As they say it in France

Tuned in to the Great 208,

I can hear you even now,

singing along to C'est si bon.

Until it wasn't so good,

and the lyrics stopped

somewhere near the Left Bank.

Paris was a lot closer 

than the night caller.

A red 3:10 beside the bed,

and news that shocked.

Shaking by the phone,

to phantom ringing.

You and Dean Martin, 

a duo never in the charts,

with only an audience of one.

It's just that things slip away

without a trace. San fairy ann,

as your mother used to say.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

20 January 2026

Beloved of Baḋḃ.

I am Feannóg,

little flayer of flesh.

I groom a feathered coat of grey

and wear an ink-dark hood.

My badge is the red-steeped beak.

My eyes are funeral black.

They see the killing,

the spill of bloodlust,

the gore-strewn sand.

They see endless plenty.

The battle feast.

And it is time to feed,

while the warrior-hosts rearm.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

17 January 2026

The New God

Two minutes of silence!

You must be joking?

Sorry.

I've got to take this.

And with the going down of the sun,

the hand-held glow

became the light of the world,

bringing comfort in the darkness.

And the still small voice

asked, "What are you doing here?"

But the question was lost

amid the noise.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

10 January 2026