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The Weeping Sentinel
I am not crying. You looked at me and decided that, didn’t you?
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Out Of Reach
I sit on my mobility scooteron Traeth Gele, watching waves roll infrom Liverpool Bay. The wind finds its rhythm—steady, unseen—turning blades on the horizon,white giantsharvesting what can’t be held. Nature,translated into energy. I sit there,watching,listening, as words come flying out of my mouth—too fast, too many—scattering like spray. I reach for them,try to catch each one,but they slip through— and I can’t hold them all. My words tumble and crashlike waves against the shore. They break on rocks I didn’t choose,scatter into pieces I try to gatherwith hands that don’t always dowhat I ask of them. I collect what I can—fragments, edges, almosts—but the picture never comes togetherthe way people…
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Holding Refrain
I held my tongueboarding the bus,when you took the seatopposite the wheelchair space. Not all disabilities are visible.I am proof of that. I thought about saying something.I didn’t. The bus moved.People scrolled.Nobody looked up. My voice stayed where it was,caught somewhere betweenthought and sound. Do you listen,or just hear noise? I held refrain.The moment passed.Nobody noticed.
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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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From the Box to the Web
A deeply personal poem about love, disability, friendship and resilience. From supported living and uncertainty to community, belonging and the web of people who help us stand.
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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…
