UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website



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.

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