Curiosity - Poetry by David Pierce

BRUSSELS - March 8, 2015 - PRLog -- David Pierce is one of those rare beings - a real poet. He does not write for others, neither does he, strangely enough, write for himself. He writes because. . there are things to be said and someone has to say them, he writes because this is his means of communication, one that in his opinion makes people think and his writing style forces them to think. And if they don't want or are not able to think? Well, then they better try again.

Author:

Like most people, I've been a poet all my life. Poetry is only solidified thought after all, the province of the doubter; we all have that, the stuff of curiosity, inspection and capsulation. If the question is how long I have been attempting to record the language of emotion and conceited enough to want to share what I chase and end up within my net, the answer is not long enough to bring a simple answer.

I don't like to take place, thing or article of fact, that's just the radiation of the tangible world. If you can't place a time or region through my poems, I've gone a short way to where I wanted to be. That said, I'm Welsh, male, none of which is of the slightest importance.


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The Tall Trees of Bedwellty Park  1

Transplant my soul to green tree boughs:

  where upon my being dances.

Fix the gaze where butterflies air:

  skirting amongst fingers of branches.

I have known fleeting moments now lost or never were:

  and can’t be felt again.

Rebuke my faith of those tall trees:

  transported on mere thought.

The absent gone though not brought back:

  conforming yet as the rain still sings while falling.

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