Hey, dude! Get over yourself.
Sure, you never asked to be,
but here you are.
It’s just the way it is.
Anyway, it’s only a gig.
You know, play a few tunes.
Tell a couple of jokes.
Make a bit of money.
Money’s good. Right?
It pays for the bus ride,
and when you get to your stop,
end of journey. Right?
Sure, the bus goes on,
but you ain’t on it.
If you get my drift.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
Celestial Selene,
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
Moss between the cobblestones.
The only green to be seen
beneath the chimney-pot pall.
Sleeves rolled up,
brownstoning the front step.
Don't want the neighbours talking.
Skipping rope rhymes.
One end tied to the lamppost.
Knee socks round the ankles.
Stood in a doorway,
fleshy arms folded across a flowery pinny.
'Mind the cart-road', she shouts.
Net curtains twitching.
'Doesn't miss a bleedin' thing.
Nosey old sod!'
Queuing at the corner shop
for two ounces of boiled ham,
dolly blue and ten Woodbines.
Coal dust and a damp cap.
Hundred-weight sack on his back.
'That's Ten and six, Mrs.'
Rush to stroke the dray horse.
'Oi! Clear off, you lot.'
Run like hell, laughing.
Friday night, chip shop, cod
wrapped in News of the World,
advertising vinegar.
Old man Jenkins singing
We'll Meet Again. Fortissimo.
Arrangement by best bitter.
Next door again!
'Have you got a shilling for the meter?'
'Sorry, love, I've only a few coppers.'
Nothing left now.
Gone from Google Maps.
Damnatio memoriae.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
6 December 2024
On a canvas of slate-grey flagstones
lie the treasures
of an October leaf fall,
cut-outs of a collage,
fixed by a light rain,
and boasting a palette of subtle hues
redolent of pumpkins, plums and a dash of mustard.
Siennas, ochres, and apple jades juxtaposed.
A self-assembled masterpiece,
wrought
from windy chaos,
and too lovely to walk on.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
3 December 2024
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
23 November 2024
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
19 October 2024
You are a cumulous cloud, hurried across the night sky;
a gilded watch winding down;
rime ice melting with the sun's rise;
the needle of a compass ordained to northern dust;
a wave propelled to breaking point;
a footprint at the ocean's edge;
indigo in daylight;
a thrall to things unseen.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
4 October 2024
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The Holy Well
Within the small redoubt of ancient gods,
there is a sacred spring,
surrounded by a ring of stones,
whose time-worn face
peers through the thinnest veil.
Its water is the wonder of another world,
whose unfurled flag reveals
three swirling eddies,
which celebrate fluidity of form,
And from the well
a subtle voice proclaims:
I am snowflake symmetry.
I am white-haired hoar-frost.
I am a solitary raindrop.
I am engulfing flood.
I am ascendant steam.
I am cloaking mist.
I am triunity.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
15 April 2024
Ebb
The flagstones remember
the
footsteps of a proud people
who walked their
path
before the
wind formed dunes of urban rubbish
in the
doorways of derelict shops,
livelihoods
once,
whose signs
have lost their meaning.
The city’s ancient
core is a counterfeit fortress,
surrounded
by a moat of tireless traffic, and
hedged by
watchtower tenements.
At its
heart, the church is secure,
by virtue
of a locked door.
The
sunbursts of its ceiling bosses
shine on
empty pews,
a hallowed
but hollowed Temple of Athena,
whose
fabric is a cenotaph to forgotten gods.
In its
graveyard, promise lies buried.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
revised 11 August 2024
Unnoted birdsong.
Busy Bluetooth news,
About a tempting selection,
Of AI odalisques,
Tweaked to pert perfection.
Hand-held computer on a silent scooter,
Zero foot-steps, slow heart-rate histogram,
Going forward (as they say), yet backwards,
To silicone curves of simian delight,
And a chance to dance with the moon again.
Speed-dialled speed dates,
Over paper-cup coffee,
With the à la carte cast
Of a livestream movie trailer,
Well grilled before tasting.
Back-packed babies,
On shopping-mall mothers,
Hands-free foraging for funderwear,
And supply-chain fruit in season everywhere,
Reaped by some ethically cleansed fellah.
Ersatz ciggie smokers,
Botoxed Batman Jokers,
Modern Picts with Anime faces,
Androids lurking in liminal places,
As alarm bells warn of a virtual storm.
Cordless without separation anxiety,
Cashless yet rich. Dead still performing:
Remastered leftovers in the digital fridge,
Chanting PIN, AMA, FOMO ... SIM, RAM, YOLO,
While House Sparrows wait on death row.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
Ides of March 2024
2670118
In the quiet hours of a Sunday morning,
With the workweek safely settled,
You showed me Figaro’s slow march,
Across a cold kitchen floor,
And told stories,
Of blanco and bulling and the Second Battalion,
About peeling potatoes at Pirbright,
In the twilight of the war.
Then, one grey and distant day,
You ceased to hold the line,
But never retreated.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
A Promethean Pun
Each day, while waiting for deliverance,
You were de-livered.
Of Hubris and Global Warming
It was one titanic blunder
to rob the God of Thunder,
And give his flaming property
to us.
When we used the stolen fire,
To light our suicidal pyre,
Zeus rolled his eyes and shrugged.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
EphemeraAt the
edge of empire,
Rome
built a sturdy wall of stone,
To show
the world the vastness of her sway.
Then,
One day,
Her mighty
legions marched away,
And left a shadow on the night watch,
To face
the darkness and guard nothing.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
10 February 2024
