So… I’m like my mother?
The insult’s always slung.
The really, really stupid bit
Is, they don’t even know my mum.

So, I’m like my mother…
It’s not who I choose the be,
And if you really think it,
You don’t know her or me.

And so? I’m like my mother…
You say it to be cruel.
My mother’s not my favourite,
But at least she’s no-one’s fool.





Blank – my mind
Crack – my psyche
Bust – my hopes and dreams
Lock me in a padded room
Emotionally I’m lame.
Trunks of trees
Trunk of me
My heart is built of wood.
What’s the point of breaking out
When everyone’s the same?


Officially I’ve been away,
But in my head I haven’t moved.
Its just the darkness overtook
And I was lost within its hue.

Loved ones arms and tousled heads
Rested on my shoulders, strong.
Yet I fluttered down on words of care,
Stuck underfoot, where I belonged.

Light as feather, blind and deaf
No substance left but my despair.
Cringing in the shade of dog,
No one noticed I was there.




Slouching on the wooden seat
Schoolbag bulging at my feet
Rhyming about love being sweet.

Sticking to the vinyl chair
Tasting salt upon the air
Ink recording my despair.

Flying through the air in tin
Denim worn as second skin
Scratching down the pain I’m in.

Bus eating miles beneath my shoes
Listening solo to the blues
Penning home my changing views.

Bulging sails as distance grows
Glasses resting on my nose
Screwing up my rhyming woes.

Resting on the canvas seat
Rotting rucksack at my feet
Wondering when I’ll feel complete.


Don’t bury me in a book
Deprived of light and sound.
I want my words to wander
From ear to mind to mouth.
I don’t want my ideas hidden
And shoved upon a shelf.
I want to disturb you,
And make you look inside yourself.
When you’re drifting off to sleep,
I want my whisper in your head.
Don’t shut me up
And close me off,
But dream my
Thoughts instead

© giddybird


Have I channeled these words?
Are they really mine?
Have I put them together
Only one day to find
I’ve read them somewhere else,
Forgotten, and so
Adopted someone else’s words,
And claimed their breath of soul.
What if the rhythm, timing,
Word combining,
Were not of my design?
What I want to know is
Are the words still mine?
If I didn’t know that they were cloned,
Or whispered in my ear?
Have I really created this,
Or am I the fraud I fear?

© Giddybird

Crickets sing the evening in,
Sunset paints a bleeding light,
Television plays the summer game,
While chips and gravy spice the night.
Lawnmower, silent, resting now,
Orange socks hold grass seeds tight.
Holidays a time of rest,
When everything seems to feel just right.

© Giddybird

Tripped up

image courtesy of:

Tripped Up

The cat sat on the skateboard
while my son rode the
magic mushroom carpet of  insanity.

silently she turned her
squinting yellow judgement
on us then turned
to eye something more worthy
than our sickly, noisy shame.

he bled from the eyes and forehead
and new mountains raised
within his hair.
Red lava flowing,
clotting, creating islands
temporarily before his gnarled
hands drew them into fists
of agitation and anguish.

my heart bled

he punched someone –
a nurse I think, yet not,
for there were no nurses in his world.

he cringed and cried and pulled at his clothes
and mine.
he angered and swore.
he swung
and hung on for dear life
and cried out for someone,
SOMEone he knew, any face he recalled
who could rescue him,

Just hold his hand
For a little while

and then they let him go.

go to take his rage and confusion
into the silent but hell infested streets of pre-dawn
while all those land bound sleepers,
safe in their worlds of dreams
of monsters and devils and temptresses
never dreamed
that my son,
as sweet as daisies
with bright cheeky eyes
and dimpled cheeks
was passing.
tripped up by demons clinging to his heels
while the faces of bad magic
were trying to kiss the reds of his eyes
and wouldn’t let him rest.

and they didnt hear the cries that had turned silent.
his mouth
a cavern of sorrow and terror
bereft of noise ,
that distorted his face.
that screamed instead from his eyes.

but I did.

and then the dawn peeped through,
and perhaps realising that all the bad things
all the scary things
were contained within my son,
it broke through more confidently
and bathed in the safety of light,
and a warm flannel,
sleep finally came for my son.

silently I watched the eruption of cries,
dodged the outflung arms.
tried to breathe a rythm for him
and sang lullabies
in my head.

(c) GiddyBird

Please pass this around

this fragile tent


I would really appreciate your help in getting the message out there about this project- if you are a blogger/facebooker/twitterer would you mind reposting?

For a while now, I have been chewing on an idea about putting together a collection of poetry.

From time to time people send me things they have written- asking for feedback. I always really struggle to give feedback- I want to be honest, open and encouraging, but poetry is really subjective. What I find however, is that there is almost always gold in the dust. Most people who write do so to get into the depth of things, and the process opens us up- in my view, it opens us up to God (however you understand this.)

Much of this writing is personal- like many of the things I write, its primary purpose is personal spiritual discipline. However, some poems have a life beyond…

View original post 493 more words



image: Dimitri Tyskalov


Dont wake up my heart boy.
its safer when it sleeps
I can handle nearly anything
when I cant hear it weep.
awake its so demanding
taking time and concentration.
I dont want delicious dreaming
disturbed by anguish or elation.
I dont need to feel the softness
of a heart not made of wood
you dont need to wake my heart up.
it wont do me any good.

(C) GiddyBird