Tag: Spirituality

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

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

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

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 ©️

Poetry

The Silent Killer

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the sky, so vast, so blue,
She whispers vengeance, cold and true.
No armies march, no cannons roar,
Her quiet fury settles the score.

The rivers rise, a creeping flood,
Turning streets to paths of mud.
The winds, they howl, with spiteful grace,
Tearing apart the human trace.

Her forests burn, a crimson pyre,
Fed by greed and mankind’s fire.
The earth she shakes, her anger deep,
A tremor wakes where cities sleep.

The oceans swell, their waves take hold,
Swallowing shores both young and old.
The ice retreats, her final plea,
As waters drown humanity.

No words she speaks, no threats she cries,
Her silence shames the loudest lies.
For every tree and every stone,
She claims what man would call his own.

We took her gifts, we scarred her face,
We mocked her patience, stole her grace.
Now she’s a shadow, cold and grim,
Her quiet vengeance grows within.

Beware the calm, the lulling peace,
For it’s her rage that will never cease.
A mother scorned, her justice clear—
She’s the silent killer we ought to fear.

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 turning of Yule

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the sky so dark and deep,
The earth lies still, in winter’s sleep.
Yet whispers stir through frost-clad air,
A promise woven soft and fair.

The holly stands with crimson crown,
The ivy winds where cold comes down.
Green guardians of the season’s cheer,
They hold the light through longest year.

The oak king falls; the holly reigns,
A cycle bound in nature’s chains.
Yet in the heart of darkest night,
The sun is born, a spark of light.

The yule log burns with warming glow,
Its embers dance where shadows grow.
A circle cast, a song begun,
To greet the waxing of the sun.

Oh ancient rites of fir and flame,
The gods are near; we call their name.
Brigid, Thor, and Frey draw near,
Their blessings light the waning year.

So raise the cup and feast with glee,
For love and joy shall ever be.
The wheel has turned; the light returns,
And in our hearts, the fire burns.

2024 ©️