Tag: Rhyme

Poetry

An Ode to Em Dashes — My Overused Friends

The Royal Octopus

I once had a sentence — so crisp and concise —
But I thought, “It needs drama!” — and added a slice.
Of that long, lovely line — the em dash supreme —
To give every thought — a poetic daydream.

I dashed through my emails, my essays, my tweets —
With swagger and flair and dramatic repeats.
Each pause was a moment, each clause was a scene —
Till my writing looked stolen — if you know what I mean..

“Oh no,” said a pal, “this looks kind of… AI.”
“Too many dashes — are you even that spry?”
“Do you talk in suspense? Do you think in a dash?
Or did ChatGPT help you recycle this trash?”

I wept and I pondered, then dashed off again —
Thinking surely this dash was my best, trusted friend.
But alas, in the shadows, suspicion still grows —
From every bold dash, suspicion arose.

So now I must try to retire the dash —
Replace it with commas, or semis (how brash).
I’ll write like a human — concise, with some flair —
No dramatic long breaks like I’m gasping for air.

Dear em dash, I love you — I’ll always, I do —
But for now, it’s goodbye — to keep looking true.
I’ll use you in secret — a rebel, unseen —
For ChatGPT doesn’t write this pristine.

©️ 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

Poetry

A Dance with Death

The Royal Octopus

A poem about time, friendship, and the one chase we never win.

A young man walked on midnight’s breath,
And struck a deal with Lady Death.
She wore a veil of raven thread,
And smiled, “Not yet. But soon,” she said.

He craved the years, the wine, the flame,
To taste the world, to carve his name.
“I’ll give you time,” said she with grace,
“But someday, love, I’ll take my place.”

He danced through wars and fell through love,
Outran the stars and gods above.
Each time he tripped or neared his end,
She’d whisper soft: “Not yet, my friend.”

She toyed with him, a ghostly muse,
With hollow steps in worn-out shoes.
She’d touch his shoulder, draw in close—
Then vanish like a fleeting ghost.

She aged him slow with every chase,
Etched crow’s feet deep upon his face.
In every mirror, shadows stirred,
Her silence louder than a word.

He laughed at first, defied her game,
But years grew cold and none remained.
One twilight, tired beneath the stars,
He met her eyes, and dropped his guard.

“I’ve run,” he said, “and still you came.”
She knelt beside him, spoke his name.
“No shame in rest, in letting go—
You made the most of what you stole.”

And hand in hand, they crossed the hill,
Two friends, at last, both calm and still.
For Death, who waits and gently keeps,
Had come not cruel, but kind—to reap.

©️2025

Poetry

Layers.

The Royal Octopus

She fell in silence, smooth and deep,
A trap of glass where none could weep.
The sky above—a distant call—
She dreamed of it, and climbed the wall.

She cast her thread with trembling care,
One silver line through stagnant air.
The climb began, her limbs unsure—
But hope was strong, and will was pure.

She circled slow, a fragile ring,
Each loop a small imagining.
She paused, she breathed, she spun once more—
Her silk unspooled, her muscles sore.

Around again, and higher still,
A prisoner moved by aching will.
The walls were slick, the curve was steep—
She spun through pain, she climbed through sleep.

Her legs began to quake and drag,
Each loop a burden, each pass a flag.
Her thread grew faint, her eyes grew dry,
Yet always—always—toward the sky.

Humans came. They laughed. They stared.
Some took pictures. None had cared.
She looked at them with pleading grace,
A ghost behind a polished case.

Still spinning—slower now, and thin—
Her body caved beneath her skin.
The silk was gone. The glass was tall.
She gave her last to climb that wall.

She curled beneath her silver thread,
A monument to where she bled.
Her eyes still held the blue above—
She died for sky, for light, for love.

And no one knew what she had tried—
They passed her by, and so she died.

Image by Shoody_Course_6925 via Reddit

2025 ©️

Greek, Poetry

Concrete Heart

The Royal Octopus

They speak of stone and eyes that kill,
Of frozen men, forever still.
But none recall the girl she was—
Before the curse, before the claws.

A priestess pure, with braided grace,
She served the gods in sacred place.
But gods are cruel, and men are bold—
Her story’s often left untold.

Poseidon came with lust and spite,
Within Athena’s hall that night.
No sword to raise, no shield to part—
Just screams, and then a shattered heart.

The goddess burned with bitter flame,
And made Medusa wear the blame.
She tore her beauty, cursed her face,
And snakes rose up to take their place.

Now eyes that once held gentle gleam
Can trap a soul within a dream.
One glance, one breath, and all is lost—
A crown of death, at beauty’s cost.

They call her fiend, they curse her name,
But none recall who lit the flame.
Each statue in her garden wide
Was once a fool with sword and pride.

She walks alone, apart, unmoved—
By all the lies that men have proved.
Yet deep within, beneath the art,
Still beats a cold, concrete heart.

Not born of hate, nor shaped by sin—
But forged where pain and wrath begin.
A heart once soft, now locked away,
To keep the world and gods at bay.

So speak her name with care and grace,
And know the truth behind the face.
For monsters rise when wrongs go far—
And every scar becomes a star.

© 2025

Poetry

Liam and the Lamp

The Royal Octopus

Liam was restless, the sky hung low,
Life was dull, the days moved slow.
Behind his shed, through mud and vine,
He found a lamp with an emerald shine.

He gave it a rub with a shrug, half-bold—
Out rose a shimmer of lavender and gold.
A woman emerged with stardust eyes,
Her voice was soft like lullabies.

“I’m Lyra,” she said, with a wistful sigh,
“A genie of wishes—three, then goodbye.”
“Ask what you will, but choose them wise.
Not all that glitters is truly a prize.”

“First,” said Liam, “I want success—
Fame, fortune, all the rest.”
Poof! In seconds, his name was known,
A world of applause, a glittering throne.

“Second,” he grinned, “make me adored.
Friends by the dozen, fans by the horde!”
And so it was—his phone rang nonstop,
Praise and selfies, he’d reached the top.

But soon came the asks, and the desperate cries:
“Wish for my sister,” “My brother just died.”
“Can you fix the world?” “Make hunger end.”
“Wish for us, Liam—be more than pretend.”

Their voices clung like vines to his name,
Every call was coated in effortless blame.
He’d wanted joy, but now bore their weight—
A million ol’ hands reaching all through his gate.

And so, for his third, he looked to the sky.
Then back at Lyra, with tears in his eye.
“I wish,” he said, “for all this to be done.
No more wishes for me—not for anyone.”

Her smile faintly dimmed. “You mean…?” she asked.
He nodded once. “I wish for your last.”

She staggered back, her light turned cold,
A shimmer of sorrow in silver and gold.
“Liam,” she whispered, “I lived for the giving…
But you’ve wished it away—ending my living.”

Yet, she bowed. As was her vow.
With a final glow, she vanished now.

The lamp turned dull, the silence grew—
And Liam sat in a world he once knew.

Alone with fame, alone with gold,
Alone with a wish far too cold.
And deep in his chest, it softly aches—
The cost of a wish that a kind heart breaks.

©️ 2025

Poetry

More than Six.

The Royal Octopus

I was his first, his chosen queen,
A Spanish rose, both proud and keen.
Through war and peace, I stood so tall,
Yet bore no son to heed his call.
He cast me off, declared me naught,
But I held firm in what I taught.
A wife, a queen, till my last breath,
No king could steal my soul in death.

A whisper, a shadow, a spark in his eye,
I rose like the sun, I soared to the sky.
Crowned in love, in fate entwined,
Yet fear and envy were close behind.
They called me traitor, a witch, a whore—
A queen with no son is a queen no more.
With trembling grace, I met the sword,
And in my death, I was adored.

I was the quiet, the gentle, the pale,
The one whose love would never fail.
A son I bore, his greatest prize,
Yet paid the price with my own life.
No scandal, whispers, nor disgrace—
Only a memory, a fleeting face.
But if love lasts, then here I stay,
Forever in his heart’s display.

A picture painted, a deal was made,
Yet love was lost before it stayed.
Not fair enough, nor soft, nor sweet,
But wise enough to know defeat.
I left a wife, yet lived as free—
A sister, a friend, content to be.
Better divorced than dead, I say,
And in my peace, I won the day.

Too young, too wild, too full of glee,
Yet what was I but a pawn to be?
A dance, a kiss, a secret sin,
A reckless heart trapped deep within.
I played at love, I lost at last,
My fate sealed quick, my joy was past.
They took my head, but hear my cry—
A girl should live before she dies.

I lived, I learned, I read, I wrote,
I soothed the wounds that time had wrought.
A widow twice before his bed,
And lived to love when he was dead.
A scholar, tutor, wise and free,
A woman more than wife to be.
I fought for faith, for learning’s right,
My words still burn with steady light.

We were more than brides and queens,
More than shadows in his scenes.
We lived, we loved, we stood, we fell,
Yet each of us has tales to tell.
Not Henry’s story, not his alone—
But six bright stars with light our own.

©️ 2025

Poetry

The Stages

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the twilight’s dim-lit gaze,
I stumbled upon Death in a shadowed haze.
Cloaked in silence, a figure still,
Its presence burned, a frigid chill.

“No, not yet,” I cried, my voice a storm,
“This cannot be, it feels too warm.
The sun still rises, the world still turns,
Surely, Life’s flame still fiercely burns.”
But Death stood firm, no word it spoke,
Its eyes like mirrors, my hope it broke.

“How dare you come!” my fury roared,
“To snatch the dreams I’ve yet explored.
You thief of time, you cruel deceit,
I’ll rage until your grasp’s defeat!”
But Death stood patient, calm and still,
A shadow bound by fate’s own will

“Please,” I begged, with trembling plea,
“Take my years but leave them free.
Spare those I love, or delay your claim,
I’ll give you gold, I’ll bear the blame.”
Yet Death, unmoved, began to wane,
Its silence sharper than my pain.

A void engulfed me, vast and deep,
A bitter ocean where sorrows creep.
“What’s left for me?” I asked the dark,
“My heart, extinguished, bears no spark.”
And Death, though silent, seemed to sigh,
As stars wept tears across the sky.

Then light emerged, a subtle glow,
A whispered truth I came to know:
“Though Death may come, it does not sever,
For love and memory live forever.”
I reached for Death, no fear, no plea,
And walked with it, at last set free.

Through every stage, I met my end,
But Death, it seems, became my friend.

2025 ©️

Poetry

Loki

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the sky of shifting gray,
Where twilight dances, night meets day,
There spins a tale of guile and flame,
A trickster’s art, a whisper’s name.

Loki, born of frost and fire,
Weaver of schemes, unquenched desire,
With honeyed tongue and quickened mind,
He bends the fate of gods and time.

He walks the line ’twixt jest and spite,
A thief of truth, a shadowed light.
With silver lies and cunning art,
He sows discord in every heart.

A serpent sly, a fox’s grin,
His chaos spreads where he has been.
Yet in his tricks, a lesson lies—
To see the truth through veiled disguise.

For though his deeds may shatter peace,
And sow confusion without cease,
His clever hands reshape the way,
A spark that births another day.

Oh, Loki, wily, sharp, and sly,
A fire that flickers, never dies.
Your cunning path, both curse and boon,
A dance beneath the shifting moon.

2025 ©️