Suited Connectors

fluttered in woodsmoke
as he sat
hunched before the eye

imagining her pose
on a buttoned leather chair
cloaked by shade

in their chalk white alcove.

In the style of Austerian cleverness

he’s fondling cards
outside the flat backed bar.
He’s a mottled sheepskin coat
his yellowed fingers curl to white.

When he imagines the twist of her:
the inkling is uneven,
like tarmac steam in the rain.

Medieval Modicums’ Speak

Ooh Err, she said, agog, before the tear
streaked ads of errant woes!

I’ve lost me Holy Grail,

the grimace of
the angstified thingy replied

even without needing to speak

Jump on your ‘orse why dontcha?
Go on a quest or summic, she cried (waving ‘er arms about like)

I’m gonna stay ‘ere before the dawn of morn
aglowing in me finest old fashioned stuff, she wailed.

Then wept and wept and wept some more.

Ivor Griffiths 2007

These are some early poems that I have now decided not to develop. They are however all copyright. Enjoy.

Green Sequoia, slow down — take the joy of her,
Slow down and breathe the coy her, feelings
tapping on the broken window, in half-life light.
Get down, feathers and a shilling, wrap them

in a white shade of hessian — rough touch
smoothes a flinching wince,
like a stone frog catching flies.
It’s in the blood, 1989: On the wire

floating above a garden, dreaming
a compost smell, hiding a wobbly
neighbour, staring through the sash-windows
that squeal open, like cats drowning.

Smoke haze in the kitchen, everyone smoking
and talking; laughing at shiny photographs.
Monotone edged in white, like the life
of the neighbour’s wife, shaking to a bongo
and tidying like Andy Warhol.

Ivor Griffiths 2007