entered a competition being held by the Dark Poets Club. I was very pleased to be given an honourable mention and publication on social media by them.

It’s a piece called “Eternal Garden of Shadows”, which is from a collection of pieces that I’ve called “Life of Shadows“.

These are some my darker scribbles, and this particular piece is very dark… it contains references to violence, torture and murder, which some people will find distressing. Please be aware of this.

Eternal Garden of Shadows

Forty years, an eternity carved into flesh,

Each second a ghost haunting the corners of my mind.
In the mirror, I see the boy who never was,
Eyes hollowed, innocence gutted by your hands.

The old white farmhouse, its paint faded,
A tombstone for a childhood lost.
You, a spectre of rot and decay,
The monster I vowed to unearth.

Your voice, a sickening melody,
Tries to weave webs of pity and remorse.
But I am no longer that broken child,
I am vengeance personified; relentless; unyielding.

Dragging you through the threshold,
The air thick with memories of screams,
Your body, frail and trembling,
The fear in your eyes gives a dark satisfaction.

Each blow, a symphony of bone and blood,
Your flesh a canvas for my rage.
You convulse, a marionette on frayed strings,
Every scream a note in the requiem of your sins.

In the barn, tools of torment rusted by time,
I find new purpose, each blade a deliverance.
I carve your guilt into your skin,
Every cut a ledger of pain unpaid.

You beg, a pitiful creature,
Words slurred through shattered teeth.
But mercy died with my innocence,
And I am the hollow echo of your cruelty.

Dragging you to the garden,
The earth cold, unfeeling, like my heart.
The shovel, heavy with intent,
Tears into the ground, a grave yawning open.

Your pleas – desperate, animalistic,
Fall on ears deafened by torment.
Buried alive, the soil swallowing your terror,
Hands clawing the earth, your futile grasp at salvation.

In the silence, I hear your muffled screams,
A symphony of suffering, eternal.
The flowers above, nourished by your decay,
Bloom in grotesque irony; beauty born from horror.

The farmhouse remains a monument to retribution,
Its silence a testament to justice served.
Forty years of shadows dispelled by your cries,
Now buried in the garden, your purgatory. My peace.

(C)BobChristianpoetry

I’m very proud to announce that my next book of poetry is now available on Amazon; in both old school paperback, and kindle format. It’s also on Kindle Unlimited.

This book has been around four years in the making, and I’m certainly looking forward to seeing what you think of it. People that have read bits have loved it, but as it’s not what I’ve done previously, I’m interested to see how it’s received.

I’m also getting my work published now, and scored an honourable mention and published piece for a Dark Poetry competition. I’m pleased, as it was (as the name suggests) for dark subjects. I still like to write that style of scribbles every so often.

2025 sees my fiftieth birthday, which I’m excited about, and I wanted this book to mark that.

So I present to you, “Solace & Light” (Fifty trips around the sun). Please let me know what you think.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DS9J4XYP?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_mwn_dp_ARPRQTGCEWC8QD493HMK&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_mwn_dp_ARPRQTGCEWC8QD493HMK&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_mwn_dp_ARPRQTGCEWC8QD493HMK&language=en_US&skipTwisterOG=1&bestFormat=true

This is a brand new literary and culture magazine who have kindly included one of my pieces in their first issue.

I’m thrilled to bits! If you’d like to take a look, you can purchase it from their online store, below:

https://aeos.bigcartel.com/

The place where I work is by the side of a river (The Dart). There are many trees along the bank, so we have lots of wildlife, including a group of squirrels. They all have their own characters; that being said, I was trying to work on Friday morning when there was an awful racket coming from the trees outside.

There was a squirrel sat on a branch outside my window, shouting at me!

I’m guessing he was cross, but as I’m not fluent in squirrel, I’m going to say he was emotional and passionate about something. I threw some squirrel peanuts in shells down for him, and he gathered them up and scampered off. I scribbled some ideas down.

Squirrel – Part One

A squirrel outside my office window, a tiny dictator,  
Perched on the ledge, tail twitching with indignation,

Eyes locked on me, his tiny paws gesturing wildly,  
Like a furry Napoleon demanding a donation, nuts his only currency.  
“Hey, human!” his chittering seems to say,  
“Did you forget our contract? I provide the entertainment,  
You provide the peanuts. Now, look at this empty tray!  
Am I a joke to you? My acrobatics aren’t free, you know!”

Part Two

In the corner of the warehouse,  
A squirrel perches, unseen.
Tail flicking like a metronome,  
Watching the human tap away,  
Wondering if this is what freedom looks like?  
A desk, papers, and a coffee cup,
While he has acorns to bury,  
And dreams of having more than he can eat.

(C)BobChristian

It’s coming to that time of year again, when we remember some past events and celebrate certain others.

This can be a very stressful time of year for some of us, not only for our furry friends and wildlife creatures who can’t speak up for themselves, but also for those brave individuals that have seen active service and who, along with many others suffer from PTSD.

Please do consider buying silent fireworks – they’re just as good, but have no bangs to cause such distress. Or if the bang is that important to you, maybe go to a formally organised display? I do get it, though; I was young once, and incidentally I was almost taken out by a firework, at which point my mate’s grandad sat in his wheel chair and said: “That was exciting, wasn’t it.”

Anyway, whatever you decide, can I just ask this of you … have a heart.

Remember

In the corner of the room, ears pinned back,  
The world outside explodes in bursts.
Fiery blooms paint the night sky.  
Each bang is a monster, unseen but felt.
Like the ghosts in the veteran’s eyes,  
Whispering stories of battles past.  
I curl tighter, a small ball of fur and fear,  
As he sits, eyes distant, heart pounding,  
Two souls caught in the echoes of thunder,  
Seeking refuge in the silent spaces between.

(c)BobChristian

This is the first result of several of the competitions I’ve entered this year. So I’m very proud to announce I managed an honourable mention.

Around two decades ago, following the advice of a therapist, I decided to write my feelings down in a journal. I was having some trouble in processing my emotions, and the therapist believed it would help me.

I did this for a while, and gradually, I began to take the things I’d written, and turned them into what I called scribbles, but the very few people I showed called it poetry.

These original ideas were fundamental in helping me make sense of what would turn out, ten years later, to be a formal diagnosis of Autism and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The therapist was right … my scribbles really did help me to process and explain my feelings. I started writing more earnestly, sometimes for family members, but I mostly hid them away for myself. It was only after reading a piece I had written and performed about my niece when I became one of her responsible adults (godparent) that people asked me where I’d found that piece of poetry. I was genuinely surprised at how complimentary they were, and it made me think that maybe I could write more, and start sharing it wider.

I kept writing until I had enough to put together in a book, which I called Behind the Mask. I also took a pseudonym, as I was writing about some very personal and emotional stuff. My pen name was based on a man who meant the world to me – my first real male role model; my maternal grandfather, W S Christian. Incidentally, I really don’t like that book now, as it was very rough, basic and extremely angry. It reflected where I was in my life at that time (2004).

I had neither read poetry previously, nor had any interest in it, other than writing it as a means to help myself mentally. However, that changed when I came across a group of poets on YouTube from the Button Poetry stable. Neil Hilborn and another poet called Guante, aka Kyle Tran Mhyre. These people weren’t producing the “Lonely as a cloud” type old-style works that I thought of as ‘real’ poetry. This was fresh, angry, and discussed topics of mental health and other societal issues.. things that really resonated with me. I was hooked. After listening to Guante’s poem “Ten responses to the phrase man up” I wrote my own version, called “Cheer up”. I was so sick of people telling me that I needed to think happy thoughts to cure my suicidal depression. People who didn’t grasp the concept of clinical depression, and it made me really furious. Guante, thank you for the inspiration, and I sincerely apologise for my effort back then!

Twenty years and one hell of a lot of hard work later, after many late nights and frank discussions with my ‘creative director’ over the direction of my work, and if I’m honest, me being a total diva at times, I feel as if I’m evolving into the kind of poet I’ve longed to be, I’m writing slam style free verse poems about things that matter to me and my peers, or current affairs. I’ve finally found my voice, and I need to now try to use it as a force for good.

As part of that evolution, I’ve done live reads at literary festivals and been named on a poster for an event, and published five poetry books. More recently, thanks to the encouragement of my wife, (the lady you all call Mrs Bob) I’ve had the courage to submit my work for competitions and publications.

So far I ’ve had a couple of the pieces I submitted accepted for various literary projects, I’ve had an honorable mention in another competition., and I’m not finished yet. This year, I’ve made it my mission to really go for it and see what I can achieve.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you believe in yourself the way others believe in you , you will achieve so much more than you ever dreamed possible. Who knows, one day I may be able to do this writing full time – that’s the dream. Live performances are always going to be difficult for me, due to my condition, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

I want to say thank you… to the people that inspire me, the people that believed in me, and ones who’ve supported me. I appreciate it so much.

Stay Safe

BC

By Bob W Christian

 

In this relentless circus of headlines and chaos,

A tweet isn’t just a tweet, it’s a Molotov cocktail;

Igniting wildfires in the minds of millions.

And there he stands, the world’s biggest victim and victor.

A jester with a crown, screaming injustice at every trial,

Trials that flicker, fade, then explode again.

Witch hunts, they call them. Justice wrapped in a shroud of spectacle.

Still, he wears resilience like a badge;

A fortress against the barrage of scrutiny.

 

In this landscape, this barren wasteland of soundbites,

Where leadership’s been bought and sold like cheap perfume

He stands: scapegoat and king.

A smudge of division across the canvas of humanity.

Yet he claims the stage,

A marionette controlled by other hands,

Reflecting us back at ourselves.

And it’s ugly. It’s raw.

The tapestry of humanity shredding at the seams.

 

Forget the policies, forget the platforms.

This is about the soul of the office,

The gravity of every word hurled into the void.

Each rally cry reverberating, breaking glass ceilings.

Echoes that remind us power is a tool,

Capable of more than constructing walls.

Capable of bridging chasms;

Of stitching together the wounds that fester

If we dare to look past the glittering spectacle.

 

The stage is a battlefield of bravado,

Lines aren’t just drawn, they’re chiselled into stone.

Fragmenting unity’s fragile foundation.

This twisted game of thrones,

Where empathy is slaughtered on the altar of ego,

We yearn for a leader, not a puppet.

Someone who can rise above the noise,

To hold space for every voice;

To be the light in this suffocating darkness.

 

We deserve more than a cartoonish figure,

More than a leader swathed in fear and loathing.

We need someone who listens – really listens,

Who builds bridges, with hands wide open,

Who feels the pulse of our collective heart,

Not from a gilded throne, but with the earth beneath their toes.

We reach for a future where every heartbeat counts,

Where we stand, not in judgment, but in unity.

Embracing the raw, beautiful possibility of connection,

In a world where everyone belongs.

(c)BobChristian