richard pierce

richard pierce

28 November 2010

A complete life

I’ve locked myself away now.
Finally.
Being on the outside was too much to bear.
All the wind and noise,
All the confusion of living,
Of loving and being loved.

That’s over.
The pain is ended.
The glistening torture
Of dreaming shadows into being
Has gone.

A single room.
A single bed.
A single light.
A desk.
A chair.
A book.
A pen.

This is where I live now.
This is where I die
When the last page is turned.

24 November 2010

streets

streets
scratch the surface
of history

streets on sand
shift
with regiments of memory

this was my street
i kissed him there
made my love in that dark corner
before i was born

layers of life
have built what’s here now
dig down below

another time
we walked arm in arm
past the crumbled walls

the past is my companion
rises from the foundations
the damp soil breathing
above the hidden

streets on land
fields
that fed our people

streets
angry stretchmarks
of our progress

22 November 2010

why i love poetry

because verses bound and wrapped
on a page of many colours
sing new voices

because one word
is better than thousands

because reading beats hearing
when the letters make
their own meaning

because small words can change big things

because the wind and the rain
and love and hate and fear
and tragedy and joy

because the world outside
is so huge and round

because inside each song
there is true greatness
and great truth

because words are the warmth of life

because brevity is our breath
in the scheme of all the gods
and we their scribes

because faith is a promise
regardless of belief

because each poem is
a life-time on its own
a summary of all we can

11 November 2010

This day, of all days

Rain, outside, leaks
in, with the wind,
grey, too much alive,
while we remember
the dead.

Sudden light, a hole
in the sky, exploded,
restless cloud, too
much brightness for
today.

Nothing new, in
the cold, all old
and trapped in the
past, the grief,
the lost.

Some celebrate, some
mourn, amongst thatch,
tiles, clay lump,
tradition, and bile.
For what?

What we remembered, we
forget. What we learnt,
we unlearn. Humankind
is a greedy beast, for war,
for sacrifice.