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Manners (Out of Stock)
It’s the little things you notice when they’re no longer there.
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Who Gives a Crap?
Author’s note: This one wasn’t planned.It just came out—somewhere between frustration with the world and trying to hold myself together within it.There’s a line in here that’s very real, and a moment I didn’t expect to share—but it felt important to leave it in.Sometimes we carry more than people realise.And sometimes, it only takes a voice from the past to unravel everything. Who gives a crap? Who gives a crap about some orange-tinted “Master Chief”playing war like it’s Halo?Everybody – or so it seems. Who gives a crap about the ongoing battle in Ukraine,still quietly burning in the background?Nobody – the algorithm moved on.Slava Ukraine. Who gives a crap about…
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Hope Is
A reflection on hope, belonging, and finding light in unexpected places.
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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—…
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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…
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This Place I Call “Home”
Nestled on the coast,between the City and the Queen,lies a sleepy little village —this place I call home. Home…where I started in Ysgol Babanod,tiny chairs, big dreams,friends made in the playground,memories stitched into the years. I’ve walked the sands of Lavan,felt the wind roll in from the bay.I’ve climbed the paths of Madryn,watched shadows stretch across the day.I’ve sledged down Penmaen Park in winter,fed the ducks on the Boating Lake,thrown stones in Nant-y-Coed’s river,each splash another memory made. I’ve seen this village shift and change —shops open, shops fade away —but one thing stays,one truth remains:this place I call home. I lived here with my mum,up on Pen Dalar’s winding…
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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…
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Are You OK?
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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…
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40 Minutes
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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…
