Stewarts Horn Quotes

If you play devil's advocate with political correctness, you'll get the horns - deliberate misinterpretation leading to you being fully demonized.

There had been many definitions of Man; he would make another: “The noise-producing animal.” Now there was only the nearly imperceptible murmur of his own engine. He had no need to blow the horn. There were no back-firing trucks, no snorting trains, no pounding planes overhead. In the little towns no whistles blew or bells rang or radios blared or people talked. Even if it was the peace of death, still that was a kind of peace.

Whenever they finished a section they would pass it to Constance, who glanced at the headlines and drew mustaches and devil horns on people in the photographs. The children were allowed to linger over the papers as long as they wished, but they seldom lingered long, for the older ones looked forward to their exercises and lessons, which offered a welcome change of pace, and Constance ran out of pictures to deface.

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.

You can see, can’t you?” the casually dressed man asked Stewart. All Stewart could see was a vivid color palette of plaid – the Brawny shirt this stranger was wearing. His horn-rimmed glasses, 5 o’clock shadow, tousled curly hair and shredded jeans were the requisite uniform of an East-side writer. But it was the companion with the writer that Stewart was after. His

The Surly Caller by Stewart Stafford Pain - stalker at my door; Resigned admission inside, Drags a chair, fills teary ducts, Drapes tingling spider's webs. Grey vista of a dreaded visit, Common or garden victim by force, Pain is the barb to candied joy; Twin-horned teasing tormentor. In rapid eye movement, we dream, It sleepwalks in my creaking room, I hear stumbling footsteps stir, Claws retract in numbing slumber. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

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.

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 Devil's Chapel by Stewart Stafford Spires writhing in audacity's sky, Laced masonry's Faustian high, The Devil's Chapel invites by lie, Embalmed, a cracked stone altar dry. The golden Madonna rises above all, Lucifer's War, in stained glass, tall, In horned shadow, the angelic fall, Dark kingdom formed of a lightning ball. Bartholomew flayed by sadistic chagrin, Bones laid bare, devotion anchored within, Skin in the game took centuries to win, Gargoyles leer in the paying tourist din. Behind the veil of confession wood, The all-seeing eye drips with blood, Trickster's snare in nightmare's flood, A gift shop trades where sacrifice stood. Pungent echoes in incense crawl, Catacombs beckon entombed gall, To witness ornate veneration's pall, Silent to a martyr's last breath call. Croziers rest in chilled silver's display, As pink-veined marble taints today. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.