Not The Done Thing by Stewart Stafford

Not The Done Thing by Stewart Stafford

Pass the strawberry conserve here,
Layer some cream on top,
This is how one eats scones, my dear,
We’re not pigs feeding in a trough.

Pinky raised when you sip tea,
No slurping sounds escaping your mouth,
Cucumber sandwiches in tiny triangles,
Crusts of bread all cut out.

Drawing room dramas over cordials ensue,
Gossip exchanged with finest manners,
Secrets kept as the cabal breaks up,
The public face flew on their banners.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

An Innocent Man by Stewart Stafford

An Innocent Man by Stewart Stafford

The governor denied clemency,
And the execution would go ahead,
The clock began slowly ticking,
Inside the condemned man’s head.

What would his final meal be?
Who would be there when he died?
No one cared that he was innocent,
They just wanted to see him fry.

He deemed last words unimportant,
Merely prolonging the inevitable,
No halo would ever hang over him,
Just a verdict only he found questionable.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Penultimate Hotel by Stewart Stafford

The Penultimate Hotel by Stewart Stafford

Enter sluggishly into the lobby,
A banquet is in progress in the restaurant,
They’re regurgitating reality from within,
And then eating their young.

An apocalyptic porter has radioactive cubes in the lift,
Housekeeping will have ten thousand years of light,
But the sheets in the rooms,
Will all turn to cream cheese.

The cooks in the kitchen are breaking bones and rules,
Creating a cake that stretches to infinity,
Babel babble with protesting eggs,
All baked in a hellfire oven.

The concierge gives out tips,
And tells guests they are awful and to leave,
While simultaneously tattooing diabolical potion recipes,
Inside a willing bellhop’s eyelids.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

One Good Deed… by Stewart Stafford

One Good Deed… by Stewart Stafford

I had a surprise party for a psychic,
But they knew it was coming,
I set up a pool party for a plumber,
And the whole time, they fixed the plumbing.

I introduced Tiger Woods to a carpenter,
And they sawed him up in pieces,
I had a housewarming for a real estate broker,
And they made everyone sign leases.

I installed drivers for a driving instructor,
But they just drove him mad,
I tried to cheer up a pessimist,
And it didn’t make her more glad.

Kindness to others is a noble thing,
And we should work towards its retention,
While wisely paying heed to this caveat:
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Coast Of Inhumanity by Stewart Stafford

The Coast of Inhumanity by Stewart Stafford

Set our course for the Coast of Inhumanity,
Behold, dorsal-finned lies with pitiless teeth!
Innuendo washes ashore as limp, bodiless weed,
And there is wave after wave of unfounded allegations.

Begrudging starfish cling to every rock in sight,
The shallows are small-minded,
Riptides are treacherous,
And the sand is composed of crushed-down secondhand opinions.

Setting sail to leave,
The wind whispers about us behind our backs,
Its cold fingers stabbing our spines,
No regrets remain in our wake.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

A Pedlar Came Calling by Stewart Stafford

A Pedlar Came Calling by Stewart Stafford

A pedlar neared the village fair,
Playing the lute and singing a lilting air,
To attract buyers for his many wares,
And the comely maidens who dwelled there.

He sold pins, handkerchiefs, and seeds,
Herbs and poultices for every need,
Rattraps, rings, and colourful beads,
And weather predictions for all to heed.

With his roguish smile and tinker’s charm,
He was sure to have a pretty girl on each arm,
Then sneak them away to the comfortable barn,
With the excuse, they were giving his socks a darn.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Poe by Stewart Stafford

Poe by Stewart Stafford

Dark eyes,
Pregnant with pain,
Thunder rolls in their hollows,
And mystery swims in their depths.

In a raven’s caw,
You found echoes of lost love,
And premature death,
In your halls of solitude.

Your fever dreams,
So obsessive and personal.
Yet so relevant to us all,
Rest soundly in the gothic pantheon.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Ballad Of The Tree Nymphs by Stewart Stafford

Ballad of the Tree Nymps by Stewart Stafford

When tree nymphs get their hearts broken,
They transform into fearsome wraiths,
And sit in forests by the castle walls,
For passersby to await.

And if a traveller crosses the drawbridge,
Perhaps a survivor of the noose,
The wraiths descend the branches lustily,
And enact their plan to seduce.

She will appear in all her former beauty,
Curvaceous with blue whirling eyes,
And fix the unfortunate man with a stare,
Only the strong resist getting hypnotised.

If that tactic fails to win male hearts,
Or the victim attempts to flee,
A feral rage erupts in her,
And she drags her prey back to the trees.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

An Itch That Needed Scratching by Stewart Stafford

An Itch That Needed Scratching by Stewart Stafford

A dog with fleas,
Was deaf to their pleas,
For working conditions that smelled better.

So they went on hunger strike,
And refused to bite,
Until their demands got okayed unfettered.

The canine refused to give in,
Or introduce the fleas to his kin,
So they climbed onto a nearby new sweater.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Grey Lady by Stewart Stafford

The Grey Lady by Stewart Stafford

Among the castle battlements,
Manifesting from gloaming mist,
A grey lady appeared gliding,
A palsied manacle upon her wrist.

Her eyes were anxious and questioning,
About what had become her fate,
Her head severed from her body,
At the hands of her evil mate.

The wail of indignant anguish,
Sent chills through everyone far and near,
Her soul searching forever restless,
For those she left behind who were dear.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Truth’s Many Guises by Stewart Stafford

Truth’s Many Guises by Stewart Stafford

They say I’m sometimes too negative,
But the truth isn’t always positive,
Speaking up is my prerogative,
And being silenced, I find pejorative.

On reality’s rollercoaster,
Truth is humble and not a boaster,
Or sometimes the burning toaster,
That helps us sniff out closure.

Please don’t harm the messenger,
They are merely the message’s passenger,
And not entwined on a level molecular,
Just remember Henry Kissinger.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Cuckoos In The Nest by Stewart Stafford

Cuckoos In The Next by Stewart Stafford

If you could find the pathway home, would you take it?
To see the family palace’s new occupants defaced it,
Never again to be what you imagined,
And your memories going from feast to famine.

For what is past is never how we remember,
Maturity is baggage we cannot surrender,
Distant dreams still so familiar,
Yet weirdly surreal and not recognisably similar.

The childhood idyll got sold for profit,
It is gone, and so’s the idea of it,
Yesterday involuntarily amputated,
Pointing the way to destruction fated.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Jamie The Biscuit Man by Stewart Stafford

Jamie The Biscuit Man by Stewart Stafford

Jamie The Biscuit Man,
Driving his big red van,
Taking all those goodies,
Where they need to go.

Chinese man with orange hair,
How long have you been there?
Can you tell me, please?
Because I’d like to know.

Everybody rushing for the ferry,
Going to have a whale of a time,
Seven brains go walking down the road,
Out of their minds.

Jamie the Biscuit Man,
Crashes his big red van,
Sending all his cookies,
All over the road.

Schoolchildren passing by,
Hear Jamie’s frustrated cry,
And slowly gather up for him,
The vast spilled load.

Smiles and a wave of Jamie’s hand,
As he restarts his big red van,
And resets his journey,
In a more casual mode.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Beshrewing Of Tom O’ Bedlam by Stewart Stafford

#poem #poetry #verse #writing

The Beshrewing of Tom O’ Bedlam by Stewart Stafford

Fie and a plague on thee!
Nay, a pox!
May legions of hellions float through thee,
And may thou fall in the dung of an ox.

May the thing below thine eyes,
Take on the appearance of a sprout,
And may the things above thy chin,
Resemble a harlot’s spout.

May Heaven strike thee dumb,
Aye, dumber than thou art now,
May thy words become those of a lunatic,
And thy breathing the grunting of a sow.

Verily, I do not wish thee misfortune,
Lest it rebounds back upon me,
But, as long as it befalls thee first,
I may live quite merrily.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Burning Chorus by Stewart Stafford

The Burning Chorus by Stewart Stafford

As clawed lightning, love strikes without warning to scorch the heart,
And, as it is painful to be born, love, make love, and die,
So we may surmise that life itself is pain in different guises,
Some unwelcome interlopers but all necessary.

More than passing sensations,
We are shocked into living,
And in that shock, the heart plots a different course,
To beat for the first time or quicken with excitement or cease.

Sometimes we stray into pleasure’s realms,
Diverted there unknowing,
And resolve to be passengers no more,
But masters of when and where the burning chorus strikes.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Easter Vigil by Stewart Stafford

The Easter Vigil by Stewart Stafford

Nightfall on Easter Saturday,
A church in darkness,
Flickering fire through stained glass,
Hope so close yet out of reach.

The Paschal candle is lit outside from a small garden bonfire,
And, in reverent procession, brought indoors,
The flaming beacon makes its entrance at the rear of the congregation,
The mother candle bows, bestowing blazing brows on the humbler candles of those assembled.

The welcoming brightness gently spreads among the pews,
Confusing darkness now a sea of light,
United in illumination,
And He is there.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Life Cycles by Stewart Stafford

Life Cycles by Stewart Stafford

From fair youth’s day,
To dark-spotted age,
The blooms of May,
Usher out winter’s sullen maze.

When the bars of the juvenile cage are splayed,
And our stars have run their course,
The debt of carefree times gets repaid,
As we from this earthly plain divorce.

We crawl to walk and stoop alone,
As the dead remain uncured,
Until Time grants us further loans,
Immortality is a bloodline secured.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Different Reflections by Stewart Stafford

Different Reflections by Stewart Stafford

Hatred is a many-horned monstrosity,
Not one of them contains any sense,
No one would mention what colour a horse is,
That’s thrown them through a fence.

With our fellow humans, it’s different,
Race is the first port of call,
When the storm of life is already upon us,
The safe harbour should welcome us all.

So we continue to obsess over surfaces,
When the depth lies just beneath,
If we could only see different reflections as our own,
Victory over intolerance would be complete.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Neptune’s Lost Banana by Stewart Stafford

Neptune’s Lost Banana by Stewart Stafford

O lost banana of Neptune,
Do you wonder why you’ve washed ashore?
Do people see a yellow fruit in the water?
Or a Portuguese Man O’War?

You were so near the fingertips of power,
Did fortune peel away your chances too quick?
Or do you see yourself in an ivory tower?
Of a split-away banana republic?

You could have been top banana,
Now you’re potential poetic justice,
For someone with bad karma to slip on,
And go skidding as you go squish.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Visage From A Mirage by Stewart Stafford

Visage From A Mirage by Stewart Stafford

Although visible to the naked eye,
One look and most would die,
He always haunts the same stretch of ground,
From the dry lake bed to the old ghost town.

From a heat haze, The Prospector appears,
Lamenting loss with shimmering tears,
To walk a desert paved with Fool’s Gold,
And then vanish back into the fold.

They say he cries for his lost wife,
And several children he fathered in life,
He perished beaten down by heat,
His final steps on eternal repeat.

So if your car breaks down in the dust,
And your eyesight’s something you greatly trust,
You may see this lonely, spectral man,
Pray his soul finds rest in Heaven.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

In Search of El Dorado By Stewart Stafford

In Search of El Dorado by Stewart Stafford

A meandering mountain path awaits,
Build a bonfire of remembrance,
With crunching staff on gravel,
Certainty slowly becomes a stranger.

The funereal pace of the brand-new,
Is reborn in accelerating steps,
In concert with liberation’s adrenaline,
And a cooling breeze through the brim.

Startled young fox on a crag,
A hawk circles overhead,
Sage standing stones keep counsel,
Their shadows pointing the way forward.

Sheep stare and chew in nearby wet fields,
Occasionally bleating confused directions,
A pillar of black smoke stretches into the sky,
A beacon on the horizon.

A ridge around a corner,
The crêpe shop comes into view,
Relief exhaled upon reaching El Dorado’s gates,
Golden sustenance and home via the car park.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

In Old Savannah By Stewart Stafford

In Old Savannah by Stewart Stafford

Quaking earth unleashed,
An immigrant stands proud in the mêlée,
Takes up the standard of his adopted country,
And joins the charge.

Blind in the cannon smoke,
Grapeshot ricochets past,
Then the patriot holds his gut,
And falls bleeding.

His wife awakes,
To see his apparition at the foot of their bed,
Morose and fading fast,
Tears hang like ever-present Spanish moss on live oak.

The immigrant stands proudly once more,
Motionless and eternal on the plinth,
A child with his father at the base points up at him,
With future glory in his eyes.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

I Wonder By Stewart Stafford

I Wonder by Stewart Stafford

Is our genetic makeup a wrong turn of nature?
Is reality a trick of the light?
Are we just weevils in the palms of the Gods?
And do they blast us with ocular sunlight?

Are there infinite words beneath our tongues hidden?
Waiting to burst forth one day?
Or will they remain forever bedridden?
And never say what they wish to say?

Do we plot our course in life freely?
Or is it all predestined by fate?
Do we enjoy the fruits of our labour?
Or are they already bad on the plate?

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Awakening Web By Stewart Stafford

The Awakening Web by Stewart Stafford

One defamatory word starts reputations dragging,
And spreads the virulent and incessant tagging,
As the cat cruelly with the mouse has toyed,
By a kangaroo crucible, condemned, and destroyed.

For these spiders of the great stalking portal,
Do bend the ears of mobs of mortals,
And spin others in silken shrouds,
Shaking the web, shameless and proud.

So be cautious of the image you put out,
And with the carefree words that leave your mouth,
For tempests form over waters calm,
When self-righteous arachnids hypocritically cause harm.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Stars of Fire By Stewart Stafford

Stars of Fire by Stewart Stafford

At the Gate of Pleiades,
Lies the playground of the Deities,
At The Golden Gate of the Ecliptic,
The Gods’ plot and remain cryptic.

Between the claws of Scorpio and Cancer,
At the mercy of the great Zodiacal dancer.
The dilemma on the horns of Aries,
Brushes asides all adversaries.

Venus trails stardust from her hair,
As a supernova across the galaxy flares,
A shooting star is the spear of Orion,
More is the mane of Leo the lion.

Man’s Gemini may someday show before us,
As chaste Virgo or the mighty Taurus,
Or be inanimate as the scales of Libra,
Or spread as Cancer or an unchecked fever.

Perhaps these pilgrims have visited us before,
When Sagittarius took the form of the wise Centaur,
Or when Pisces flopped in an Aquarian boat,
Or on a lazy hill to the Capricorn goat.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Enemy Within By Stewart Stafford

The Enemy Within by Stewart Stafford

There is more to a smile than the baring of teeth,
His grin had all the warmth of daggers unsheathed,
The lips did part but the eyes remained staring,
The skin was pocked and trust was badly faring.

The lips quivered at every imagined slight,
The eyes glittered like a serpent’s at twilight,
Arms crossed in constant defence,
The foot tapping, waiting to take offence.

Who knows or cares of his jealousy’s genesis,
He strove beyond measure to become my nemesis,
Seeking to frustrate me at every turn,
And put me prematurely in a cremation urn.

The hero can fend off any attack,
Except for the knife that’s plunged in the back,
They may not even know the weapon’s in far,
Until the assailant’s coup de grâce.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

When The Lights Go Out By Stewart Stafford

When The Lights Go Out by Stewart Stafford

When the lights go out,
From the seeds of doubt,
Phantoms come a-skittering.

Slow at first,
Then, as if a dam burst,
My psyche starts withering.

From a dune of sand,
Grabs a clawing hand,
My heartbeat takes to dithering.

Then an immovable object,
A vast shadow standing erect,
My paralysis is blithering.

But come the dawn of day,
I can finally break away,
My consciousness begins filtering.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Lighthouse by Stewart Stafford

The Lighthouse by Stewart Stafford

Apart and alone,
From where the ships dock,
Stands the white sentinel edifice on a promontory rock.

Like the land’s index finger,
At the extent of the sea,
Warning passing vessels where it’s safe to be.

One luminous eye,
Swivels around its clear head,
To keep lucky sailors off the seabed.

It seeks no credit,
And needs no thanks,
Saluting proudly from above the fog banks.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Sweet Elephant of the Morning By Stewart Stafford

Sweet Elephant of the Morning by Stewart Stafford

O sweet elephant of the morning,
What loud noise you make,
With your leaden feet,
And trumpet voice.

You spray water,
On your thick, dusty skin,
And on anyone in proximity,
To your body.

Your trunk is a grey, reaching arm,
And your tusks resemble curved lances,
Or elongated walrus teeth,
To fight off rivals.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Outsider By Stewart Stafford

The Outsider by Stewart Stafford

Pierce the veil of the marital bed,
And find the droning mosquito of infidelity there,
O how the heart and stomach sink,
And the fiery fever of rabid fury rises.

Dispel the interloper,
Turn him out,
Run him through,
But she is no longer wife in name or vision.

The choice of hers already made,
Only possible resentment at the unilateral revocation of it,
No, let them lie,
Leave them be.

Think, do no react, Incandescent Man
Their hand and natures now revealed,
Now shall we salt away their penance,
Karma shall be their judge.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

For Your Consideration By Stewart Stafford

For Your Consideration by Stewart Stafford

Stellar Scrutiny is required,
Taffeta blindfolds though,
Ordinarily obscure.

Three and fifty miles hence,
Wander those in denial,
Of the untrustworthy father in the palace.

Belated guests to the conflagration,
Are served up as fodder,
Consistently denied peerages and proper burial.

Venerated with daggers,
Erstwhile companions stoned,
Ruled And Martyred.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Unknowable Scribe By Stewart Stafford

The Unknowable Scribe by Stewart Stafford

Behind the looking glass,
Lurks the trembling hand of deception,
How deep it goes.

Scratching worthlessly on the glass,
Yet leaving diamond shavings in its wake,
To ponder over endlessly.

Question not, despise not,
Seek no answers here,
For there are none to give.

The cygnet is mooncalf,
To the mighty swan,
Cat’s paw to catchpenny.

Birther to birthing,
A classification of bedding,
To redress the baseness of our grindings.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Green Rose By Stewart Stafford

The Green Rose by Stewart Stafford

Through fractured eyes,
I see the rose I once plucked,
In another man’s hands.

And mistakes that cannot be unmade,
Sins that must go unforgiven,
A resigned reluctance to surrender all hope.

Those fingers enwrapping,
The slender stem,
That only holds spiky thorns for me now.

I watch and reminisce,
So close and familiar,
Yet so alien and barren.

I turn and walk away,
Leaving the green rose,
In place on the grave of what once was.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Pomona’s Feast By Stewart Stafford

Pomona’s Feast by Stewart Stafford

Home from aggressive begging on November Eve,
A horror movie that won’t be finished in the background,
The pirate’s booty or robber’s swag is examined.

Face in the bag, a cornucopia of scents in the nostrils:
Oranges, nuts, burnt popcorn, chocolate,
Toffee apples, crisps, Liquorice Allsorts, and Rice Krispie cakes.

A smörgåsbord Pomona’s feast begins,
As a maternal voice advises frugality,
To no avail.

Noses in the trough,
Nothing eaten bears any relation to the thing eaten before or after,
Aching gums, jaws, and bellies swiftly ensue.

To bed to sleep it off,
The next morning, it’s déjà vu,
The maternal voice again advises eating breakfast first, to no avail.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Walker By Stewart Stafford

The Walker by Stewart Stafford

The walker takes a step forward,
Positive but possibly fatal to them,
Brave but perhaps foolishly ambitious to onlookers.

Concentration and breathing, the antidote to cynicism,
The pole, like cat’s whiskers,
In feline prance.

Moment to moment,
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
The procession continues.

With creeping inevitably,
The destination is reached,
And the walker falls to their death.

Another adventurer steps out onto the wire,
A descendant of the expired walker,
Determined to complete life’s tightrope.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Final Word By Stewart Stafford

The Final Word by Stewart Stafford

On the wall of a prominent jacks,
Came anonymous, scurrilous attacks,
Innuendo and defamatory jibes,
Scrawled by cowardly scribes,
Dared the executioner’s axe.

And whoever wrote the indecent graffiti,
Would never say it to the King in a meeting,
He’d cry: ‘Off with their heads,’
Then sleep safely in bed,
Having the final word takes some beating.

And as they walked to an undignified death,
No sarcastic words came from their breath,
They were up for the chop,
On the executioner’s block,
And would plead it was all for a bet.

So if you’ve ill words planned,
Remember to keep them in hand,
Or the butt of your jokes,
Becomes your executioner’s host,
And that’s the end of your brand.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Unanswered Question By Stewart Stafford

The Unanswered Question by Stewart Stafford

Ask a body why it lies in a grave,
And no answer shall ring in your ears,
Ask the rat that squeaks like a knave,
And there is nothing to ease your fears.

See lightning’s fiery eye wink a hint,
Hear thunder belching out proud,
Hail is flicked off like lint,
Dumb as a corpse in its shroud.

Mourners do splutter and cry,
In unison or solitary grief,
Hysteria governs their reply,
Tongues pocketed by sorrow’s thief.

Only when you lay in dirt senselessly,
Do answers come out of reach,
Secrets clouded eternally,
To an owl’s shrill and wise screech.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Daily Bread By Stewart Stafford

Daily Bread by Stewart Stafford

Butcher short-changed me again,
There’s sawdust in the sausages,
Grocer’s growing grosser and then,
A proposition with my messages.

The driving instructor’s pissed on bends,
I went and told his mother,
The barman’s watering down pints for friends
Like he’s feeding his baby brother.

The barber’s still one hair off,
One side doesn’t match the other,
Bookie won’t take my bets and lends,
The landlord another sucker.

Tossed out in the street to fend for myself,
With all the other refuse,
Garbage man fills his truck with me,
At least I still have one use.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

A Contagion Abroad by Stewart Stafford

A Contagion Abroad by Stewart Stafford

Overblown epidemic,
Inferno pandemic,
Death takes a vacation.

Bird flu, Bat stew,
Churning, gagging virus brew,
Man the panic stations.

Contaminate, capitulate,
Sickly state, funeral date,
A lost generation.

Depopulate, inoculate,
Virologists thwart fate,
The world’s rehabilitation.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Saturday sonnet by stewart stafford

Saturday Sonnet by Stewart Stafford

The Bard once wrote that love is blind,
Desire’s muslin cloth veils the eyes behind,
As a hog for truffles nosing in dirt,
The human sniffs out a way to flirt,
Flippant words become overture,
And a dungeon-dweller emerges pure,
Love’s great story blossoming anew,
Past indiscretions in a penitent’s pew,
Hearts as one, a confluence of minds,
Time to think of the tie that binds,
Sure of footing and glad of heart,
Wheels turning on a bridal cart,
Handsome husband, pretty wife,
Set out together in this thing called life.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The Lingerer by stewart stafford

The Lingerer by Stewart Stafford

Another lonely start,
O shadow companion,
My twin bereft of heart,
On grief’s stormy galleon.

Each step disbelief,
Strangers pass in proximity,
In motion an artist’s relief,
Abstract as infinity.

The quickening pulse of streets,
Tears on cheeks reflective,
This scarred heart missing beats,
Damaged and defective.

Home now just where memory sits,
Perspective greatly shifted,
This shapeless form no longer fits,
The body it was gifted.

And if, my love, you see me now,
I beg you, look away,
Love’s blush departed with a bow,
Then withered and decayed.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

in bastet’s thrall by stewart stafford

In Bastet’s Thrall by Stewart Stafford

A sight unseen,
Eyes of feline green,
Make me do their bidding.

That whiskered mask,
In adulation basks,
Affection makes a killing.

Great but small,
In Bastet’s thrall,
It dares me with a licking.

In regal fur,
A seductive purr,
And tail brazenly quitting.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

The anatomy of trades by stewart stafford

The Anatomy of Trades by Stewart Stafford

Detective Toes, Senator Nose,
Eye-eye Captain,
And Rhinologist Blows.

Banker Bum, Painter Thumb,
Judge Mental,
And Dentist Gum.

Dancer Hip, President Lip,
Dermatologist Peel,
Goalie Fingertip.

Beautician Eyelash, Barber Moustache
Boxer Fist,
And Doctor Rash.

© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Writing, life and whatever takes my fancy at any given moment.

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