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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.”
― Stewart Stafford

“you sat breeding
multiple & varied as a ghost”
― Will Alexander, Compression and Purity

“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.”
― Stewart Stafford

“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”
― Stewart Stafford

“Hallucination Country by Stewart Stafford

A furious tribe of leaves,
Chased a logging truck,
As forked flames waved,
From a burning backyard tree.

A half-eaten unicorn in a ditch,
A warning from hunters nearby,
Slaughtering fairytale creatures,
Cryptids were their mint targets.

An abandoned Volkswagen car lay,
Half-overturned, underbelly exposed,
The injured driver, now hitchhiking,
With a spree killer or tow-truck driver.

© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“A Bloodshot Mind's Eye by Stewart Stafford

Hyperventilating loudly,
Feverish visions crash in,
Flinching ever so strongly,
A farrago of the brain's bin.

Home is sadly unsweetened,
Not like old Lynyrd Skynyrd's,
Fell into mashed-up bananas,
Looking like a lizard's innards.

On a plane crashing down fast,
Door closed on a switch to cars,
A parachute instantly appeared,
And I woke from sleep a superstar.

© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Southpaw Serpent by Stewart Stafford

She was a left-handed artist,
More paint on her face than on canvas,
'Here, take this,' she said to me,
'It takes you to the snake with the atlas.'

I grasped the nettle of her riddle,
An eyeball roulette elixir of time.
Each sandy step I took after that
Veered from horrific to the sublime.

I found myself at a beach house party,
Remorse coiled in laundry bags hissed,
They reeked of promise unfulfilled,
And of sweet opportunities missed.

Girls morphed into southpaw painters,
Pointing and urging me to go on,
A police raid, I fled to the rooftop,
As dawn cracked open the sun.

I frantically crafted glitter collages,
Kaleidoscopes of close friends and I,
The leftie girlie dyed her hair, judging,
The winner was a mirrored all-seeing eye.

© 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“(WHEN I WAS A CHILD)
I was told that I was insane,
seeing doctors in hospitals
far away from home.

LITTLE WHITE PILLS
inside small transparent containers
that could fit my baby teeth
like seashells, I dreamed.

WHEN I WAS A CHILD
my mind made up things�
not castles of sand,
nor careless childish dreams.

NOW I AM GROWN
I can’t see myself anymore,
behind walls of lights
I painted on as a child.

(BUT NOWADAYS)
I cannot think back and wonder
if these things ever really happened.”
― Laura Chouette