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“The One Who Moves Me by Stewart Stafford Her caress and laughter, Cast out the darkness, And lull the choppy waters, Her embrace, a flowering meadow. Her absence stills the earth, Cracked ice on a frozen lake, Asphyxiating silence descends, The Faustian poker of loneliness. Lexicons filled with her silences, Seismic shifts of stinging rage, She, in naked imperfection as I, Together, reuniting in shelter. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“The Scavenger's Ledger by Stewart Stafford The scratch of a nib on paper Tells me I am alive, I think. At this Heaven/Hell midpoint— A torn throat for a poison drink. The horizon lit up again tonight, Rebels fight for futile freedom, Happiness, a cold, distant stranger, No gifted transfusion to bleed him. Willingly failing the audition of life, Food appears to have lost all taste, A numb tongue or cheap ingredients, I cannot let one crumb go to waste. They’ve finally cured me of love, Stripped every vestige of me away, Carrying my grave upon my back, Their snail slithers from day to day. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“The Trenches of Comprehension by Stewart Stafford Drowning at quicksand's smothering pace, A lonely disappearance that leaves no trace. As I struggle to get out, the deeper I sink, Nothing bequeathed, just dusty ink. Old wives say hearing is the last to go, Second last wind as a bittersweet tango, In sunken lethargy shouting aphorisms, Spouting words fortifies alert mechanisms. Communication fading as it nourishes, From a dying man's lips, it flourishes, The Reaper's bone dice leave you cheated, Exhaustion cashing out the defeated. Chin sinks below for past life crime, Eyes and lungs fill in white light time, Saviour's hand grasps mine in the sludge, And from death's door, I slowly budge. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“From The Darkest Depths by Stewart Stafford Salvation swallowed in a bleak abyss, Of impossibly lost and betrayed souls, Swarming screams of frantic contrition, Clawing collisions in a drowning grip. Drops of reason cascade down the vortex, Falling infinitely through the fallen infamy, Snaking doubt constructing every delusion, Of false idols, prophets, and graven images. Scaling its putrescent and lacerating walls, Is a repentant struggle beyond endurance, Then distant dawn appears, growing nearer, Darkness fades and a basking reign forms. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved”

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“Don't Let The Devil Hear You Weeping by Stewart Stafford Don't let the Devil hear you weeping, Or darkness comes as your friend, Saying God sent it to save you, And be with you until the end. Tail wrapped around you snugly, Gripped firmly in meaty claws, Only then get its beastly odour, Against which there should be laws. Dancing the inferno's fiery rim, Spitting bile in your begging bowl, Paper cut, a blood pact union, To steal away your purest soul. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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“Sept 27-69-6.30 by knife by Stewart Stafford I am the thief on the golden hill, Predator in sight, a hooded chill, Masked, armed and primed to strike, Prey pinned by the lake, as I like. Tie them up on blankets, used, In time they'll see it's all a ruse, Pretend to leave, then come back, Back-slashed in a frenzied attack. Left to die, their assailant gone, Darkness falls on two bleeding fawns, Stagger up the hill to try and get aid, Passing out as the lifeforce fades. Flashlight in the eyes, back for the kill! Help arrives, shakily standing still, Message on his car, Zodiac was here, He lived, she passed, and then only fear. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Hidden Halls by Stewart Stafford Hail the dark prince, An apostle of perfidy, Great cull’s architect, Lavish secret funding. Wrong horse backed, Crown shards buried, Knights get sanctuary, Sullied pasts shrouded. Ultra kingdom subjects, Bloody, unwashed hands, Eliminating in full denial, That the bacillus was them. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“A Malignant State by Stewart Stafford When oozing eyes of paranoia, And the septic ears of hearsay, Vomit hysteria up as atrocity, The mad dog jackal has its day. A demented warden's open prison, Each dwelling house, a divided cell, Community focus now second best, Our loved ones, cats in the wishing well. For your "security," a police state, gifted, Humiliation's fires rage by a dry water spout, A lawfare circus for their spoiler alerts, Truth's spectral vessel a flood of doubt. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Pathological liars lie most often to themselves about their ability to fool others. They think they're geniuses at it when most people see through their constant deceit in a split second. Yet their brittle egos and lack of self-awareness (the reasons they lie in the first place) prevent them from noticing they're bad liars. Thus, they never learn, progress, and become better people.”

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“Truth or Care by Stewart Stafford It's not every day you find out you're going to die, A sweaty doctor hit me right between the eyes, With my body's Judas kiss and then I was prey, Life had left me without any cards to play. Reading the shocked expression on my face, The doctor played his "it's treatable" ace, Treatable is good but curable is better, Survival hinges on the placement of letters. Turns out I never had a chance, sadly, The doctor lied to me and lied badly, Flop sweat had put truth to the sword, And I'm writing all this through a ouija board. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Our art serves as a living beacon of self-discovery, direction, and, we hope, a lit path for generous posterity to follow. Though we may be gone, the light still shines through the windows we left open—windows that were themselves opened to us by all who preceded us. Life and creativity are ongoing, collaborative efforts involving both those present and absent, in ways we may not always see or fully appreciate.”

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“Stranger's Park by Stewart Stafford Up the empty, welcoming path, Half grass/gravel in composition, Past ruined cottage foundations, And tree trunk with vaginal cleft. Swings sway, empty playground, Birds serenading wraith children, Roundhead bins stand as sentries, Keeping errant litter off the grass. Army truck and wailing ambulance, Shatter the tranquility as they pass, Blaring car horn joins the cacophony, Turning on my heel, I journey home. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Chaos Cocktail by Stewart Stafford Herky-jerky's hanky-panky, Wakey-wakey, eggs n' bakey! Cosmic Mercury's retrograde trick, Nilsson's Brandy Alexander kick. John heard Bermuda's jingle-jangle, Storm surge in an Exorcist Triangle! Sea shanties upending Behan's hive, All stout hornets jigged and jived. Yoko's "Oh, no!" on firmer ground, Her ageing mariner didn't drown, Lonely Ringo plays bingo bongo, Paul, mugged down near the Congo. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“The death of their manager Brian Epstein was the beginning of the end for The Beatles. While Yoko Ono did try to fill the power vacuum and exacerbate the cracks created by Epstein's loss, she was not solely responsible for The Fab Four's demise. As with every big event, there are many actors, factors and complexities at play and no one simple explanation for everything.”

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“Ambiguity is your ally: an interpretive dance with universal truths, not an observation post. An artist enlightens; the interpreter chooses to bathe in that light. Or, fearing being 'wrong' or lacking critical thinking, they await spoon-feeding. Being Irving The Explainer is not the artist's job. You don't go to an art gallery to ask a painter what their painting means (they have wisely left the scene of the crime!). You either get it or you don't, and it should wash over you and be appreciated either way. Impose the tyranny of explanation upon it, and you may kill any meaning, if there is any to unearth. Artists may not even know their intentions when putting something out into the cosmos. Ambiguity, then, is the fertile hinterland between The Emperor's New Clothes and the Highlands of Pretentiousness.”

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“The worst thing you can do to an artist is demand they explain themselves. Stanislavsky said a raised voice has no place in art — nor does cross-examination. An ambiguous space to breathe in is the lifeblood of all creativity. Despite the implied tag of ownership from financial benefactors, the artist must resist becoming a preserved butterfly on a pin for study.”

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“It's probably for the best that Van Gogh isn't around to see his work selling for squillions of dollars, as he'd probably start painting for that market. He may have lost an ear, but he'd still have that magic eye and a new nose for a deal. We're denied access to this poor man's genius by having the richest people on earth hanging his life's work in their mansions.”

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“In Faceless Time by Stewart Stafford Her stare burned into me, In full view, a naked look, Hubbub quietened down, Inaudible to the two of us. Beckoning, a ripened vine, Ingénue cameo of her face, I, a happy gatecrasher to life, Tiptoed in the requited chase. Her looks carry with me now, Resplendent in aged raiment, Ages after my gaze fell on her, A souvenir sheltered radiant. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Ebb and Flow by Stewart Stafford Happiness, briefest harbour in a squall; Tempests funnel us to splintered docks, High-seas missions to a last port of call, Fading feast taste of a haven of stasis. Weather springs with raging misprision, All things far beyond fingertip calculation, If we go off course with Fool's Gold vision, The reefs of avarice shall starkly claim us. We set sail or are torn from fragile sanctuary, All these stays, noted in the strangers' ledger, The Fate Morgana's captain - marine actuary, Virtual kin crew with fish and fowl companions. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

FateExistentialismMortalityImpermanenceNauticalDark PoetryGothic PoetryMaritime StoriesSea PoetryOcean Poetry
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“CheckFate by Stewart Stafford Now hear this about Fate! Its coils squeezing around you, Directing your every move, It is your second skin glue. Scream unilateral lockdown, As in Covid fever dream years, Fate is your silent partner, Lifer cellmate chained to all your fears. As you hide in a shack in the Andes, Fate's squatter gatecrashes to stay, Tracked by a big cat in the Pampas, Jaguar-spotted stalker in your DNA. Fate deals its stacked tarot cards, Catch-22's lotto winners - broke and few, A drill sergeant drones' whipped parade In lockstep as one of Fate's crew. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“The Seer's Map by Stewart Stafford Howling dog, thou cursèd hound, Plaguest thy master with baleful sound, The cur's yelps taint the air around; A dirge for all that hear thy wound. The rooftop magpie foretells: Herald of guests to visit soon, A noisy speech announceth, Companions of the afternoon. Lucky horseshoe and iron key, Bringeth good fortune to the finder, But spilling salt provokes fate, And draws the evil eye's reminder. A shoe upon the table laid, Tempts the dead to live anon, For this ungracious gesture waketh, Flesh and blood from skeleton. Who crosses the path of hare or priest, A perilous milestone on thy road, Their very presence signifies That gathering trouble doth forebode. A toad on thy merry travels, Brings sweet smiles and kindest charms, Keep one about thy person warm, To shelter safe from danger's harms. Red sky at night delights the eye, Of shepherd that beholds thy light, Thy colour doth betoken dawn Of weather fair and clear and bright. Red sky at morn troubles the heart, Of shepherd that surveys thy shade, Thy hue doth presage day Of stormy blast and tempest made. December's thunder balm, Speaks of harvest's tranquil mind, January's thunder, fierce! Warns of war and gales unkind. An itchy palm hints at gold To come into thy hand ere long, But if thou scratch it, thou dost lose The fair wind that blows so strong. A Sunday Christmas forewarns: Three signs of what the year shall hold; A winter mild, a Lenten wind, And summer dry, to then unfold. Good luck charm on New Year's Day Maketh fortune bloom all year, But to lose it or give it away, Thou dost invite ill-omened fear. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Villicus Vadum: Soldier Of Fortune by Stewart Stafford I am the ghost of lupine Romulus, Founder of Rome, hear my tale, Of Villicus Vadum - young, driven, Steward to Senator Lucius Flavius. Villicus wanted Flavia, the senator’s daughter, But she was betrothed to Marcus Brutus; A consul of noble and virtuous stock, Villicus conspired to take Flavia's hand. Treachery and deception were his tools, Knavish peacock of Rome's epic stage, Sought to take Flavia from Marcus Brutus, To snatch and cage his treasured gem. Bribed a false soothsayer to trap her, Believing her beloved began with V, Flavia agreed to elope with him to Gaul, With Brutus vowing deadly vengeance. Fleeing to the bosom of Rome's enemy - Vercingetorix, at war with Julius Caesar, Villicus offered to spy on the Senate, While plotting to seize Gaul's throne. Queen Verica also caught his eye, Villicus was captured by Mark Antony, Taken to Caesar's camp as a traitor; Brutus challenged him to a duel. Brutus slashed him but spared his life, They dragged Villicus to Rome in chains, To try him for his now infamous crimes; Cicero in defence, Cato as prosecutor. Cicero argued Villicus acted out of love, And that his ambition merited mercy, Cato wanted death for his wicked threat, Julius Caesar pondered a final verdict. Villicus - pardoned but banished from Rome, Immediate death if he returned to Flavia, Villicus kissed the emperor's foot for naught, Flavia refused to join him in fallen exile. Now learn from this outcast's example, friends, That I, Romulus, warn you to avoid at your peril, Villicus Vadum, the wrath of the gods upon him, Until time ceases, sole spectre of night's edge. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“The Impossible Banquet by Stewart Stafford Awakened by a stinging sun, Radiant wings of flame and gold, I breathe in dawn’s virgin hopes, With icy shards of doubting cold. Am I not my parents' child? Lost my way on a freedom roam, Invitation to a tempting feast, Over family, love, and home. Trapped within the world's crosshairs, Locked down with time to burn, Casting runestones, but too late, For visible escape, I yearn. An obsessive lady by my side, A judge of karma infernal, She took my life with her own hand, Bequeathing a wound eternal. Tomorrow’s hopes are now a ghost, No merciful release to illuminate, I wish to scrub away the past, A vain rebirth to change my fate. But I’m caught in the Reaper's maw, I weep for you who procrastinate, Sold my soul on Devil's Bridge, Then dragged through a fiery gate. Hope, community, society crash, Towering feats of grotesquery, You may not grieve for me who's gone, Time's cruel critic is all you see. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Shrewd Shakespeare understood that the paradox of drama also ticks at the heart of life itself: we can't truly bear, understand or transcend tragedy without humour and we definitely appreciate levity more when unburdened from pitch darkness. Deepest drama often demands a sudden crash of laughter's lightning bolt. Surgically-wielded comic relief, used with acute awareness of audience and moment, doesn't merely lighten a heavy scene; it provides the critical human counterpoint, a vital exhale allowing the audience to bear the weight, and feel it all the more intensely when tension returns, effectively disproving the literally-minded misconception that to laugh at something is to disrespect it or not take it seriously. This profound effect isn't just theatrical technique; it taps into a timeless human impulse—gallows humour, whistling past the graveyard—a deep-seated capacity to find release and digest life's bitterest truths, even in the face of overwhelming gravity.”

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“Idolatry is inherently paradoxical. Were we an ideally-flawed replication of the divine, free-thinking, history-repeating links in an outcast chain on a smaller, mortal scale, or is our imperfection a special dispensation? Are we a sly thought experiment? Shouldn't those we admire reflect this duality and our shared humanity — not a perfection that never was and never will be?”

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