Dissolution

 

Dissolution

Settling on forsaken walls,

four hooded crows survey the roofless void,

and fix upon on a pointless arch,

that forms an unmeant testament to greed.

On the ground, unwelcome weeds

lay claim to cracks between the tiles,

once worn by footsteps of the black-cowled friars.

 

Among the shards of sun-fired scenes, 

unleaded lips remain

to speak of order lost to disrepair,

and, on the wind,

they sing the compline prayer

to remind us of the coming night,

while a noiseless death knell

rings in the silence.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

20 April 2024

 

The Holy Well

 

 

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 a frozen stream.

I am a raging torrent.

I am a flood.

I am steam rising from the cauldron.

I am a cloak of druid-mist.

I am the true trinity of one.

 

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

15 April 2024

 

 

 

 

Ebb

 

 

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

SHARDS OF MODERNITY

 

SHARDS OF MODERNITY

 

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 the kill du jour of an ancient campsite.

Speed-dialed speed dates,

Over paper-cup coffee,

Five-minute film trailers,

Starring life-shopping drifters, 

rescue-dog hopefuls, and back-alley grifters.

 

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

 

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

25 February 2024

Playing with Prometheus

A Promethean Pun

Each day, while waiting for deliverance,

You were delivered.

Of Hubris and Global Warming

It was one titanic blunder,

To rob the God of Thunder,

And give the hot property to us.

While we rashly used his fire,

To light our suicidal pyre,

Zeus flung his dregs and shrugged.

 

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

20 February 2024

Ephemera

 

Ephemera

At 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