UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website


Moliere & Molly’s Magic Ping Moment

Saturday, March 15th, 2014

Moliere & Molly’s Magic Ping Moment

It’s magic, full of star shaped fuzzy light stuff,

mirror-balls spinning, floating in bright yellow light

Molly, me and humanity – warm skins, a glowing

patina of sweat beads circling fractured fractions,

of fractious thoughts, we lie down, dark shadows merge

into our special white yellow light.

A butterfly, broken wings, crushed chrysalis bits,

meringue pieces lying on fresh tarmac.

A warm road skin – glowing black liquorice -

shiny water droplets, steam rises – smells nice.

“Bye, bye!” little boy cries,

crying tear drops splatter.

Now unaware, coming up, disassociating ethereal

grounds, as sunlight pings from window to mirror,

pulsing light, signifying to some -

fir trees on a horizon line, black against orange

nibbling a sky, blue blurred, fraying edges, threadbare.

Diverging now – shadow memories decorate pavements,

hardened, like Plato’s cave, the thirteenth (magic it is!) chakra,

a multi-faceted two dimensional timeless blood line.

Add ten, multiply, divide, sequence, linearise the binaries.

Then it’s done, now he’s gone. And her, and her. And him.

Pinging towards the sky. Forever happy.



Sunday, March 2nd, 2014


Blue eyes, furrowed nasal bridge frown, caressed, coveted and possessed.

Running away from tragedy. Remedial action required, a thought wisp.

He knew, the third eye, it can help that piece of every one;

fall back to the one, the me, that is needed.

Not a creeper, a crawler manipulator – listening and walking

suspicious and constant is the interruption and irritation

disruption and cancellation of my thought processing.

Obstructive – a road block to progress. Obstructive a thought planter – limpet like

in the distraction of her destructive need to control, hurt and gloat

at the result.

Stamina is such that no amount of double Dutch code speak – “it’s a load of shite” -

response as a cover for blank faced stupidity would help.

A good mother? Probably, but so what?

What does that mean?

But the stone man is dreaming a dream of passing – passing –

still with me and him and her and them – all to one place – somewhere she is not.

The lad walked in, and she’s back again, desperate to interrupt and control the situation.

To make her voice heard – come what may – what is envy?

She knows: fear. Looking in the mirror and seeing time.

Snow falls slowly, methodically, gradually, smoothing it all out. The

trees, bushes, dustbins and plants merge with cars, even houses.

The frozen land that crept through leather soles to freeze skin flat.

In the memory he looked eighteen months old, unsteady toddler,

standing, staring at his wrist. It had a bandage wrapped around it,

tied to the cot, bright white enamel metal.

He cried.



Thursday, February 27th, 2014


Toes started it. Nipping cold toe, blue shiny

frozen toe. Meandered, lazy like,

to fingers.

Peripheral light flickered sharply divergent and diagonally

he succumbed to a slumber, he wanted day before stuff

from a soft edged vista. He peered through a hole in time, jagged edges.

Surrounded, each side also, lines of Aztec gnomes, hats reddened

or blackened: depending on the thought mode.

Some frowned or glowered returned neutrality: back in the eye.

Acuity, concision and precision is a watchmaker’s blindness;

the last words lost to him, too small in time rewound 17 times over,

elevated shore line – misty heat haze above it lifted them

to red sky, blue sky and green.

Jealousy splits granite – slowly – ice

numbs it, time cracks it. Gone for good.

Bubba, Billy the Cat and me. At shore’s edge, waves small,

frothy saline drips,

i.v. leaking, blood dripping, puss fills a jar.

Life, it’s not that far,

elevates us into the eye-line

shimmer and the beauty and light of love.

The beginning is the end sometimes,

futile, lonely.

The mind’s eye or a Third Eye.

Lobsang knew.

Witch’s Asp.

Wednesday, February 26th, 2014

Witch’s Asp.

Swagger, curled lip snarl, high level android mentat, logic processor,
feelings guesser.
Thin mist of never caught thoughts hovers in periphery,
smeared to grey fog’s pirouette effect – velvetine leatherette,
luxury he imagines. Wrong again, of course,
Null void; reactionless, marble stone-faced cold, beard icicles dangle.

She surveys him, with warm love, no melting,

“You’re cold, callous, full of badness, suck the goodness from me,”
Evil you are, no feeling, don’t feel, don’t care don’t know.

She cried it like a Lioness who has lost a cub to the new Lion,
face crumpled in pain.

Hurt words exploding invisibly
around flint eyed ice bearded man

“love, yes,” he said.
“love, but never call, never go, never ask, never a card or a word, never…..”

The hurt he saw it, it evolved like a limpet, it stuck
to his thoughts, it evolved into a burrowing thing, it burrowed into his brain,
the bit that feels and explains the pain.

And he saw it there in her, he did, he saw it there. The first time
he cried he couldn’t stop. It hurt a lot.
Not him, her, he thought, not me her, he thought, he tried to anyway.

The Kind Guide

Wednesday, February 26th, 2014

The Kind Guide

The unrequited kind is mine

The not necessarily returned, closed heart kind,

The not spurned, nor, yet anyway, kind;

the burnt kind on crumpled mind and cursed kind; verse of worse,

seasonal autumnal needful feelings.

Immersed birthday letters;

proverbs, devoid of adverbs; love flutering

softly feathering caresses, last moments.

Shady luck;

Trick of chance

cannot feel your thoughts; can see you dance;

cannot hear your thoughts; can see you dance;

cannot imagine feelings; can see you dance;

cannot but would; Molly showed me the ecstasy of seeing the way other kind see, the right kind not my kind.

The guide I can love forever; that love is mine, forever;

I decide to end that not you, or her or him either.