Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry


They scatter their bodies across
Our table overnight for us to
Find in the morning.

At least at this time of the year
Most of their life is spent in the

This morning we found out that
They’re fungus gnats, born from
The soil of house plants.

We moved the biggest pots into
The garden then, so that they
Wouldn’t have us for breakfast.

R 21/06/2023 20:19


Their promises are chaff, the
Harvest already in their stores,
Saved for the rainy day that
Will never come to them, and
Kept away from the hungry.

The ivory towers are scattered
About the landscape, white and
Tall, supreme in their conformity
To their ideal colour, a signal to
The other to stay away from here.

At the coast, their inhabitants
Never open the curtains at night
So they can’t invite the uninvited
Whom they hate, and with whom
They will never break bread.

It is a sharp wind that breaks
Over the white buildings, a wrath
Of many colours and languages
That finally brings down the
Monochrome empire.

R 21/06/2023 20:25

I haven’t yet decided if I’ll keep posting while we’re away. I remember it being a pain to do on my phone. I’ll see how I feel. The thing I want to do most is get The Mortality Code finished and out of the way. But even if I don’t do that, I won’t be that annoyed. It’s my holiday, after all, the only two weeks of the year where I can do nothing at all if that’s what I feel like.

Today has been a graft. Lots of things I still want to do. And this feeling that I’m missing out on the longest day somehow. At least the weather has been appropriate for this day.

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