Tag Archives: poetry

It’s Your First Time Being Alive

Posted on by
Reply

What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?

Don’t worry if, in your twenties, you don’t know where you’re going.

Honestly.

Most of us are making it up as we go along.

There seems to be this unwritten expectation that by a certain age you’re supposed to have everything worked out. A career. A five-year plan. A purpose. A clear idea of who you are and where you’re heading.

Life rarely works like that.

When we’re young, we somehow expect ourselves to have all the answers despite the fact we’ve barely had time to collect the questions.

It’s your first time being alive.

Be kind to yourself.

I didn’t know who I truly was, or what I wanted my life to look like, until I was nearly forty. Looking back, I spent far too much time worrying that I was behind everyone else.

The truth?

Nobody knows what they’re doing quite as much as they pretend to.

And that’s okay.

Because life isn’t really about the final destination anyway.

It’s about the journey.

It’s about the people you meet along the way.

The late-night conversations.

The road trips.

The laughter that leaves your face aching.

The memories you make with friends and family.

Years later, you won’t remember every deadline, every promotion, or everything you thought was a disaster at the time.

You’ll remember the people.

You’ll remember how they made you feel.

You’ll remember the moments.

Another thing I’d tell my younger self is this:

Learn to love yourself.

Not in an arrogant way.

Not in a “look at me” sort of way.

Just learn to be comfortable in your own skin.

Because once you stop trying to be who you think everyone else wants you to be, and start accepting who you actually are, something wonderful happens.

You can breathe.

You stop fighting yourself.

And that feeling is worth more than you can imagine.

I’d also tell you to let go of grudges.

They’re heavy things to carry.

The person who upset you years ago is probably not sitting at home replaying the argument.

Meanwhile, you’re giving them space in your head they haven’t earned.

They don’t deserve to live rent free in there.

Forgiveness isn’t always about them.

Sometimes it’s about freeing yourself.

So be patient.

Be kinder to yourself than you think you need to be.

Take photographs.

Make memories.

Tell people you love them.

Don’t panic if the map isn’t clear.

Most of us are finding the path one step at a time.

And sometimes the scenic route turns out to be the best one.

Stay safe,

BC

Ps Don’t forget to wear sunscreen

The Glasses I Don’t Need

Posted on by
Reply

I have a pair of glasses.

My glasses

Proper glasses.

You know the sort. You go to the opticians, sit in the chair while someone shines various bits of machinery into your eyes, reads out letters that get progressively smaller, and eventually tells you that your eyesight is apparently not quite as good as you thought it was.

Except…

Mine are a little bit different.

One lens is Plano.

In other words, completely plain. No prescription. Nothing.

The other one had a very, very small prescription in it.

And I mean tiny.

So tiny, in fact, that I’ve now outgrown the prescription altogether.

Technically, I don’t need the glasses anymore.

But I still wear them.

Why?

Because they are my Clarke Kent glasses.

Yes.

Really.

Those of you who know me will already know that I’m a massive comic book nerd, so perhaps this shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

But there’s actually a bit more to it than that.

You see, glasses can create a little physical barrier between me and the world.

Not a huge one.

Nobody looking at me would think, “Blimey, that bloke has constructed a defensive perimeter around himself.”

But they do something.

Much like sunglasses do.

For years, I’ve found sunglasses useful in social situations because they make eye contact easier. They create that tiny bit of separation between me and the person I’m talking to.

I can still see them.

I can still listen.

I can still have the conversation.

But somehow, having something between their eyes and mine makes me feel a little less exposed.

A little less vulnerable.

And that can make a surprisingly big difference.

The problem with sunglasses, of course, is that they’re not exactly practical all the time.

At night?

Not really.

In a dark room?

Probably not.

When it’s raining and the sky looks like it’s personally offended by the existence of daylight?

Definitely not.

And wearing sunglasses indoors can occasionally result in people wondering whether I’m about to perform at a nightclub rather than attend a perfectly ordinary meeting.

So these glasses fill the gap.

They look like normal glasses.

Because, well, they are.

Nobody needs to know that one lens is doing absolutely nothing and the other one is basically on permanent holiday.

They give me that little barrier without making the world around me darker.

And when I’m nervous, particularly if I’m standing on a stage or speaking in front of people, they help.

Stage fright is an odd thing.

You can know exactly what you want to say.

You can have prepared.

You can know that the people in front of you aren’t actually waiting for you to fail.

And yet your brain can still decide:

“Excellent. This is the moment we panic.”

Having my glasses on gives me something.

A tiny bit of confidence.

A little shield.

Perhaps even a psychological costume.

Which brings me back to Clarke Kent.

Because Superman has always fascinated me.

Not simply because he can fly, lift cars and apparently survive being thrown through buildings.

It’s the idea of the alter ego.

Clark Kent puts on a pair of glasses and suddenly he’s just an ordinary bloke.

Nobody looks twice.

Nobody expects him to save the world.

And while I’m certainly not claiming that my glasses give me superpowers

They help me feel like I’m wearing my social armour.

They give me a little bit of distance.

A little bit of protection.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

I think we all have things like that.

Little routines.

Objects.

Clothes.

Jewellery.

Music.

Something we carry with us that makes the difficult things feel slightly easier.

They might look completely insignificant to somebody else.

But they aren’t insignificant to us.

For me, apparently, it’s a pair of slightly ridiculous glasses with one lens that doesn’t need a prescription and another that doesn’t need one anymore.

To everyone else, they’re just glasses.

To me?

They’re my Clarke Kent glasses.

And sometimes, even when you don’t need a prescription, you still need the glasses.

Stay safe,

BC

Productive-ish

Posted on by
Reply


Today was one of those mornings where work didn’t really feel like work.

I headed into town to have a wander around and look at potential locations for an upcoming photography gig for Totnes Pride.

There’s something about photographing an event that makes you look at familiar places slightly differently. Suddenly you’re not just seeing streets, buildings and corners of town, you’re looking for light, angles, backgrounds and those little spots where a photograph might just come together.

Of course, I took the camera with me.

Because apparently I’m incapable of going anywhere without looking at things through a lens these days.

Once the location scouting was done, it was time for the important stuff.

Coffee.

A slow, relaxing coffee morning in the market, with some good friends, and friends I’d just met, absolutely no rushing about and nowhere particularly urgent to be.

And then, as if The Universe hadn’t already delivered enough, a calico cat wandered down the stairs.

Obviously, I had to say hello.

The cat seemed perfectly happy to accept some fuss, so who was I to argue?

Photography locations sorted.

Coffee enjoyed.

Cat fussed.

All in all, not a bad morning.

Sometimes the best days are the ones where you manage to get a little bit of work done…

…and still find time to stop and enjoy the small stuff.

Stay safe,

BC

The lady in question

The Bravest Thing Nobody Saw.

Posted on by
Reply

What’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done when no one was watching?

For me, the answer is surprisingly simple.

I put the razor blade and pills down.

And I asked for help.

Now, I appreciate that might not sound particularly brave to you.

There was no crowd cheering.

No medal.

No dramatic soundtrack playing in the background.

Nobody was watching.

But that moment probably took more courage than anything else I’ve ever done in this life.

Because admitting that I was struggling wasn’t easy.

Admitting that I was teetering on the edge of the abyss, and that I genuinely didn’t know how to climb back from it, meant admitting something I’d spent years trying to hide.

I wasn’t okay.

Not “a bit stressed.”

Not “having a bad day.”

Not something I could simply “man up” and get through.

I was in serious trouble.

And for someone who had spent far too long believing that asking for help was a sign of weakness, reaching out felt bloody terrifying.

But I did it.

I put those things down.

And I spoke to someone.

Looking back now, I realise that was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

Not because I suddenly became strong.

But because, for once, I stopped pretending that I had to be strong all by myself.

That decision saved my life.

It also taught me something I wish more people understood.

Sometimes courage doesn’t look like standing on a battlefield.

Sometimes it looks like sitting alone in a room and admitting:

“I need help.”

There’s nothing weak about that.

In fact, I’d argue there’s an enormous amount of strength in it.

We’re often taught that bravery means facing something frightening head-on.

But sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose to stay.

To put down whatever you were going to use to hurt yourself.

To pick up the phone.

To knock on a door.

To tell someone the truth.

Even when your voice is shaking.

Especially when your voice is shaking.

Nobody may see that moment.

Nobody may ever know just how close you came.

But you will.

And sometimes, that one decision becomes the dividing line between the life you thought was ending and the life you hadn’t yet had the chance to live.

I’m still here.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful that on that particular day, when nobody was watching…

I chose to ask for help.

Stay safe,

Bc

Phone Snaps to Proper Photography

Posted on by
Reply

Share a hobby you’ve picked up recently — what got you into it?

Photography.

Now, before anyone gets excited, I should probably clarify something.

I’ve described myself as a poet for quite a few years now.

And, increasingly, I’ve started describing myself as a photographer too.

But photography?

Until relatively recently, it was just something I did with my phone.

That’s it.

No fancy camera.

No collection of lenses.

No camera bag weighing more than the average toddler.

Just me, my phone, and the occasional, “Ooh, that looks nice.”

I’d be on holiday and see the photographers wandering around with all their kit.

Camera hanging around their neck.

Bag over their shoulder.

Various lenses.

Tripods.

Enough equipment to suggest they were either photographing the Grand Canyon or preparing for a small military operation.

Meanwhile, I’d pull my phone out of my pocket.

Click.

Done.

And, to be fair, I was happy enough with that.

I’ve always enjoyed taking photographs. Nature, birds, beaches, random things that catch my eye.

People had occasionally told me I had “an eye” for photography.

I never really knew what that meant.

I still don’t completely.

I’ve never studied photography properly. I don’t pretend to know all the technical terminology, and there was a time when things like focal lengths, apertures and shutter speeds might as well have been written in ancient Greek.

Then I turned 50.

And decided that apparently I was going to buy myself a proper camera.

Enter the Pentax K-x.

A camera that, even when I bought it, was hardly the latest bit of technology.

12.4 megapixels.

Which, compared with today’s cameras, sounds positively prehistoric.

But I loved it.

Suddenly, photography wasn’t just about pointing my phone at something and pressing the button.

There were settings.

There were choices.

There was experimentation.

And, perhaps most importantly, there were lenses.

Oh my word.

The lenses.

You start with one and think, That’s enough.

Then you discover another lens.

Then another.

Then you convince yourself that this particular lens is absolutely essential because apparently you cannot photograph a bird properly without it.

Before you know it, you’ve gone from:

“I take pictures with my phone.”

to:

“Hang on, which lens am I taking today?”

And somewhere along the way, something changed.

Photography stopped being something I occasionally did.

It became something I wanted to learn.

Something I wanted to get better at.

Something I looked forward to.

I started noticing things differently.

The light.

The weather.

Birds sitting in places they probably shouldn’t be.

The way the sea changes from one day to the next.

A moment that might only last a second.

And that’s probably the biggest difference.

When you’ve got a camera with you, you start looking.

Really looking.

I’ve found myself standing somewhere I’d walked past a hundred times and suddenly seeing something I’d never properly noticed before.

That fascinates me.

Because perhaps photography isn’t really about the camera.

Perhaps it’s about paying attention.

The camera is just the excuse.

These days, I’m still learning.

I still take photographs that make me think, Well, that didn’t quite work.

And occasionally I take one that makes me stop and think, Bloody hell, I actually did that.

Those are the moments that keep me coming back.

Photography has become another creative outlet alongside my poetry.

With poetry, I use words to capture a thought, a feeling, a moment.

With photography, I use an image.

Different tools.

Same basic idea.

Tell a story.

Capture something.

Make someone stop for a second and look.

So yes, I suppose I’ve picked up a new hobby.

Although, knowing me, calling it a hobby is probably underselling it now.

It’s become a passion.

Another string to my bow.

And somewhere along the way, the bloke who used to watch photographers carrying all that expensive-looking kit around while happily using his phone has become one of the people carrying the bloody kit.

Funny how life works, isn’t it?

Still…

I’m taking the camera.

I’m leaving the tripod at home.

I’m not completely mad.

Yet.

Stay safe

Bc

Ps….

Here’s last night’s Sturgeon Moon

Sturgeon Moon (2026)

The Universe Has a Funny Way of Introducing You to Your Wife

Posted on by
Reply

What’s the weirdest coincidence you’ve ever experienced?

That’s actually a surprisingly difficult question.

I mean, I’ve had plenty of weird coincidences over the years. Some are the sort of thing you mention in passing and everyone says, “Blimey, that’s strange.”

Then there are the ones that make you stop and wonder whether the universe has got a slightly twisted sense of humour.

For me, it has to be the story of how I met Mrs Bob.

Let’s rewind a bit.

I was twenty years old and had absolutely no idea who my future wife was.

I joined the Army.

Nothing particularly unusual about that.

Except that I signed up on Mrs Bob’s birthday.

At the time, I obviously didn’t know that.

She was just some girl somewhere in the world, living her life, while I was about to start mine on a completely different path.

Then came my second posting.

Ten miles from her home.

Again, I didn’t know her, and we lived around 250 miles from each other.

Didn’t know she existed… Didn’t know that somewhere just down the road was the woman I’d eventually marry.

Life carried on.

Years passed.

And eventually, somehow, our paths finally crossed on Twitter. I followed someone who happened to follow Mrs Bob, and th next day, I saw a post from her.

And here’s where it gets properly weird.

She posted that she was reading a book about string theory and multiverses.

Yes. String theory. Multiverses.

The stuff involving tiny vibrating strings, extra dimensions and the possibility that there might be countless versions of reality existing alongside our own.

Because apparently a normal conversation about the weather wasn’t enough.

There I was, having spent years unknowingly being stationed within ten miles of the woman who would become my wife, and eventually we actually started talking because of a book about the fundamental nature of the universe.

You couldn’t make it up.

And that’s the bit I find fascinating.

At twenty, I was making decisions that I thought were simply about my own future.

I had no idea that one of those decisions would put me within ten miles of the person I’d eventually, many years later, spend the rest of my life with.

And she had absolutely no idea either.

And at the time we first spoke on Twitter, neither of us was looking for someone to love.

There wasn’t some grand romantic plan. No cosmic dating algorithm. No mysterious voice from the heavens saying, “Bob, this is your future wife.”

We were just two people getting on with their lives.

I’ve always liked the idea of parallel universes.

Somewhere, perhaps, there’s another version of me who didn’t join the Army. Another who got posted somewhere completely different. There’s another Mrs Bob who never picked up that particular book, and I never spoke to her.

Is our meeting a strange coincidence? Almost certainly.

Fate? Who knows.

Some days I think it’s simply a wonderful collection of random events that happened to line up perfectly.

Other days, when I look back at the sheer number of things that had to happen for us to eventually meet, I can’t help but wonder.

Maybe the universe really does have a sense of humour.

And if there are infinite universes out there, I’d like to think that somewhere there’s another Bob and another Mrs Bob sitting down with a cup of tea, discussing exactly the same thing.

Although knowing my luck, that version of me probably also hasn’t figured out how to use the washing machine.

Stay safe,

BC

I Finally Realised I Know Nothing

Posted on by
Reply

What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

That’s actually quite a difficult question.

You might expect the answer to be something obvious.

Getting your first proper job.

Paying your first bill.

Buying your first house.

Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.

For me, though, it was none of those things.

I think it was when I finally learned to let go.

And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.

Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.

Surely adulthood is about knowing things?

Having the answers.

Being responsible.

Knowing what you’re doing.

Apparently not.

Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.

I probably never did.

I just got better at pretending I did.

When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.

Then, one day, you become one of those adults.

And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.

Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.

For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.

Old arguments.

Old mistakes.

People who had hurt me.

Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.

The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.

And that’s exhausting.

Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.

You can’t change the past.

You can’t control other people.

You can’t make everyone understand you.

And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.

So you let go.

Not because it doesn’t matter.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.

That’s when I think I finally started growing up.

Not when I got older.

Not when I had responsibilities.

Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.

It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.

Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.

And being comfortable with that.

I’m still learning.

I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.

But that’s okay.

Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:

Congratulations. You are now officially an adult.

There isn’t one.

There are just experiences.

Mistakes.

Lessons.

People who come into your life.

People who leave it.

Things you hold on to.

And things you eventually learn to let go.

And perhaps that’s the real trick.

Not knowing everything.

Just knowing that you don’t.

Stay safe

Bc

Different Paths, Same Journey: Being a Buddhist Freemason

Posted on by
Reply

People often look at me a bit sideways when they discover I’m both a (lay) Buddhist and a Freemason.

Usually there’s a pause.

You can almost hear the gears grinding.

“Aren’t those two things contradictory?”

Honestly?

No more contradictory than being a poet who also loves archery, or an autistic bloke who can lose himself for hours behind a camera, quietly watching the world through a lens.

Human beings are complicated creatures. We contain multitudes, contradictions, rough edges and unfinished thoughts. That’s part of the beauty of it all.

The truth is, Buddhism and Freemasonry actually complement one another in ways many people don’t realise.

Both are less about blind belief and more about self-improvement.

Both ask uncomfortable questions.

Both encourage reflection.

And neither hands you all the answers wrapped up neatly with a bow.

That part matters.

Because I’ve never trusted anyone claiming to possess absolute truth. History tends to show that certainty often causes more damage than doubt ever did.

Buddhism taught me stillness.

Or at least the attempt at it.

Anyone who knows me personally will probably laugh at the idea of my brain being still. My mind has always felt like several televisions all playing different channels at once. Thoughts colliding with memories, anxieties wrestling with imagination.

But Buddhism introduced me to the idea that I don’t have to fight every thought that enters my head.

Sometimes you just observe it.

Let it pass like weather.

Not every storm needs chasing.

That alone changed a great deal in my life.

Freemasonry, on the other hand, gave me structure.

Not control — structure.

There’s a difference.

It gave me symbolism, ritual, tradition and the reminder that becoming a better man is an ongoing process rather than a final destination. Contrary to all the strange conspiracy theories, most of Freemasonry is far less dramatic than people imagine. It’s ordinary people trying, imperfectly, to improve themselves and help others along the way.

There’s something deeply human about that.

Both paths also share another thing in common:

Humility.

A Buddhist understands suffering is universal.

A Freemason understands no stone is perfectly shaped.

Both acknowledge imperfection not as failure, but as part of the work itself.

And maybe that’s why the two fit together so naturally for me.

Neither demands I hate others for believing differently.

Neither tells me I alone possess divine truth.

Neither asks me to stop questioning.

If anything, both encourage it.

I’ve sat in forests listening to birdsong and felt something sacred.

I’ve stood in lodge during moments of quiet reflection and felt the same thing.

Different rooms.

Same silence.

Same sense of connection to something bigger than ego and noise.

That’s probably the part many people misunderstand about spirituality.

It isn’t always about certainty.

Sometimes it’s about awareness.

Compassion.

Patience.

Trying to leave the world slightly kinder than you found it.

Failing occasionally.

Trying again anyway.

I’m not interested in converting anyone.

Truthfully, I think people spend too much time arguing over whose path is “correct” and not enough time asking whether they’re actually walking theirs with honesty.

Because a belief system means very little if it doesn’t make you kinder.

Or calmer.

Or more understanding toward others.

If your spirituality only teaches you who to hate, you’ve probably missed the point entirely.

For me, being a Buddhist Freemason simply means I’m still learning.

Still building.

Still trying to smooth some of the rougher corners off myself while accepting a few will probably always remain.

And perhaps that’s enough.

Stay safe,

BC

Charlie Mike

Posted on by
Reply

If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

If I could send just one message back to the person I was, it would be this:

No matter how dark life becomes, you’re going to get through it.

There will be times when you genuinely believe the pain will never end. You’ll carry anger, fear, grief and questions you don’t yet have answers for. You’ll have moments when giving up seems easier than taking another step.

But keep going.

You don’t know it yet, but the hardest chapters of your life aren’t the end of your story. They’re the chapters that will teach you just how strong you are, and eventually, how to let go of the things that were never yours to carry forever.

You will find peace.

Not because life suddenly becomes perfect—it doesn’t. But because you’ll learn that peace isn’t about changing the past or controlling everything around you. It’s about accepting what you cannot change, letting go of what weighs you down, and choosing to keep moving forward.

So breathe.

Stay.

Keep going.

There is a life waiting for you that you cannot imagine from where you’re standing now.

And trust me…

“you’re going to be okay.”

Stay safe

Bc