Tag: Hellenism

Greek, Poetry

Zeus

The Royal Octopus

Upon Olympus, carved from storm,
He sits where tempests take their form.
A sceptre held in sky-born hand,
He rules the gods, commands the land.

His voice is thunder, vast and raw,
The wind itself bends to his law.
With flashing eye and brow of flame,
He calls the lightning by its name.

He gave the world its shape, its fire,
He struck down Titans in his ire.
Yet still, beneath that kingly grace,
Lurks pride and lust time can’t erase.

No vow too sacred, none too small,
He breaks and binds at every call.
He loves with hunger, leaves with ease,
He whispers sweet, then dooms with breeze.

The skies obey, the earth will quake,
When Zeus decides what he shall take.
And still we lift our eyes in prayer,
To sky’s cold throne, though none sit there.

For kings may fall and temples rot,
But Zeus, it seems, has been forgot.
Or has he? When storms begin to roar,
We wonder if he walks once more.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

The Twelve

The Royal Octopus

They reign above on thrones of light,
Each god a power, each gift a right.
Immortal hands that bless or break,
They give with love, or take for sake.

Zeus, the storm-king, fierce and proud,
Speaks justice loud, then veils in cloud.
He throws his lightning, cracks the sky,
Yet turns his gaze when mortals die.

And Hera, queen with steely grace,
Wears loyalty like veiled disgrace.
She guards the vows that gods betray,
And scorches all who lose their way.

Poseidon, brother, sea-born brute,
With trident raised and wrath acute.
He calms the tides with whispered prayer,
Then drowns the sailors unaware.

Demeter, robed in golden grain,
Will bless the soil or starve the plain.
She grieves her loss and makes us pay,
In withered field and cold decay.

Then Aphrodite, born from foam,
With lips that build or break a home.
She brings desire, she stirs the flame—
But love to her is just a game.

Yet Ares waits, a snarling cry,
Where blood and kisses meet and die.
They dance through war, they burn through peace,
And never let their hunger cease.

Athena, wisdom’s shining spear,
A patron fierce, a judge austere.
She guards the just, the brave, the bold—
Yet cursed the ones who broke the mould.

Hermes glides with wingèd feet,
A smiling thief, a guide, a cheat.
He speaks in riddles, sings in lies,
And barters truth in clever guise.

Hephaestus, bent with molten art,
Creates the thrones they tear apart.
He builds their splendour, bears their slight,
And sleeps alone, far from the light.

Artemis of the silver bow,
Protects the wild and strikes her foe.
She walks the woods, untouched, unseen,
A huntress cloaked in starlit sheen.

Her brother, bright Apollo’s flame,
Plays golden notes in glory’s name.
He heals, he blinds, he brings the sun—
But always burns when day is done.

And Dionysus, last and young,
With ivy crown and wine-soaked tongue.
He laughs through tears, he breaks through walls,
And leads the mad in moonlit halls.

So praise them well, with fear and song—
Their wrath is swift, their grace is long.
But know this truth beneath your breath:
The gods bring wonder… and your death.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

The Shears of Atropos

The Royal Octopus

They always fear me, speak my name
With lowered voice and quiet blame.
As though I come with scorn or spite,
To steal the soul, to snuff the light.

But I do not hunt, I do not seek,
I wait till thread grows soft and weak.
Till all that should be said is said,
And life lies down its weary head.

I hold the shears, yes—this is true—
But what I cut, I do not choose.
I do not watch with cruel delight,
I do not crave the final night.

Some go in sleep, in gentle grace,
Some in the dark, in harsh embrace.
But when the thread begins to fade,
I give it peace where none is made.

I’ve severed kings and beggars both,
The faithless, and the ones with oath.
And yet, the shears do not divide
The worth of who you were inside.

I end the song, but not the tune—
It echoes on beneath the moon.
And all I ask, as silence grows,
Is that you walked the path you chose.

So when you think of me with fear,
Remember this: I draw you near.
Not with a curse, not with regret—
But as the thread and soul reset.

©️ 2025

Greek, Poetry

The Measure of Lachesis

The Royal Octopus

I take the thread once Clotho weaves,
Still warm with breath, still laced with leaves.
I stretch it out between my palms,
To sense its tides, its storms, its calms.

No mortal sees the marks I feel,
The subtle weight, the quiet steel.
Some threads are thin, yet burn with fire,
Some thick, but lost in dark desire.

I do not judge, I do not steer,
But still, I see what draws me near.
A soldier’s spark, a lover’s thread,
A poet’s path through tears unsaid.

The length is not for me to make,
But I can see what roads it takes.
The twists of fate, the branching ways,
The turning nights, the hollow days.

They call me silence, call me fate,
But I am patient, I will wait.
For all must pass through hands like mine—
The time must stretch before the line.

And when I lay it down at last,
The weight of futures, present, past,
I leave it gently, like a song,
To her who ends what we prolong.

©️2025

Poetry

Scylla’s Lesson

The Royal Octopus

Upon the cliffs where shadows cling,
A creature waits, a cursed thing.
Her many heads, her gnashing teeth,
But sorrow hidden far beneath.

Once a maiden of grace and light,
Her beauty gleamed, her spirit bright.
But envy’s spell and cruel deceit
Turned flesh to bone, and joy to grief.

Now sailors scream, their faces pale,
As she emerges, fierce and frail.
They see the beast, the savage guise,
But not the tears within her eyes.

She strikes to live, not to destroy,
Her hunger void of wrath or joy.
Yet no tales told of her despair,
Just demon in her lair.

If only they could hear her plea,
“Would you not fight, if you were me?
Condemned to hunger, trapped in strife,
What choice remains, except for life?

This world is quick to name and blame,
To bind the lost in chains of shame.
But monsters, too, we bear a heart,
A shattered whole, a fractured part.

So pause before you cast your stone;
The fiercest fight is fought alone.
In every shadow, light may hide—
Look deeper in, see past the tide.”

2025 ©️

Poetry

The Patient Queen

The Royal Octopus

Upon the cliffs where salt winds wail,
Penelope weaves her endless tale.
Threads of gold and sorrow entwine,
Each stitch a prayer, a sacred sign.

Her heart a lyre, strung tight with grief,
Each day a moment, each night a thief.
Yet steadfast stands her patient gaze,
Through shadowed nights and endless days.

The suitors swarm, a ravenous tide,
Greed and ambition their only guide.
They feast, they laugh, they drink her wine,
Blind to the cunning of the queen’s design.

For in her chamber, cloaked in thought,
A secret challenge she has wrought:
The bow of Odysseus, mighty and true,
A test no mortal could ever undo.

“Let he who strings this weapon of kings,
Be he the man fate’s favor brings.
And through twelve axes cast his dart,
Claim my hand, and win my heart.”

Her voice is calm, her resolve like stone,
Though love for one man fills her alone.
She bides her time, she guards her name,
A queen of patience, a master of flame.

Beyond the sea, her hero roams,
Through storm and sorrow, through distant domes.
Yet in her heart, his image burns bright,
A beacon of hope through the darkest night.

O noble queen, your strength endures,
A legend wrought of trials and lures.
For love and wit shall pierce the veil,
And bring Odysseus home to Ithaca’s tale.

2025 ©️

Poetry

The Wooden Deception

The Royal Octopus

Beneath Troy’s golden skies, so high,
The city stood, its walls defied.
For ten long years, the Greeks had fought,
But victory’s hand could not be caught.

Then cunning stirred in Odysseus’ mind,
A scheme both daring and unkind.
A horse of wood, colossal, vast,
A gift, a ruse, a shadow cast.

The Greeks feigned flight, their ships withdrew,
Their sails obscured in morning’s hue.
The Trojans cheered, their foes now gone,
And rolled the horse through gates at dawn.

“Behold,” they cried, “a prize of war,
A token left upon our shore!”
With song and dance, the night grew deep,
While death within began to creep.

For hidden in that hollow frame,
The Greeks concealed their vengeful flame.
As silence fell, their trap awoke,
And Troy was doomed with every stroke.

The gates unbarred, the city burned,
The fates of men and gods had turned.
A single ploy, a whispered lie,
And Troy fell ‘neath the starry sky.

Oh, mortal pride, so quick to trust,
So swift to fall, to fade, to dust.
The horse remains, a tale of lore,
A warning carved in myth and war.

2024 ©️

Poetry

Persephone

The Royal Octopus

In meadows vast, where sunlight played,
Among the blooms, the maiden strayed.
Her laughter rang, her feet were bare,
Her golden locks caught in the air.

But from the earth, a shadow rose,
A chariot dark where fire glows.
Hades, lord of the ashen plain,
Came swift to break her life in twain.

A scream, a struggle, petals torn,
The sky wept grief, the world forlorn.
Down to the depths, through veils of night,
She vanished, stolen from the light.

The Underworld, a realm of stone,
A hollow place, cold and alone.
Yet in its heart, a throne stood tall,
A seat of power beneath it all.

At first she wept; she cursed his name,
Bound by a fate that none could tame.
The pomegranate’s ruby stain,
Sealed her bond to his domain.

But as the days in shadow passed,
Her sorrow waned, her fear unmasked.
The silent dead bent to her will,
And in her chest stirred something still.

For she was more than harvest’s child,
More than a girl with spirit wild.
She saw in darkness hidden grace,
A strength to rule, a queen’s embrace.

No longer captive, she would reign,
With iron hand and tender vein.
Beside the king, her power grew,
A goddess born in realms anew.

And when spring called her to the skies,
To mother’s arms and azure ties,
She left behind a kingdom vast,
A part of her forever cast.

For in her heart, two worlds now meet,
A dual soul, both fierce and sweet.
Above, she blooms; below, she’s fire—
A queen fulfilled, her own desire.

2024 ©️

Poetry

Hymn to Dionysus

The Royal Octopus

O Dionysus, wild and free,
God of wine, of revelry,
With ivy crown and leopard’s grace,
You roam through night, in hidden place.

Your cup pours deep, both sweet and red,
A draught for gods, a dance for dead.
Your laughter shakes the mountain’s spine,
As mortals lose themselves in wine.

You, of the vine, the ecstasy,
The edge of joy, of mystery.
In shadowed woods, the Maenads cry,
Where boundaries fade and mortals fly.

Breaker of chains, you lead the way,
Where madness and bliss entwine and play.
Oh god who loves the wild and lost,
Who teaches joy at any cost.

O Dionysus, fierce and kind,
The muse of flesh, of heart, of mind.
We raise a glass, and sing to thee,
God of wine, of revelry.

©️ 2024

Poetry

Cassandra’s Truth

The Royal Octopus

Cassandra spoke, her voice like wind,
In temples high, where light grew dimmed;
The gods had touched her with their gift—
Of sight unasked, of mind adrift.

Apollo’s lips, she once had kissed,
And thus the god’s cruel curse was fixed;
To see all truths, in starkest glare,
Yet find no soul who’d heed her prayer.

She saw the fires before they burned,
The walls of Troy to ruins turned;
Her people laughed, dismissed her cries,
Blind to the truth within her eyes.

She warned of ships and war’s great cost,
Of heroes dead and cities lost.
But none would listen, none would stay—
A prophetess, pushed far away.

Her words, a lonely echo’s song,
Cursed to be right, but ever wrong;
In shadowed halls, her whispers fade,
Her warnings like the wind—betrayed.

And so she walks where silence reigns,
Through ancient dust and endless chains;
A voice unheard, her fate unspun—
The truth she bore, for no one won.

2024 ©️