Tag: Spokenword

Greek, Poetry

Medusa

The Royal Octopus

I once was a maiden, quiet and sweet,
With sunlight that danced at my mortal feet.
A girl of the earth, no goddess, no throne,
But beauty can curse when the gods make it known.

The sea god approached with a predator’s eye,
And none heard my pleading, or answered my cry.
Athena looked on with a heart turned to stone,
And punished the victim for crimes not her own.

She coiled my hair into serpents that hissed,
She turned every gaze to a fatal mist.
Banished, I wandered to caverns of shade,
And there in the darkness, my refuge was made.

My sisters stood firm, unbroken, unbowed,
They guarded my silence, they cursed the proud.
Their love was a beacon, a spark in my night,
Yet whispers of ‘monster’ soon shadowed that light.

Perseus came with a coward’s disguise,
With gifts from the gods and fear in his eyes.
He struck while I slumbered, no honour, no word,
And over my body, the heavens stirred.

They called him a hero, they praised him with song,
Yet none saw the evil, or named it as wrong.
For I was a girl, abused and betrayed,
A warning in marble, a myth they remade.

So call me a monster, but know I was true,
A victim of gods and the cruelty they brew.
And still my sisters, in sorrow, remain,
To mourn the sweet girl who died in her pain.

Perseus and the Gorgon, by Laurent Marqueste

2025 ©️

Arthurian, Poetry

Merlin’s Lament

The Royal Octopus

I spoke with stars, I bent the sky,
I taught the stones their song to fly,
I built a kingdom out of dream,
Of shining steel and silver gleam.

I whispered truth in Arthur’s ear,
I shaped his crown, I quelled his fear,
I saw the glory fate had spun,
A kingdom bright beneath the sun.

Yet time is cruel, and vision lies,
For what I saw was his demise.
A throne of light, a land of cheer,
All ended with a bloody spear.

I warned, I begged, I tried to bend,
But nothing stops the woven end.
The Fates had cast their threads so tight,
Not even magic breaks their might.

And love, ah love, my prison made,
A gentle hand, a trust betrayed.
By Nimue’s gaze my will was chained,
My wisdom lost, my voice restrained.

So here I dwell in shadow’s keep,
While heroes fall, and widows weep.
I knew it all, yet could not save,
The king, the land, the hope I gave.

What use is sight, if sight is pain?
To know, to warn, to cry in vain.
I am the prophet none could heed,
A hollow gift, a curse decreed.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Dionysus

The Royal Octopus

Thrice-born child, of fire and vine,
From mother’s ash and godly spine.
Twice from womb, once from a god,
He walks where mortal feet have trod.

Youngest crowned of Olympus’ throne,
Yet older truths are in his bone.
Before the thunder, spear or shell,
The grape had whispered myths to tell.

He comes in laughter, cloaked in song,
With dancers wild and fever strong.
A cup, a mask, a shattered chain,
He offers joy, he offers pain.

Yet not like those who rule with spite,
Dionysus forgives the night.
He knows the ache, the drunk, the lost,
The soul unmade, the heavy cost.

His rites are wild, his mercy deep,
He wakes the heart the gods let sleep.
Where others judge, he pours his wine
And says, “Yours flawed—but so are mine.”

So raise a glass beneath the stars,
To madness, healing, and old scars.
For though the world may bruise and bind,
Dionysus still lifts the mind.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Hephaestus

The Royal Octopus

Born in flame, by Hera thrown,
A child unwanted, cast alone.
Yet from the coals where others burn,
He shaped a world, and made gods learn.

With hammer’s swing and furnace breath,
He carved out beauty, cheated death.
Though limping through Olympus’ halls,
His hands built thrones and temple walls.

No golden curls, no shining face,
But in his craft, unmatched in grace.
Armour, chains and jewelled delight,
He forged at day, he forged at night.

They laughed at him, then wore his gold,
Took what he made, and left him cold.
Even Aphrodite, paired by name,
Would seek another, stoke his shame.

Yet still he toils, beneath the stone,
With fire, sweat, and strength alone.
For while the gods throw spite or spark,
He builds the light that floods the dark.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Hermes

The Royal Octopus

Before he’d spoken, he had lied,
A newborn thief with gleaming stride.
At dawn he slipped from Maia’s den,
By dusk he’d tricked the world of men.

He stole Apollo’s sacred herd,
Then hummed a song, not said a word.
With tortoise shell and guts for strings,
He birthed the lyre that music sings.

A trickster’s grin, a gambler’s eyes,
He wears the wind and tells no lies—
Unless they suit his silver tongue,
The god of roads since he was young.

He flies between the gods and graves,
He knows the hearts of fools and knaves.
In markets, dreams, and shifting sand,
He deals out fate with sleight of hand.

No temple chains him to one place,
He runs through time, he wins each race.
The herald, thief, and newborn bard,
Forever fast, forever charred.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Athena

The Royal Octopus

She sprang from thought, a sharpened cry,
In armour born beneath the sky.
No cradle rocked her into grace,
She came with spear and solemn face.

The owl, her herald, wise and keen,
She walks the line where thoughts convene.
In battle’s din or council’s breath,
She weaves a thread that outwits death.

For war, when guided by her hand,
Is strategy, not scorched command.
She teaches craft, she builds with care,
A city’s shield, a sculptor’s prayer.

Yet even minds of deepest reach
May fault when power eclipses teach.
Medusa knelt in sacred place—
Wronged and wept with shame on face.
Athena’s wrath, swift and unkind,
Made serpents of a tortured mind.

And Arachne, who wove her soul in thread,
Was cursed for truths the stories said.
The goddess, jealous, proud, and great,
Still stamped her mark with mortal fate.

So honour her for what she gives—
The will to fight, the strength that lives.
But never forget, for all her grace,
There’s shadow in her sculpted face.

She is the wisdom in the flame,
The justice blind, yet not the same.
And though her glory strikes the stars,
It leaves behind its share of scars.

© 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

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