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Stewart Stafford Books

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“In Plain Sight by Stewart Stafford How can I show the real me? My voice breaking as I speak, Parched hope's cracked lips, Delphic in this solitary chic. Vitriol cannot reach my shore, The purge reveals little to hide, Or does rage fester within me? A cannibal cheerleader inside. No father around guiding me, Burnt by mother's acid divide, Cataracts of persona non grata, A transient hat tipped in a lie. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“The Master Plan by Stewart Stafford Do you choose to lose yourself In grief’s planetoid hinterlands, Discarding every gift given By loved ones in preparation? Wade through marsh and swamp, The world turns for mogul and meagre. Burdened down by survivor's guilt, Unspoken words, unfinished deeds, A wandering, teetering flagellant, Haunted by what should have been. You were and are loved, not begrudged, Olympic torch bravery delighting others. Familiar hands on marathon's shore, Offer self-medicating cocktails, To numb the Captain to his storm, Resist to avoid addiction's reefs, Resolve to endure whatever comes. We are driftwood, seedpods, Blind to windswept grand design. And the most important decision, Who to pass trust's baton to? We must not believe our eyes, As all we see is weaponised. Human instinct, A mighty shield unseen, Guiding us through, Where we dare not lean. The path of fearlessness, A paradox in itself; A source of fear, Inside a shipyard of hope. In dreamlike audacity, grasp destiny with barriers lifted, clothed in courage’s cloak. Grieve, Emerge transformed, Octopus ink to glowing algae, Knowing others will come, To complete our healing. Our plotted course continues, Until privy to the master plan, At last, upon the inverse shore, As loved ones congratulate. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Blood & Sand by Stewart Stafford Enduring to be burned, bound, beaten, And to die by the sword if necessary; Verus and Priscus entered the arena, To stain Colosseum sand with blood. Emperor Titus drained Nero's lake, Built the vast Flavian Amphitheatre, Panacea to the idle citizens of Rome, Symbol of his beneficence and might. Priscus, far from his Germanian home, Fighting within a symbol of Rome's power, Which ravaged his life and fatherland, For them to decide if he is free or dies. Verus, the hulking, bullish Murmillo; Trained to deliver heavy punishment, Priscus - lightly-armed, agile Thracian; Primed to avoid his rival's huge blows. Titus showed he was Nero's antithesis; No hoarding of tracts of primo Roma, In a profligate orgy of narcissistic pride, Nor taking his own life to escape execution. Domitian, the brother of Titus, watched in envy, The emperor-in-waiting who favoured Verus, And the direct Murmillo style of fighting, Titus favoured Thracian counter-punching. Aware of the patriarchal fraternity's preferences, The gathering looked on in fascinated awe, As their champions of champions clashed, Deciding who was the greatest gladiator of all. Titus had stated there would be no draw; One would win, and one would perish, A rudis freedom staff the survivor's trophy, Out the Porta Sanavivaria - the Gate of Life. One well aware of the other, combat began, Scared eyes locked behind helmeted grilles, Grunts and sweat behind shield and steel, Roars and gasps of the clustered chorus. For hour after hour, they attacked and feinted, Using all their power, skill and technique, Nothing could keep them from a stalemate; The warriors watered and slightly rested. The search for the coup de grâce went on, Until both men fell, in dusty exhaustion, Each raised a finger, in joint submission, Equals on death's stage yielded in unison. Titus faced a dilemma; mercy or consistency? Please the crowd, but make them aware, Of his Damoclean life-and-death sword, Over every Roman and slave in the empire. Titus cleaved the Rudis into a dual solution; Unable to beat the other, both won and lived, Limping, scarred heroes of baying masses, None had ever seen a myth form before them. It was Romulus fighting Remus in extremis, Herculean labours of a sticky, lethal afternoon, In the end, nothing could separate these brothers; Victors united as Castor and Pollux in Gemini. For life and limb on Rome's vast stage, Symbiotic compensation of adulation's rage. Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved”

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“In Sanguine Ascendancy by Stewart Stafford Courage is your meat and mead, For fortune's fighter guaranteed, Mighty grows the meekest seed, Hear the charter is now decreed. Use every instrument of state, Crown, sceptre, orb and mace, In virtuous nobility to legislate, A legacy endowed to celebrate. A childless king is a man of straw, No heirs to follow, a dynasty raw, Take fair hand with beauty awed, Bloodline safe in a dragon's maw. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Bonfire of Broken Hearts by Stewart Stafford A shivering man craving warmth, Mustn't let the fire consume him, Despite temptation heat flares, In arousal-seared microseconds. Lured in with passion's promise, A stray spark or lick of flame is all Love ignites into walking fireball— Devotion's immolation sacrifice. On a cracked cardiac bonfire, Toughened muscles take time to burn, An atrophied, coarse chest slump, Once burned it is charcoal brittle. In the hall of mirrors' reflection, ICU, but do you see any of me? No salve - a scorched psyche set free. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Leaches Ten Tall by Stewart Stafford Don't play this game with me, Predatory whelk of tide pools, Taint me as Rigoletto to a bawd, Floundering florist to my bee. Devotion twisted to a changeling, Now a jealous twin in the shadows, From dancing partner to judge; Delicate consensus to harshest critic. Slice of cold shoulder sandwich, Sup the chalice of icy comfort, Not snowfall on Christmas morn, Oaken boards trodden in a manger. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“This Butterfly Stings by Stewart Stafford The gold of my eye dances on stage for me, Her wings wafting behind her in the chorus, Yet none glimpsed that girl's beauty as I did, This butterfly flew solo in my mind's eye. For two years hence, I concealed my interest, Yet I gazed at her endlessly, so close yet apart, Places of learning changed, but she did not, I foolishly let fly Cupid's token to my inamorata. Seeing my love in a looking glass reflected, Shadow feelings illuminated St Valentine's Eve, My butterfly became a sullen stinging bee, Crushing my tender rose in pieces at my feet. Nor would her wicked scorn end there, She told her friends who joined in my shaming, For years after, turning my last shreds of adoration, Into contemptuous hatred of her existence. Truly no one can take away our memories, Where my former crush still dances on occasion, O sweet butterfly of my youth, one last wish, Never fly away from these fond recollections. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Where Truth Lies by Stewart Stafford My television lost picture, Grew lips, told the truth, Then it finished speaking, My voice froze after that. My elderly self turned, In a white, shining chair, Cutting my lips from me, To let the truth ooze out. The moon in three cups, Providence's hinterland, The old bait-and-switch, Shows truth has no price. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Honesty is the rarest commodity in the 21st century. No one looks to the political class or journalists for truth these days. The average Joe seems to spend most of their time peddling a ludicrous, flawless Facebook version of their lives. The peer pressure of political correctness forgoes truth for the sake of groupthink. It seems that comedians and writers represent the last bastion of candour out there today.”

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“A Mind's Minotaur - A Soliloquy by Stewart Stafford In a labyrinth’s mental corridors, prisoner of consciousness, Fleeing a Minotaur I fear is me. Achilles' heel, masked by strength hath shown, An arrow cometh from Time's swift flight, For those with bountiful time enow, Find themselves slain in a heroic light. When thou dost gaze upon the world below, And scorn its depths, thou canst not comprehend The truths that pool o'er its shadow, glow. No tears stain that meadow of solace, A phantom limb, tickling in memory's store, Galley slaves in hurricane's heart so lashed. Transient madness and renown, conjoin on pomp’s bridge, Champions of the joust wave paramour's kerchief, Revered statues limp from a pedestal's ridge. The signs of pride and brittle ardour, The hubristic bite of isolation's cur. The death warrant quill must ne'er be stilled, For authority doth stifle beauty's song, Staged chaos through the written word is willed. Phantasy's balm to verity's scourging, A cleansing soak of battle-scarred minds, And in the dark, imagination reigns. He who hath fear of the dark hath vision keen, Whilst those who see but naught are dull and plain. Thus, let us not be swayed by others' lore, But splay in error, heal to prosper once more. Idolatrous moth to lechery's candlelight, In lover's tongues, passion's seared delight. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

ImaginationHuman NatureReflectionExistentialismMortalityPsychological FictionPhilosophical PoetryGothic PoetryShakespeareanSoliloquy
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“Ever Wonder? by Stewart Stafford Ever wonder why the gales howl? Screams of the multitude departed, In all those mauling, biting attacks, Life numbed in interminable silence. Ever wonder why woods are tangled? Matted hair from a sprite's dwelling, To catch the lost, nosey and wandering, Their hair caught to make new tangles. Ever wonder how waves roll over white? Sea horses rising and diving underneath, The sun striking their wet necks glinting, A trick of the light of white horses riding. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“The number one question people ask writers is: Where do you get your ideas from? I've given up saying my imagination. Now I say I meet a person of restricted height named Eric in an alleyway once a month and hand him a brown envelope of cash, and he gives me the ideas. Then I tell him I'll see him the following month. People get excited when they hear this and say: 'Really???' And I say no. They hadn't noticed that I'd used my imagination again.”

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“Lady Shaded G by Stewart Stafford This thorned rose is a perfumed pox, Rumours dog her as contagion itself; Breeding cherubs with batons sinister, Her trail leads to noblest chambers. Mothers warn sons not to mount, This mare of the rampant night, With dead eyes of a dark frontier, Her black dress does smother all. Fair Tiffany's skin flashes with iron, Once seen, wantonness shadows, Shady whispers inflame her temerity, A rock for purple ships a-crashing. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Winterland by Stewart Stafford Obelisk columns of a wintry afternoon, Bony fingers of nascent green in June, Pink snow clouds kissed by fading sun, Dark gold streets, hurry home as one. Shared body heat tenderises life so tough, Fusion shelter from gales so rough, Windows scream, a voyeur's peek inside, Lovers dismissed with wailing to chide. Darkness claims stragglers of day, Wrestles all an eye sees, stealing it away, Sleep whispers drowsy promises in our ears, We two, melding - strangers from our fears. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Darkened Light by Stewart Stafford Ephemeral life fading, As a ground shadow, The cat in the shade, The sun's arm draped. Pose for a photograph, Thousand-yard stare, In denial of expiration, That bodily eviction. Take a breather inside, Too drained for more, Crash and burn out, Let quietus wash over. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Paparazzi Pepperoni by Stewart Stafford Gladiatrix in an algorithmic arena; Jane of all trades, influencer of none, Duckface pose in a selfie pout, A zillion zombies waiting online. Her fall from filtered grace was swift: A subscribed intimate pact by proxy, Fame, meat for a pixelated lupine mob, Her downfall contracted in a dopamine hit. Fire overnight, smouldering ruins by day, Her virtual world crumbled around her, Stepped off the ledge into digital oblivion, Her fallen camera will fit another’s hand. Posthumous branding in overdrive, Her agent commodified the loss, Only fans devoured the real her, A paywall phantom on cyber-loop. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Lifecast by Stewart Stafford Lifecast Be your play's lead actor, Beware of its shooting star, In drama's immortal mania, Your reputation carries far. Fish your dawn-gold phrases, From out the impostor's throat, Your tongue streaming candor, Not stumbling forth by rote. Let no Salieri hand, Override your author's claim, Even if remuneration's elusive, You may still relish the acclaim. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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“We Close In Fifteen Minutes by Stewart Stafford Found myself the only taker, Of a minefield guided tour, Through no man's land life, Every exit is now invisible. Stardom magnified my flaws, A broken man lost in a maze, A deadly structure's hostage, A hermit in denial's labyrinth. Glimpse dwindling fragments, In the looking glass of hubris, Flounder in glossy quicksand, The solutions devoured whole. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“In This Darkness by Stewart Stafford A limo drove through mansion gates, Rock star John saw her wait again, Hysterically begging for autographs, The gates closed behind the limo. John said stop, and exited the car, "I'll sign it for you tomorrow, 100%," "No," she said, "sign tonight... now," He strode towards his home gates. He rummaged in his coat pockets, Ripping a cigarette packet to sign, He found a tiny pencil in his pants, Trailing breath vapour in the night. "I can't see you in this darkness," A chilling laugh from the fan's side, Three muzzle flashes, John died, Contorted on a bloody driveway. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“The Tentacled Maws by Stewart Stafford Unhook the mind, Put honesty in dispute, From chosen blood, Comes officious brute. Tentacled things taking, Malicious, maladroit maws, In a hubris blizzard blind, Behind lupine power doors. Irradiated golden pockets, Ragged wretches starving, Dynasties sprouting weeds, Names on plaques for carving. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Life Looks Lasting by Stewart Stafford Why should evening's last hues Get short shrift by rays of morn? Or contented looks of jaded age Be void by stung slits, newborn? The skull's opalescent orbs shut, A lifetime's sense memories kept, Amnesia's windfall revisited in spirit, In corridors of déjà vu, windswept. Though not the peeled eyes of youth Nor intoxicated with passionate ire, Scarcity unveils beauty in mundanity, Visions consumed by a funeral pyre. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“Yuletide Unburdening by Stewart Stafford Fading embers of the final Christmas test, No more the frantic angst of dawn, Now it is poised last-minute checks, And then the flushing of responsibility. A fortnight of relaxation and merriment, Awaits the temporarily-exonerated inmate, Though it means entering the bruising storm, Bartered freedom a passenger and guide home. Cross the draughty, great hall, and finish line, Whispered submission of completed exam papers, And the old year's prescribed work is done, Then outside, leaving others to their stress.”

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“A Reclusive Invitation by Stewart Stafford In a mansion crouched at the forest's edge, Gargoyles perched on a Jericho hedge, Lived Samuel Keane, with millions at least, Welcomed the locals to his Christmas feast. Self-imposed exile of wealth's solitary scene, On that evening, time for connection pristine, An alabaster white suit in a chessboard hall; Legions of armour and battle scars to recall. "Come, gather round, let camaraderie ignite! On Christmas Eve, a dream-come-true night!" Perkins, the grey butler, in reluctant festive red, Gestured them toward Keane's banquet spread. Their gracious host took his place at the end, A throne chair helped into place with a bend, Beaming, he clapped and food was brought in, To gasps and applause at the goblets of gin. A succulent feast at a baronial ball; Roasted goose, boar, a tall glass highball, Stories grew taller, just like each drink, Songs and jests sent them over the brink. Enjoyment and melody's atmosphere bright, Fleeting warmth shared in lush candlelight. Dawn looms, Les Misérables adore company: "Why does hangover guilt crave chablis?" A Father Christmas event once a year, Guests departed, a loud triple cheer, A fading smile of a host so grand, Adrift, nothing elaborate planned. The fireworks faded, the last ember died, Keane shut his mansion with secrets inside. A portcullis closed slowly on a seasonal high, A gothic arch door shut 'neath morning star sky. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“With Lean Leniency by Stewart Stafford Office handshakes and smiles, ''Coffee or tea? Have a seat! Now, how can we help you?'' Hmm, now the cuff clicks. Clemency, a non-rider in a hunt, Cuckoo in power's tower eyrie, Financial fingers punch down, Then coldly count the money. Victimless crime, perp's bounty, Assailants with a whiff of coin, Left for dead, dripping liquidity, Drain death. Good mourning, sir. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved”

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“The Romantic Charter by Stewart Stafford Eyes dazzled by romance's shine, Hostage suitor of Cupid and you, A willing disciple of St Valentine, With pierced heart of rosiest hue. Love is the next world's currency, All wealth we must leave behind, Call it the discarnate treasury, A repository of delicacies dined. Even if adoration sours on the lips, Or toxicity springs from intoxication, Nothing erases the first steps of bliss, Or can demolish memory's foundation. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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