Tag: Wordplay

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

The Lady of the Lake

The Royal Octopus

You think you know the silver tale,
That drifts across the moor and vale,
Of crowns that break and vows that quake,
Of hands that rise from moonlit lake.

You think it speaks of only kings,
Of battle cries and shining things,
Yet hush awhile, let armour blur,
This song was always meant for her.

She dwells beneath the water’s skin,
Where reeds lean close and swallows spin,
A watcher set on silent keep,
A guardian in fathoms deep.

She weighed the worth of mortal breath,
She knew the bond of oath and death,
To Arthur, king the songs have made,
She broke the wave and gave his blade.

She waits there still where waters keep
The tides of time in secret sleep,
She keeps her watch, she bides her hour,
In cold clear halls of hidden power.

I went to find that whispered place,
Where moonlight touched the water’s face,
The reeds fell still, the night would wake,
And something moved within the lake.

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

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

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 ©️