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“The Merry Chrismouse by Stewart Stafford What a time for the merry Chrismouse, Making toys in his workshop/house, Everyone contributes, even his spouse, With Christmas cheer, no one will douse. A sprig of holly for a present tree, Blizzard snow is grated cheese, The kindly rodent set to please, When he comes on Christmas Eve. Nuts and seeds on their button table, Playing games and telling fables, Discarded tinsel on the wall of gable, In midwinter's icy spell unstable. A time for amnesia that felines exist, Kindness and joy at their fingertips, Baby mice excitedly make lists, To have many gifts when they insist. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

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“Anyone who dies by their own hand always has my sympathy. It's easy to sit in judgement on another's struggle from the outside without ever living in their suffocating darkness. If there is an explanation left behind, it usually confirms how relentlessly harsh and unfair they were on themselves. Mourn their release with mercy and gratitude for doing what they were capable of in their short lives.”

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“The Basement Morgue by Stewart Stafford A reluctant errand to a basement morgue, No mortal knew what things lurked there, The elevator shuddered to a halt, opening, To a scattered boneyard of patient beds. Totem tchotchkes of a broken system, Dead corridors stretched left and right, A charged cold-sweat silence hung, As a flaccid desk stethoscope rattled. Buried my nose in my clipboard; Had to find their machine - now! A gurney wheeled itself past me, Disappearing into an anteroom. A hanging skeleton lunged at me— Spindly fingers choked me into blackness. Rousing to bright lights, blinding me; Icy steel drawers swallowed my screams. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

HorrorGhostsHospitalDark PoetryGothic FictionMedical ThrillerFlash FictionPsychological HorrorMorgueCreepypasta
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“Richard Burton by Stewart Stafford Jester’s coxcomb to a fool’s translator? A brothel-creeper in a neon-puked alley, A bean-counter totalling rice grains; Surreptitious, scrumptious attic grub. Stand back, witness me Manspread! Lease me your lobes while I Mansplain! Overcome, I expire in an orchestra pit From the fumes of acute "Toxic Masculinity." Hear my epitaph: "Women aren't funny... so put on the Earl Grey, love!" Coup de grâce! Many have said where I should stick my opinion, But I leave the worst to the collective imagination. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

PoetryIronySatireSexismPersonaDark HumorSocial CommentaryToxic MasculinityMansplainingManspreading
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“Dystopolis by Stewart Stafford Phantasmagoria in the mirror, A bribed witness is my whore, Plastic surgery getting dearer, I must go work out my core. Swallowing carcinogen smog, Painful panting, freezing air, Neutered day of the old dog, On my hamster wheel there. Crawled down to the plague pits, Crab-like, they crept up on me, Sour milk séance of the obits, Drowning in a mausoleum sea. Mild convulsions on a night cold, Cram triage bodies in my bed, Fights reheated getting so old, Awake to find myself dead. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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“Monkstown Hospital by Stewart Stafford My first time away from Mam, Tonsillectomy at six years old, Teddy bear fights Action Man, Pinball Pocketeer for company. Silver torch lights the dark hours, A miniscule pack of playing cards, A made-up game played undercover, My best guess of what picture follows. An older man awaits surgery too, Seeing that I'm alone and scared, He draws pictures to amuse me or, We watch "funnies" in the TV room. Waking from the operation in the bed, Congealed blood covers my pyjamas, My mother makes her shock known, We go home for my First Communion. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Ladybird Heart by Stewart Stafford O darling o' my heart, If 'tis true that is what thou art, Then recognise and see me. Didst I not win thy heart so bold, And giveth thee rings of gold? Anon, honour our precious union. But to interfering teams, Thy loyalty now it seems, Thee grants these canker blossoms o'er me. Recall how they hath tried, To jilt me from mine own bride, And keepest thou lonesome and melancholy. So, returneth, my dove, To this, thy bed of love, And sleep soundly beneath thy lovebird's wing. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

LoveLoyaltyLove PoemLove PoetryPower Of LoveShakespeareanMarital ProblemsIambic PentameterOutside InfluenceIambic Poetry
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“Almost Myself On a twilight road, I met a young man with my face. A denizen of some distant dust devil in drifter denim. We stood and eyed each other, then, with a look of mutual disdain, we parted. Our backward glances were not narcissistic flirtation, but self-conscious reflection and surrender to the formality of the familiar. Against a backdrop of veined lightning and coyote song, I was alone again.”

PoetryPoemDesertTwilightPoems On LifeHitchhikingSupernatural MysteryTwin SoulDrifterDoppelgänger
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“Double You by Stewart Stafford Life can make a twin of you, When you occupy the same air, You can't feel them twinning you, Until your doppelgänger's there. You're twice the Sapien you were, Cloned and replicated new fellows, You're not feeling yourself just now, Feats and phrases are all echoes. But if someone seeks out a quote, You tell them to ask the mirror you, Only things trumping who you are, Are you and matching Double You. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

TwinsCloningTwin SoulCloneTwinClonesDoppelgangerDoppelgangersDoppelgängerBrother From Another Mother
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“The Birnam Oak by Stewart Stafford Medieval guardian, limpet oak, Reinforced branches, sunlit soak, Gnarled limbs in supplicant pose, A statuesque deity in thorny repose. Set up tent 'neath a canopy deep, Where my pilgrim forbears sleep, Midges swarming campfire's glow, And drowsy me, to slumber go. May roots prosper far from sight, Defying storm, flame, chainsaw's bite, Give verdant breath to creation's plan. Until Earth falls from human hand. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

TreeShakespeareOakOak TreeNature PoetryMacbethNature PoemNature PoemsNature Poems Irish PoetBirnam Wood
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“Cults tend to follow similar patterns. First, there's financial exploitation where members hand over money and assets to increase the cult's power over them and make them dependent on it. Then the sexual exploitation begins. Finally, there's physical exploitation involving confinement, punishment, and isolation from family members. If the cult's leader has become delusional enough to think they have the God-like power of life and death over their followers, they may demand the ultimate sacrifice - mass suicide.”

ExploitationCultIndoctrinationBrainwashingCultsCult Of PersonalitySectJim JonesJonestownJonestown Massacre
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“The Holocaust is the lowest humankind has ever sunk. There had been massacres and genocide in the past. There had never been industrial-scale human slaughterhouses before. It was the perfect storm of absolute power inciting rabble-rousing hatred combined with advanced technology and the urge to kill in the primitive recesses of the human mind. I hope that the world never descends to that level of barbarity again. I fear that history's darkest stain will be deepened and surpassed in the future.”

HistoryGenocideHolocaustNazi GermanyDeja VuHistory Repeats ItselfHistory Repeating ItselfShoahHistory RepeatingHistory Repeats
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“The Reaper's Harvest by Stewart Stafford Vast underworld gates open on Samhain night, The grail Sun winters there, in paling sight. Unquiet spirits swarm forth in feral misprision, Trick-or-treat landlords knock in spectral vision. Autumn, perennially-early to Death's season, Winter's welcome overstayed in icy reason. Spring's distant wave thrills in emerging seed, Summer's blush in full alignment decreed. Snowflake to blossom, and greenery to withering; As effigy reminders of cyclical dithering, Seasonal standing stones sink to shifting sands, Saplings of the forest’s new strength, in nature’s hands. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

SeasonsAfterlifeHalloweenSeasons Of LifeSamhainNature PoetryAll Hallows EveHalloween PoemHalloween PoemsOctober 31st
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“Tale of the Holy Hitchhiker by Stewart Stafford A motorist drives by the Blue Church, Of left-handed compliments, And omnipresent righteous sins, Where the Holy Hitchhiker dwells. Waiting for God at the stop sign, No thumbs, he blesses passing cars, Chanting his destination's directions, Then going into silent meditation. A fated pause at the railway crossing, Purgatory train takes an eternity to go by, Time for confessional contemplation, Swift redemption with the accelerator. Thankful prayers at the journey's end, Payment made as alms for the poor, Then a smile as he vanishes into light, The driver sees the Blue Church again. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

ChurchJourneySurrealCarsPurgatoryHitchhikingSurreal PoetryGhostly EncounterInto The LightHitchiker
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“Submerged Suburbia by Stewart Stafford Fell out of bed, dragging my soul, Looked out the old goldfish bowl, To see suburbia was underwater, And I was engaged to Neptune’s daughter. There were buses like whales, Driven by aquatic snails, And jellyfish squatters, Chased by octopus coppers. Crab and lobster schoolkids, Scurried by making online bids, As a serial killer shark, Prowled for surfers before dark. Someone let the water out, And it all went down the spout, Flopping fish still tarried, But I got out of getting married. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

PoetryFloodSurrealSuburbsUnderwaterSuburbiaSurreal PoetryFloodsAquatic LifeUnder The Sea
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“The Cryptic Sea by Stewart Stafford Walk free through Jailer's Gate, Sail to where corporeal forms fade, No longer seen as a common cutpurse, Now in a navigational cut-and-thrust. Note how the ocean heaves and boils, Swirling into towering vortex coils, With hideous creatures at every base, Bearing the haunting Kraken's face. Great ghost ships groan from the mist, And balls of light form fast betwixt, The horizon and the sea spray foam, Save us all and set sail for home. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“It is often said that Freddie Mercury is "one of the best" showmen in history. To me, he is THE best. Why? Two reasons - he wrote what is generally-considered the greatest song of all-time (Bohemian Rhapsody) AND gave the greatest live performance ever (Live Aid). To do one of those things is extremely difficult, to do both is a genius-level achievement.”

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“An Artemisian Coronation by Stewart Stafford A waxing moon with tidings, Cataract vision in sheer mist, Through curtains of fine rain, The foresight of the lunar eye. Cockcrow stabs the dawn, Drowned green fields rouse, Boars trample in the fens, Sheep as anchored clouds. A magpie and raven duelling, Branch to branch to the death, Proudly staking their claims, To the wren's avian coronation. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

NatureMoonBirdAnimalsMoonlightBirdsMoon MagicLunarMoon PoemsMoon Poetry
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“February Soup by Stewart Stafford The February fog, Turns all into blobs, Orange street lights, To Valentine's Night. When the wind strays, Fog's mantle is grey, Laying misty bouquets, On barren, muddied days. The daffodils of March, Can cheer up Plutarch, Adorned in Kelly green, No sign of foggy screens. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“A Magnum Paucity by Stewart Stafford Build the nation's mausoleum, Light the people's funeral pyre, For Hibernia's sons and daughters, In genocide to expire. Romantic Ireland has no grave, It died foraging at the roadside for bites, Or on a coffin ship out of reach of the New World, An empire's boot on the throat for last rites. Did you know your identity all along? Or find it struggling and aghast? Old Eireann was the first expendable colony, And egregiously, not Britannia's last. Constricting stomachs do not growl patriotic oaths, Freedom is a stranger to a starved mind, Force-feed our children grapes of wrath, With liberation dead on the vine. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

HistoryIrelandStarvationFamineBritish EmpireIrish HistorySt Patrick S DayPotato FamineThe IrishEmigration And Immigration
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“My Éireann by Stewart Stafford Éireann is my maiden, Titian grace spun gold, Fêted for her fairness, A goddess sacrificed. All-seeing eye of piety, But mauled with scars, In repose and melding, With the ire of the land. In perennial motion, Rivers meet the sea, Gaze upon a dark pool, Soubrette for new suitors. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

IrelandCelticSt Patrick S DayGaelic CultureThe IrishIreland SettingEireIreland TravelEireannThe Emerald Isle
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“Old Friend, New Adventure by Stewart Stafford Snow crept down, surprising, Before the sun strolled, rising. Monochrome in palatial white, Teeth chattering in moonlight. Overnight, all became frozen. A cloud nine expedition chosen. This boy came flying out of doors, As a cat sprang with cold paws. A man shadowed me in the dark. As I sculpted him in the park, Rolling a snowball until it grew, And a snowman stood, born anew. With a carrot nose and coal eyes, Gazing at me through rictus guise, This bright curve in an unlit sky A silent friend to thaw the lies. Then fleeing back inside, To hot chocolate by the fireside, Numb, red hands slowly came alive, The joy of life, awoke and arrived. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“The Revenant by Stewart Stafford The golden ball in the sky adopts an adios hue, And kisses the world a fond adieu, The predators that thrive in its absence appear, Their shadows and eyeshine our darkest fears. The Revenant stirs from subterranean limbo, With bloodied fangs and glowing eyes akimbo, To survive and stagger the bloodlust way, Until fasting begins at break of day. Hear the tap at your window, The solitary song, Embrace the contagion, No matter how wrong. Feel the frigid skin, The piercing bite, And live in their troth, At one with night. Then recline in their grave, In eternal embrace, And rise at sundown, A gothic Queen of Disgrace. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

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“The Ludicrous Pragmatic by Stewart Stafford Love is anaesthesia, Of the human condition, Honeyed, layman's nostrum, healing body and mind. An auction won unbidden, Self-created, human-sustained, Unlike energy, destructible, morphing into vicious hatred. Convalescing in a void, baby steps towards others, a sentient river to the sea, Until love's exhumed again. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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