Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry


The thing about the mind is
That it always expects us to
Exceed our own expectations
Despite the impossibilities
In that simple set of thoughts.

We bend ourselves into the
Oddest shapes trying to make
It in our own eyes, and drag
The rest of the world into our
Comparisons, those oranges and
Lemons on other stages to
Our simple apples. Invariably,
We lose

And what ills us is not
The failing but the hopeless
Trying, only futile in our eyes.

R 19/06/2023 19:35

Another glorious day after a night of the rain. These are summer days as they are meant to be. Let the rain freshen the nights and feed the growth, and let the daylight hours be hot and clear, with a chance of laziness, even if it’s only a few minutes of it in between the daily grind. And the feeling I get from so many people I’ve spoken with over the last few days, a grind it is.

A funny thing today; life-reaffirming in a way. I got a big fat letter from my doctor’s surgery telling me that I’d been chosen at random to take part in a university study which supports 60-85-year-olds “make healthy lifestyle changes and do activities that can help keep you brain fit.” So I registered on the web site and went through the questions which would determine whether or not I was eligible to take part in the study (which would provide its participants with mind puzzles etc over the course of five years and monitor them). It asked me how often I took vigorous exercise in a week (twice, I said), then how often I walked fast or made myself sweat in a week (more than 4 days, I said), and how many times I took light exercise (7 days a week, I said). At that point it said I couldn’t take part because I was too active to be eligible. I was a bit disappointed, but also quite pleased, because I tend to think of myself as someone who doesn’t exercise enough, especially now I’m not playing any competitive sports. A little glow for a part of the day.

As the holiday creeps closer, I grow more nervous – will AN be as wonderful as last year, will the different place we’re staying at be as nice, will George remember us if we get to see him? On that note, I’d better do some Greek practice tonight (although my mind – and perhaps this is where the poem came from – is telling me that my Greek is even more non-existent than last year).

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