UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website


Fly Away Peter Fly Away Plant

Sunday, February 23rd, 2014

Fly away Peter Fly away Plant

Starlight smile spangling doe eyes; soft

sunlight in velvet chestnut mantle.

Deep soulful eyes smiling, survey him.

Dreaming of the sensual curve of calf

  • stilleto balanced on toes, leaning in
  • and cupping hands; lingering touch
  • complete control; I’d know; I’d needed; caressing

memories of that first night. When we were younger than before, my

heart opening for the first time, that mischievous grin

stirs my soul for the first time,

the memory of it even now, the last time,

whenever I kissed your lips

pure, soft and sensuous. Beautiful.

Waves of love flowed out of me to you

never stopped being in love with you.

Dreams of sun drenched beaches and being in your arms again

Always in love and caressing

Queen of my night and Mother of Mine.

Forgive me.

Not That bad

Sunday, February 23rd, 2014

Not That bad

Sad, not bad, mad not sad, no not sad, unaware, anywhere, bad anytime,
“What you looking at twat? Eh?”
Sad, yeah pretty sad, not really, really sad, no, “out there” sad;
somewhere high now though,
In a k-hole, when I was two, out of body
smogged up for good then, fogged up
And choked up, choking on a star – its crescent congruence pertains to the appellation:
Constellation, stellar and canny good.
You could have it all, if it made bad not sad, or sad bad, just for a day,
Just for a friend who stayed true to you, in the end he did, for you, you know?
Stay true, he knew and you loved, because you is me, is you too, see?
All imagined, helical congruence is just a parallax view of it all.
Shaped, spangled, tangled and she played, indeed, twangled, strings vibrating
The heart in a red star glistening soft edged rose, red swollen
Exalted, excited, anticipated on elbow and knee creation, a fog of love descends,
Honey and the caress a cupping of unaware intuitive feeling my paradigm slide slowly
Clearly – plug in and turn on – clearing, disappearing –
“let me see it,”
Coming, coming, coming – it’s over make it harder
Get parted, diverge – demerge – avoid – polarity switch, core started the time of last orders
Dancing in the pale blue and white striped dress, pale above knee, bright shining doe eyes,
Illuminating mine, mine, she said. “Sometimes,” is the best it got, but now it’s never.
Left turn at the bog roll factory, or the box factory in the valley – she went, she came, and so scents life and the dying.
Photographs curl, like a fish on a line twisting and dying slowly – image fades,
The heart – the soul – the dead – the living we know, but unaware, of there and here.
That’s the place: the waste of time displaced; wanted and dreaded it flew by faster and larger.
Dropped through a fog of curlew craven crow like things with wings, a thought, it was;
A dawning of a new neurological quizzling report of an element of diligently laden kant that
Seeks to lay to rest, the rest of the true best – No, true.
Sad not bad.
But sad?
Aye, and that’s a fact.

The Way

Sunday, February 23rd, 2014

    The Way

The way is to stay away, detach, “attachment is crap”, says Buddha,
He does, it says it, “attachment is crap”, in his book,
“Lead the way, me teeth’s gone, me legs are fucked”, said Buddha,
But me brains’re intact. In fact, activated to follow,
Slavishly, the way set. The way of words in books, and thought hooks,
“it weren’t me, it were ‘im it were, he’s a twat,” so sayeth the Buddha
The dictat signifier of a kinda inchoate heuristics thingy, and the effect
On the ontological what’s ‘is name? Is unpredictable, like logical positivism,
That pseudoscience stuff and other bollocks, just like that.
Just have a fucking fag, or a tab, choke your fucking self
Have another gallon of beer, gan on, yer kna yer want it.
The fucking twat he shat that fucking fat greasy bastard of a fucking in cress well, towers
Above a long way like a spinacle of glass, twinkling a bit, and shiny, like a car,
In a long stay car park, and a postcard lands lightly – the thought inside
It – the thought on it – the love in there, hidden, and there, and every
Where, follow that then – but follow. When you lose the me you lead,
You are very careless indeed,
Like being a child, kidnapped, now punished as the devil’s child
Beware, declares, the curse intercepted rebounds back to you?
No the one next to you. Never you.
You are you, you are mine and I am yours, we are we, we are there
We are here, our minds are there. Beaten for you there, see?
More than you, that’s fair
Even now, we are, even, okay?

Push me to the something there, not a whine or a whinge or a cry, something more than just fuck off and die, too easy, it’s what he wants? You, you really, really don’t see the power you have over the us of being them and one. See?
Q. E. fookin’ D.


Sunday, February 23rd, 2014


Some incentive is needed to produce
Buy contact from, a magic number,
Called one.
It surprises one that no one, ever, is active, or
As clever, without
Knowing. Is manipulated, easy, no shame, or fear
But blame, yes blame there is, plenty of. And fear,
Yes fear there is, a lake of it, full of tears of pain shame,
That one lasts the longer, like a rebound mirrored forever,
Pinging away inside your brain, just when you think it’s gone
Ping, back it comes, like a dog with a ball,
Fear that is, pit of stomach panic fear and anxiety attack stuff,
A dead tree, swings and creaks, no leaves, not ready to snap,
But it will split like a melon chopped and spray splinters as it
Smashes a few things; besides time is a healer, money is a sticky plaster that
Helps the healing process along, loads of money is pain relief
But if you now know the what of how to do the stuff, in the book it is,
Just do it – I would.
So should you.

Back from mourning

Sunday, June 26th, 2011

It’s been over a year. A hard year. We had a hamster who died on the 3rd June 2011.

A year to the day since losing Bounce.

But it’s a new moon soon, and I’ll be fifty-one, so I’m back to writing again.

At least with Kindle I’m guaranteed a publisher. Even if it is only little old me.

I aim to finish the novel and publish an anthology of poetry before Christmas. I’m not sure if it will be THIS Christmas but I’ll try to get one of them done. Available on Amazon.

I’d thought that Kindle and the like would kill books but now I’m not so sure. The readers will have the power now rather than the publishing houses. They’ll decide what gets read. I’m hoping my background in website development and online marketing will help me promote the books. I hope to get round to fixing the broken links on the site as well.

Thanks for all the support and kind comments about my lost boy Bounce.