Tag: Micropoem

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 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

Greek, Poetry

The Threads of Clotho

The Royal Octopus

I sit where time forgets to breathe,
Among the stars, beneath the weave.
The spindle turns, the fibres hum,
And through my hands, the lifelines come.

So many lives, so soft, so brief,
A thread of joy, a thread of grief.
I do not choose, I do not sway,
I only spin what finds its way.

A cry is born, the strand appears,
So small, so bright, untouched by years.
I feel it pulse, I feel its tone,
And yet, it is not mine to own.

Some come tangled, some come clear,
Some thick with love, some laced with fear.
I twist no hate into the line—
What mortals add is not from mine.

You think us cruel, aloof, and cold,
Because we work with what unfolds.
But if you’d sat where I have stood,
You’d see how much is misunderstood.

For every thread I set to spin
Is soft as breath upon the skin.
Each one I cradle, pure and light,
A single soul against the night.

I’ve wept to feel a thread cut short,
Or watched it fray without support.
But still I spin, I do not rest—
The world depends upon this quest.

My sisters wait, they count and shear,
But I begin what draws them near.
And though my fingers never still,
I sometimes pause upon a thrill—

A thread that hums with something rare,
A glint of song, a rebel’s prayer.
And in those strands, however few,
I glimpse what mortals choose to do.

So live, but know the thread is spun,
A start is made, a course begun.
Yet how it twists, and how it grows—
Is more than even Clotho knows.

© 2025

Norse, Poetry

The Children of Loki

The Royal Octopus

Three children born beneath the stars,
Marked by fate and battle scars.
Not monsters, no, but souls denied,
By gods who feared what they’d not tried.

First came Fenrir, wild and bold,
A wolf pup with a heart of gold.
He played with Tyr and chased the light,
But gods grew pale at signs of might.
They fed him lies, they forged a chain,
They bound him fast in fear and shame.
He howled not rage, but loss and grief,
Betrayed by hands that swore relief.

Then Jörmungandr, born of sea,
A serpent child, long, strange, and free.
He coiled through oceans, calm and vast,
No threat, until the verdict passed.
Cast out to depths, alone to grow,
With none to teach, and none to know.
They called him beast, a foe, a blight,
For daring just to be, not fight.

And Hel, the girl with silent grace,
Half in death, and half in place.
They saw her skin, one side so pale,
And called her cursed, and doomed her tale.
They banished her to rule the dead,
A crown of bones upon her head.
But never cruel, she kept the gate,
And held the lost with quiet fate.

Three children not of wrath, but wronged,
By gods whose hearts grew cold and strong.
Who feared the shape of what might be,
And punished them for prophecy.

But time turns slow, and tales return,
And fires rise, and oceans churn.
At Ragnarök, they rise not just
To fight, but to reclaim their trust.

Fenrir runs, the bindings break,
Not just for rage, but for love’s sake.
Jörmungandr coils, the world to brace,
To show the gods what they displaced.
And Hel stands calm as all things end,
The keeper of both foe and friend.

The gods will fall, as all things must,
And learn too late what’s fair and just.
For monsters come from fear, not birth—
And even outcasts can shake the earth.

©️ 2025

Poetry

The Chair Still Rocks

The Royal Octopus

I saw your chair was empty, Gran,
The one you loved beside the fan.
Your knitting’s paused, the yarn undone—
Like stories stopped mid-sentence. Gone.

I whispered in the hallway dim,
Still hoping you’d come back again.
I waited for your humming tune,
The one you sang each afternoon.

They told me you were “gone to sleep,”
That heaven’s skies were wide and deep.
But I can’t find you in the stars—
You always felt so close, not far.

I touched the quilt you made last year,
It smelled like you and made you near.
And though I tried to smile and play,
My laughter felt too far away.

I miss the way you called me “sweet,”
And tucked the blankets round my feet.
I miss the tea, the tales you told,
The way your hands were soft and old.

They say with time the pain will fade,
That love like yours does not degrade.
But I still cry when no one’s near—
And sometimes call, in case you hear.

I set your chair just like before,
Your slippers waiting on the floor.
And though you’re gone, I talk out loud—
I think you’d like that. I feel proud.

Because you taught me how to care,
To find you even when you’re air.
And when I’m big, I’ll tell them too—
That someone never leaves… when you
still feel them rocking in the room,
in morning light
or evening gloom.

©️ 2025

Poetry

The Mushroom Network

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the roots, beneath the stone,
Where sunlight’s reach is overthrown,
A tangled web begins to grow—
A secret world we rarely know.

No wires hum, no voices cry,
Yet messages in silence fly.
Through thread and thread, from tree to tree,
A forest hums in mystery.

The mushrooms bloom like fleeting ghosts,
But underneath, they play the host
To wisdom old and knowledge deep—
The whispers plants and flowers keep.

A mother tree, her roots grown wide,
Will feed the saplings at her side.
And when a pine begins to fade,
The others sense her dimming shade.

They send her sugars, send her care,
Through fungal threads that stretch and share.
A network vast as any net,
With memory we cannot forget.

They speak of drought. They speak of blight.
They speak beneath the edge of night.
In every step, in every glade,
The mycelium’s lace is gently laid.

No need for mouth, no need for sound—
Their language lies beneath the ground.
An unseen web, both wise and true,
Connecting grass, and oak, and yew.

So pause before you crush the soil,
The earth beneath has shaped your toil.
The forest speaks in threads so fine—
And mushrooms hold the ancient line.

©️ 2025