After Grace Nicholls ‘Thoughts Drifting…’

Thoughts Drifting Through a Large Legged Irish Yorkshire Woman’s Head While Waiting for her Daughter to Finish Piano Lessons.

Vaporous clouds
Vaporous sea
Vaporous mists
Vaporous me.

Irish, Norman, Ancient Britton, Viking.
All those cold-blooded
North-Sea coracle paddlers.
Windy wing moors subsisters.
Earth scrapers.
Low-stone-sod-turf-thatched dwellers.
My ancestors.

As I sit in this cold, wintry, wet morning
trying to be spring. Slate grey day
in a centre surrounded by rooms.
Shards, broken music, fragments with
an overall Big Band underlay of
‘Hakuna Matata’ and two little boys
playing shop with the books.

Is my lack of awareness of
time, structure, being there
part of turning my back on
the ‘Authority’ of the ‘Father’
he said it – I will oppose and resist aggressively
be angry and polite at the same time
loose myself in the red mist of stupidity
the anger haze that obstructs
my life.

I let this great red anger
distort and
disallow.
De-fragment and re-fragment,
confuse and castrate
my best efforts to be:-
punctual, professional, emotional
ambitious, proactive
self-determined, self-motivated.

My great red anger
is my spoiler
to my constant
mess ups.

Vaporous clouds
Vaporous sea
Vaporous mists
Vaporous me.








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