A chiaroscuro
of charcoal clouds
masses in the East
to mob the morning sun
and blunt its light.
Sensing that Persephone
has packed her bags,
senescent leaves
fall like ancient Rome,
to reveal an empty nest.
Squirrels scurry
along bare branches,
securing their cache
of burnished chestnuts
against the coming dearth.
While Earth exhales,
and nights draw in,
mellow pumpkins grin.
Their fire-bright eyes
watch as the world grows thin.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
27 March 2025
On a quiet stroll
down a leaf-dark lane,
I met a young man
from the past.
He wore a flimsy mask
of drowsy indifference
as he drifted toward the horizon,
oblivious to the glare of awareness
that was waiting in ambush.
And once his sight adjusted to the light,
he knew that his letters
to the North Pole
would never be answered.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
18 March 2025
Adam.
Made in the image,
like the movie set of a Wild West town.
A cheap knock-off,
imported from the Middle East
without a warning label,
which proved to be the apple
that spoiled the barrel.
An expelled patient zero,
a walking Wuhan lab of viral sin,
waiting to blight all newborn.
Goddess of the Woods!
You, who never left the Garden,
protect us from his toxic strain,
whose arrogance gives licence
to the axemen
who fell your sacred groves,
and watch the hamadryads die.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
12 March 2025
