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“The Night Bomber by Stewart Stafford Stefan and Elyse came home by rote, To find a stranger's chilling note, "I’m going to kill you" scrawled in red, Pranks locked out with nothing said. Then the hall window smashed, In a firework’s screaming flash, They threw it out before it burned, Danger had not passed, they learned. A ticking device left behind, Elyse kicked it away just in time, A garden explosion's massive bang, Their ears and windows loudly rang. They wondered what psycho did this deed, And how they'd crossed this evil breed, Then they heard them bomb their neighbours who thought Stefan and Elyse were perpetrators. Then another blast three doors down, Stefan ran to help with a worried frown, Concerned to see who else got hit, Seeing their attacker was still at it. A bomber in a ski mask did a backflip, To dodge their lunging, angry grip, He swung on ropes and vaulted high, An acrobat mocking with a stylish eye. The bomber fled in his getaway car, A neighbour leapt on before he got far, He held on tight but got dragged along, Rolled to the kerb, he couldn't hold on. The Night Bomber of Sheila’s Cabin On the loose, an explosive phantom, Stalking without any reason or pity, His laughter echoed across the city. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Pet Haunts by Stewart Stafford Ghosts pinned my cat to the wall, So I reached out to pick him up, In the strangest flip to our world, They then turned him into a pup! Spectres floated my pet downstairs, Confused as he hovered on a step, Species-fluid doppelgänger mirage, Without moans or chains to schlepp. Dare we dig into this canine tale, Let me lick myself clean and think, Corporeal companions, some not, We all link up as one past the brink. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“In Amorous Creeping by Stewart Stafford I scaled a trellis in randy pursuit, A rose in teeth for my paramour, A thorn lurking by a naked stem, Palmy, engorged and prescient. A pigeon said to douse my ardour, A talkative fowl, plainly no pidgin, Snorts for this priggish counsel, Blind shoots, driving me upward. A wriggling worm to her chamber, Inside I crept as she lay sleeping, Sweeping a spectral sheet off her, To lay until the dawn chorus sings. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“The Lucky Looking Glass by Stewart Stafford Woken from a nightmare, He walked to his bathroom, Treading on a hand mirror, Breaking it, to his horror. Payback of a reflection dodged, With a lifespan of scars healed, Dark energies bilaterally wiped, A poisonous duo counterbalanced. From then on, Plutus's grin shone, A Midas touch with an off switch, Winning streaks of a Texan width, Cracked mirror coffin for the next life. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“The Edge of Reason by Stewart Stafford I do not want to die or take my own life, I cling to the outside of skyscraper metal, Thick, choking smoke rakes my shoulder, Scorching flames lash my back and legs. I showered, dressed and went to work, I arrived early, said hello, found my desk, Then the building shifted, smiles faded, Everything changed, and here we are. God, please take me quickly, I beg you, Bless my loved ones, I hope they understand, A Rorschach test for shocked rubberneckers, I let the air pressure suck me out and drop. The initial relief of vacating impossibility, Turns to violent buffeting in wind currents, Clothes ripped off as I spin, falling faster, Crowds point, the ground rushes towards me. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“As the last human lay dying in their shallow grave, they fashioned a crude grave marker from wood. It read: "Man - Terroriser of Fish and Great Destroyer of all he made, found or was gifted." They then covered themselves with earth and quietly passed away. Seeing this, God left the Universe and took the Sun with him.”

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“Ilf Time Never Flew by Stewart Stafford If a horologist froze time at dusk, And there was no day or night, Or days, months, and years, What then for Earth’s masters? Winged time stilled in a bell jar, A castaway preserved in aspic, Or stickily-entombed in amber, Statuesque life an infinite daymare. Boredom creeping up slowly, A lockdown without progress, The horologist would thaw time, Freeing reality’s ebb and flow. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“If Time Never Flew by Stewart Stafford If a horologist froze time at dusk, And there was no day or night, Or days, months, and years, What then for Earth’s masters? Winged time stilled in a bell jar, A castaway preserved in aspic, Or stickily-entombed in amber, Statuesque life an infinite daymare. Boredom creeping up slowly, A lockdown without progress, The horologist would thaw time, Freeing reality’s ebb and flow. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“The Physician's Pageant by Stewart Stafford Can aught endure the masquerade Of this world's blindfolded night? Melancholy's strike doth calm the raving, As babes roused from stillbirth in fledgling light. We know that the womb doth wander, Around the body, causing ills without care, A pessary's charm doth anchor it in place again, As bait doth lure the quarry to the snare. Burn sulfur, rosemary, lavender and juniper, Or foul dung smoke to cleanse tainted rural air. Light aromatic torches in the playhouse and market, Let vile odours and miasmas in these spaces beware. Though ragged contagion and death still doth assail, God willing, some blessed souls still shalt prevail. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

ResilienceDeath And DyingHuman ConditionMedical HistoryPhilosophical PoetryDisease And DeathGothic PoetryHistorical PoetryShakespearean SonnetsRenaissance Poetry
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“Stuck In One's Craw by Stewart Stafford Nobody's beeswax,' still, you nosily ask: 'Is it the last supper to eat that fast?' Try blackened potato skin's bitter taste, A heritage of hunger's grim, gaunt waste. From Celtic mist, this heir apparent, My grandparent's grandparent(s), Survived Ireland's holocaust famine, As a local catch, not New World salmon. Crop blight drove their starving plea, With lots cast bleak to die or flee Genetic appetite fed the strongest, Those who eat fastest live longest. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

Social JusticeTraumaDark HumorCultural IdentityElegyIrish HistoryIrish LiteraturePotato FamineHistorical PoetryIrish Famine
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“Men are so often made to feel inadequate and stupid for having feelings and problems and expressing their doubts and fears. Fight Club was the pressure cooker that lanced the boil of the pent-up existential crisis in masculinity that continues even more so to this day.”

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“The Poe Toaster by Stewart Stafford They call me The Poe Toaster, A sixty-year mourner, no boaster, With roses and cognac, I paid homage, To gothic Quarles’ eternal foggage. Some call me ghoul, stalker, graver, Obsessed fan, tombstone trader, Let him sleep unbroken, still his ghost, Tomahawk, overdue a tribute toast. Three roses; in-law, Eddy and wife, Cognac, exorbitant luxury in life, Relax, for I was kind, my friend, Pouring amontillado until the end. Why I stopped, if I'm woman or man, Are mysteries for C. Auguste Dupin, Shipwrecked on Night’s Plutonian shore, Allied with the silken darkness of yore. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Dead Rite by Stewart Stafford While he lives, hope still clings, The hereafter remains a mystery, If life is but struggle and toil, Then death is hushed serenity. Things he treasured when alive, Trinkets to divide up as booty, The body still lying in repose, Nothing but a fading memory. Lay him down in a mossy grave, Heads bowed in a muttered eulogy, Then back away with platitudes, To the nearest exit from the cemetery. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

DeathGreedSelfishnessFuneralDeath And DyingUsersEulogyInsensitiveDeath PoemMourners
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“The Feminine Enigma by Stewart Stafford Even lying in repose in her casket, Her aura still a billowing haze, A coffin lid no barrier to new facts, She came back on her funeral day. Creeping sentinels of perspective, Building up new memory mosaics, A spider's web of word and deed, Descending Prozac of the prosaic. The labyrinthine riddle is female, Females are perennially arcane, Puzzles that don't beg solutions, Evening stars of the astral plane. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

MemoriesFemaleFeminineFuneralDeath And DyingFemalesFuneralsMournersDeath Is Not The EndWomen Are Mystery
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“Owl Hollow Road by Stewart Stafford On a bracing night walk, On leafy Owl Hollow Road, A raspy voice whispered to me, Like a deep-croaking old toad. I moved rapidly on my path, And then heard phantom feet, Looked around, empty space, Only silence replaced the beat. At my most pressing pace now, A shadow pointed past my shoulder, An SUV slammed into my side, And I broke my back on a boulder. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved”

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“The Forbidden Place by Stewart Stafford Bypass the chateau on the hill, For, as dusk falls, horrors creep, Griffins and gargoyles fly and flay, And grotesque statues come alive. Badinage becomes shrieks and roars, Shrill warnings for the straying and foolish, Cats as big as panthers stalk and slay, As their homicidal master flogs their fur. Wandering werewolves fetch human bones, A savage rampage beneath a Hunter's Moon, As the dawn routine reasserts its dominance, Denizens of night bathe in darkness's arms. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

HorrorScaryWarningHalloweenGothicWerewolvesGothic HorrorHorror PoetryCreepypastaHaunted Castles
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“A Demon Over Crumpets by Stewart Stafford While taking tea with my physician father, He pressed me on what was ailing me, I imparted my supernatural experiences, Laughing, he recommended fresh air and rest. Just then, he stopped chewing his crumpet, A demon’s image scorched the wall beside us, I rushed over and scraped the hot soot away, And saw two bloodshot eyes surveying the room. I invoked the name of my protector, Jesus Christ, And bade the dark spirit leave us and, with that, The blackened image vanished from the wall, Crackling fireplace flames were the only sound. My father leapt up, made his excuses, and left, I last saw his stooping gait and balding pate, As they fled down the garden path by the hedge, Darting looks over his shoulder, he was gone. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Spring-Heeled Jack Is In The Lane by Stewart Stafford Go indoors, children, before dark falls, A fiend comes hideous and inhumane, Tell your mother not to answer the door, For Spring-Heeled Jack is in the lane. Is it spectre, beast or demon? A trick of light to fool the brain? Blue flames spew from hellish maw, Spring-Heeled Jack growls in the lane. No one can unsee its monstrous face, Nor its claws of steel that bloodstain, Its haunting cackle freezes victims, Spring-Heeled Jack leaps from the lane. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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“On Darkest Paths by Stewart Stafford Temporal loop on a ravenous street, A vampire denied a ticking heartbeat, Restless spirit of night's prettified edge, Bound acolyte of the infinite pledge. Human life, another planet’s memory, This skittish flock, a prized delicacy, Blood frenzy mingles with death's choir, A living essence merged with undead fire. No loving touch nor warmth of light, I must stay numb, shun my plight, Solitary, not lonely; sated yet lost. A fickle captive in my permafrost. I spurn self-pity’s indulgent call, My wastrel's drudge to primal thrall. A millstone for necks of mortal strays Perishing slowly in diminished ways. An inversion of creation, a deviant lie, A predator's bloodlust can never comply, Rogue feeders, unbound by pack affliction. Until driven away or freed of addiction. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

AddictionImmortalityVampiresDark FantasyExistential PoetryGothic PoetryHorror PoetrySurreal PoetryGothic PoemsHorror Poem
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“Knowhere by Stewart Stafford Poleaxed by vampiric tapping— rattling timeline of a loop lapping— Hypochondriac paranoid toothache, tasting everything I see and break. Showed my tongue to an undertaker; licked his face — proved I’m no faker. A measured, grim diagnosis followed, matter from a cardiac pump hollowed. Draped loosely in a tea towel shroud, resurrected—naked, loud, and proud— Rocket to the pub for a post-wake baptism, a ploughman’s lunch with relish schism. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

PoetryExistentialismSatireDark HumorSurrealismContemporary PoetryAbsurdismGothic PoetryHorror PoetryBritish Humor
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“The Risk Assessor's Audit by Stewart Stafford An actuary at the butcher’s table, Serpentine watch-chain, strung as a noose, Each second, costed with surgical élan, Logging the theft in Babel columns loose. The paper catacomb lies crumpled, Its tenant, a doorway hobo in arrears, The knowing leaseholder's smile worn, Who'd changed the locks on all the years. The mutilated currency of memories, Clipped coinage set for melted dooms, Dried blood trickles in the hourglass, Turnkey guardian of vast, derelict rooms. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Gloomy days, whether meteorological or psychological, lend themselves more to the creation of Gothic horror. On those insular days, the mind gravitates towards the unseen and the subconscious. Days of blinding sunshine banish the desire to ruminate and it is replaced with a longing to participate in the outside world.”

Creativity QuotesSubconscious Mind PowerMoodsGothic HorrorGothic LiteratureWeather QuoteGloomy QuotesGloomy WeatherSunny DaysInsular
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“Is there any sight more exquisite than a field of canary yellow rapeseed on a day of blinding sunlight? The colour appears to transcend structure and live and dance and breathe. Nature reveals its primordial palette and invites insects to pollinate and Man to dare to dream of creating something so vibrant, shockingly intense and timeless. It is the golden ignition of the divine spark of creativity writ large.”

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“Stafford's Hypothesis on The Transference of Existence: Even if you self-isolated, stood still, and held your breath after traveling into the past, you would still be a pebble diverting the flow of time in some way. The very transference of existence via wormholes, not interaction with past actors or events, creates paradoxes. Time Transference has three stages: 1. The distance traversed between the origin or starting point of the wormhole and the rip in the Chronosphere (space-time continuum). 2. The transference of biological material through the rip in the Chronosphere without damage to or mutation of the genetic code of the chrono-commuter. 3. Arrival at the endpoint of the time transference - the reconstruction of the chrono-commuter's genetic material and the sealing of the rip in the Chronosphere.”

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