-
Hope Is
This poem grew out of a creative writing workshop in Wrexham exploring the theme of hope. The workshop formed part of the legacy of Wrexham’s Baton of Hope, and the poem — alongside other works — may be included in the “Bench of Hope” art installation at Pontcysyllte Chapel Tea Room – the first TalkingPoint bench in Wales Hope is listening —not because you’re forced to,but because you want to. Hope is seeing —not looking past someone,but saying: I see you. Hope is respecting pace.Giving people time.Giving people energy.Understanding what you don’t see. Hope is putting your feelings asideand helping someone settle their storm in a teacup. Hope is giving…
-
CP Standard Time
Click. Click. That’s a second —but not as you know it. That’s my body’s timeas it does aControl, Alt, Delete,hits restartand waits for my system to re— What was it I was asked to do—sorry, could you repeat thatfor the 1000th time? It’s not me being forgetful,it’s my body, see.I have Cerebral Palsy.I’m wired up worse than Frankenstein(although he was kind of cool…) Sorry?You want me to do the washing up?Ok, give me a…………… shit. I haven’t taken the recycling out,or emptied the bins,or put away the milk from this morning—oh god, I need to go to Tesco.Right. Where’s my shoes,keys,coat,bag? I’m here now.What did we need? Let me ring—…
-
Held
it’s just a thought.One small idea.Barely formed. Something I swallowbecause it’s easierthan explaining again. It sits behind the teeth.Under the tongue.Polite.Contained. I tell myself:“It’s almost time.”That the silence will stop.That waitingdoesn’t cost anything. The world lovesthis version of me.The quiet one.The reasonable one.The one who understandsthe process. So I wait. And while I waitthe voice doesn’t disappear –it presses. It becomes a weight in the chest.Tightness.A currentlooking for a way through. Because a voicecannot be pausedwithout consequence. What happens insteadis that it flows inward.Every unspoken wordadds pressure.Every delayed answerraises the waterline. Still,they don’t hear it. They say I’m calm.They say I’m coping.They saynothing looks wrong. They mistake restraintfor consent. But…
-
2025 Reflections
Happy New Year. 2025 was an amazing year – though it tested my mettle at times. It gave generously, then asked for patience. It offered light, and occasionally checked whether I could carry it. Some days were simple. Some were lessons disguised as weight. What carried me through wasn’t strength on display, but the quieter kind – the kind that sits with you and doesn’t rush the hard parts. I’m grateful for the family and friends who stood beside Natalie and I, steady when the ground shifted, present when answers were thin. This was the year I stopped mistaking resilience for doing everything alone. I wrote from inside the moment…
You May Also Like
Are You OK?
-
What You Don’t See (But Refuse to Notice)
A sequence Author’s Note: This sequence is drawn from lived experience of navigating public space, healthcare, and transport as a disabled couple. It is not written to invite sympathy, but to demand attention — particularly to the moments where voices are ignored, time is rushed, and need is mistaken for inconvenience. The poems speak in more than one voice because life does. I. What You Don’t See (But Refuse to Notice) On the outsideI’m fine.Standing.Breathing.Passing. Inside, everything hurtsfrom being held togetherfor your comfort. One wintry evening at Chester StationI had to shout.Not because I wanted to.Because no one moved. A crowd pressed in,eyes forward,bags wide,space guarded like property. I raised…
-
40 Minutes
-
From Silence, We Turn
The world hums.Phones glow.Everyone’s talking —but no one’s listening. A mother pleads, unheard.A neighbour’s grief drifts past like static.Sirens blur into laughterfrom somewhere else.We keep walking. “Are you there?”“Do you listen?”The questions echo off glassand fall into silence. Even out in the fieldsyou can still hear it —that low, electric buzz.Engines. Screens.The hum that never stops. This is what it’s come to:so much noise,and yet nothing worth hearing. Then—a pause.A light through the door.Blue and gold.Warm hands.A chair pulled out for someone new. Here, people listen.Really listen.No filters.No noise.Just space. A wheel turns —not the metal kind,but one made of kindness,steady and shared. This is Rotary.Not power.Not pride.Just people showing…
-
Wyt ti’n gwrando?
Rwyf eisoes wedi sôn am leisiau —pa mor anodd yw torri drwy’r môr o sŵn.Ond mae’n rhaid imi ofyn eto:Wyt ti’n gwrando? Wyt ti’n gwrando ar dy wraig, dy ŵr,dy bartner, dy blant? Wnest ti wrando ar dy rieni?Dy neiniau, dy deidiau?Dy ewythrod, dy fodrybedd? Wyt ti’n gwrando ar dy gydweithwyr,dy ffrindiau, dy fyfyrwyr? Rwy’n gwrando. Dyna fy ngwaith —gwrando.Rhywun i ddibynnu arno,i rannu chwerthin,i glywed dy stori. Ond gad inni droi’r drol am ennyd. Wyt ti’n gwrando arna i? Rwyt ti’n gwrando nawr,yn darllen hyn,yn dilyn y geiriau. Ond wyt ti wir yn talu sylw? Nid yw’r byd yn mynnu gwrandawyr.Rydyn ni oll yn gaeth yn ein swigod bach.A’r…
-
Are You OK?
“Are you OK?” asked the nurse, as machines hummed and lights glared. The patient, yellow-tinged, weary, lay silent while the world hurried around her — fluids, paracetamol, antibiotics, needles and scans, the mystery of illness written in her blood. And what of her husband? Inside: fear, exhaustion, despair. Outside: armour of calm, the warrior, the rock at her bedside. Is he OK? She is not ordinary — if such a word belongs to anyone. Her body a puzzle of conditions that weave together into fragility, into fight. Is she OK? Days blur into nights. Corridors become home, moved from ward to ward, sleep fractured by monitors’ beeps, by rubies of…
-
Status
“What’s on your mind?”Shut up, Facebook.I’m not here to spill my soulinto another scrolling feed. I’m talking about status—not likes, not clicks,but standing in society.It’s not what you know,it’s who you know. Some chase it,some wear it like armour.Once they’ve got it,they don’t care what you think—because they’ve arrived.And we? We’re just the plebs. But what does it buy you?A pedestal, higher than the rest?Snobbery. Foolishness.Lavishness. Loneliness. Status isn’t all it seems.You can hold it in your handand still be hollow—always learning, never teaching. Status whispers:you’re too good for common people now.But you weren’t born into it—you clawed it from power’s grip. Now you stand apart,a black sheep in a…
