I vaticinate through cypress
prognosticator of folklore
brewing indwelling woodcraft
dasyure and platypus
our unvalued birthright
gnaw at cassiterite
sunburn on cycadophyta
an acherontic turmoil
you , ceres
lent nonlexical rhyme
reform this crisis !
always
evermore
peaceably
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
Light years before history
began to take itself seriously
the everlasting dead gave us living myths.
“Carry these stories" they commanded,
for this is your becoming history,
carry them all the way
to what seems to you all
to be solid footholds.
Be fruitful and multiply.”
In the swirling momentum of time
new, more verifiable myths were spawned.
Many dreamers realized that
if the tales we tell each other
were ever to be denuded
by a set and concrete realism
then all muse-makers and their visions
would blow away in clouds of dust.
Even so, 'solid footholds',
grew ever more rigid,
blindness became the only sight.
The spinning wheel of new myths
ceased to turn.
Myths are now beggars
at our closed doors.
The footprints of inner gods
stumble away
as they lean upon
old and broken legends.
In the beginning
Beak stirring
Human forms into being
Raven said
To the cauldron
“They are ready.”
People crawled out
Hot and wet.
One by one
The heroes
The sages
And women
Came out first.
They were the strongest.
Raven unfurled
Shook his black-on-purple feathers
And went to sleep.
But in the cold cauldron
Remained
Many more beings.
They looked like people
They talked like people
They copulated like people
They ate like people
But they did not sing
Or dance.
They never rejoiced.
They were all so cold and angry
…dangerous.
Raven awoke
And intending to kill
These lesser beings
He pecked and swallowed
Pecked and swallowed
As many as he could.
But most of them
Got away.
Raven is long gone
And so is Chaos Cauldron
But today
These lesser beings,
Colder and angrier still,
Get to elect presidents
And become
Leaders.
They torture the heroes.
They mock the sages.
They violate women.
The grandfathers said:
“Raven will come back
One day
And boil the whole of humanity
Into another soup.”
If we acknowledge Mother Earth,
How is it we discount her daughters?
If might doesn't make right,
What have we left out of the world?
What do we make of this world… that was made for us?
If we look up to Father Sky,
Is that why we look down on Mother Earth?
Or have we put words in the mouth of the wind,
When we mouth the words of our fathers?
Have we not learned from whence they came?
The eye perceives what it has strained.
The veiled remains, though truth is chained.
Look deeper still; what's there ingrained—
Darkness unveils a daydream.
Beyond what at first may seem.
The mind unveils what night conceals.
Through whispered cries the dark appeals.
Its secret inks on shadow steals —
A star-inscribed scroll unfolds,
What silence untold beholds.
The night unveils a secret scar.
A gleaming wound, a fallen star.
Its brilliance stark, from near and far—
Each sorrow leaves a new trace.
Each silence hides its disgrace.
The void cuts through the shadowed skies,
Its piercing gaze a sea of eyes.
It strips all veils, unmasks disguise—
Your net worth is stripped away,
Revealing what won't belay.
So squint your eyes to veil the light.
And turn away from shadows' blight,
Let darkness cloak the aching sight—
For truth is a jagged blade,
Its sharp cuts can't stop, be swayed.
Turn back to tales in star-strewn skies,
Where whispered myths breathe, live, and rise,
Then fade where veiled perception lies—
They shroud the bright cosmic blaze,
From bright light, no tongue can phrase.
Light years before
history began to take itself seriously
we commenced to spin our myths.
We carry these unread books,
to where this ancient world
has erupted from the molten
to solid ground. Enter this malleable
and imaginary planet
speaking of improbable odysseys
and sagas.
None may advance
unless the impossible be made possible.
imagine such,
and re-weave tapestries,
of an on-going mythology
from newfound visions.
I also convey this free-range poetry
as a gift to myself,
planting seeds of fable and fiction,
knowing that the unthinkable,
the inconceivable,
can, and will be born
into the willing womb of tomorrow.
Far into these stones of silences
soft in the smell of history
from watery chaos to cosmic egg
whose return to words I am waiting for?
We are delivered by myths
where lay our old fever of love.
Time and the boat, victories and losses
the rise and fall in the Nile water.
There I may meet King Menes on a late summer night
when centuries drift to hold a larger life
This sleep is a book where I meet
Colossi of Memnon in the silence and noise.
My fears of losing receive no one.
My unwarranted fulfilments of tomorrows
are bare faces of lives connected somewhere before,
lives disconnected without reasons.
Now I stand among flurry desires
in the gates of the ruined Mortuary temple.
These ruins are my own like my faiths.
How can I forget all I hold
before I go for a long sleep?
Muffled voices in clouded corridors,
where legends mold the unseen,
drifting through thoughts like specters
bestowing authority upon the mysterious.
In politics, a performance:
marionettes on a dream-filled platform,
ballots cast for favor
lies woven with words
strands of optimism and dread
woven in imperceptible restraints.
Religion, with its narratives,
deities and monsters depicted in faith
comfort sought in fables
significance discovered in customs,
fleeting peace in their presence
prayers ascending, vapors in thin air.
Daily rituals of superstition
a black cat crosses the path, a broken mirror
navigating through symbols
interpreting with outdated understandings,
guided by obscure beliefs
apprehensive of uncertainties.
What if we dared to look behind the curtain
to view the myths we hold;
What secrets lie beyond?
I prefer the myths to the dry histories, where truths come and then crumble away,
For history is written with a quill of feathers, but the myth, eternal, beats with wings of iron.
Mythology dresses lies in dazzling robes that over time are clothed in truth,
And it gives birth to a wisdom that time can shape as the river shapes the stone.
Intelligence, deaf and blind, listens only to defy or to nod in assent,
Thus the message, like a drifting ship, is lost on misunderstood seas.
Instead of welcoming the word as a guest to the tables of meditation, it would tear down the messenger,
And we, mortals learned, have lost the art of sitting with the message, of cherishing the story.
The fault, it is said, lies in the arms of that education which molds us into valiant soldiers of certainty,
Not into wise seekers of questions, of meanings hidden in the folds of the everlasting myth.
Our world stubbornly struggles to tear the thick paper of deep understandings,
Poisoning us with dogmas, forgetting in the procession of days that all which was once a lie may bloom as the apple of new knowledge.
When little kids ask for stories
Regale them of our lore and its glories.
Listening with rapt notice
Tales of champions and menaces.
One and all exclaim with awe
Hearing about our Gods.
They don't die
Live within us and fly.
Burn like a phoenix
Survive with their tactics.
Look beyond the veil
When the fiercest quail.
Never lose their light
Even in the darkest of nights.
With a love so perfect
They attack and protect.
For the ones they care
Their souls laid bare.
Honor their word with pride
Till their last glide.
So hush, my child
Heed the noble and wild.
As all princes and peasants
knelt before our legends.
I Midas
King Midas' greed for riches was such
That everything turned to gold in his clutch,
As did his daughter one day
When she got in the way.
Much better for her had they not kept in touch.
II Arthur
The Camelot tale is a wonderful fable,
And King Arthur and knights were all equally able,
But had trouble deciding
Just who was presiding
When no one could sit at the head of the table.
III The Emperor (the one with the new clothes)
The vain Emperor was pleased, as he gazed in the glass,
At how well his new trousers conformed to his ass.
The fabric, so sheer,
With one crease in the rear,
And the "zipper" in front, though demure, was pure class.
Myths
When I was younger,
just a little kid,
I would read stories,
of wondrous creatures,
faraway lands,
and people,
that could do
incredible things.
My imagination was fed,
and watered often.
Then I grew up and found...
truth and reality,
unbound.
A chaotic world
done,
and undone
to others,
all over the world.
My heart was heavy with the loss of innocence,
and light with the reality of liberty,
and knowing the cost
of everything gained,
and all that is,
or has been
lost.
The stars far shining lights me up!
Counting together within your polished eyes.
The moon shows the white dirt on dark skies,
Twinkling because of your smile my divine.
I'll be praising you until my soul is fulfilled,
And soul should leave while keeping me dreaming.
Cool beams of the moon should land onto your eyes,
Thy beauty their glints, Oh my holy!
When the ocean waves below the sun are glassy,
There on the beach a warm loo drain into me.
Just as your glory stares with your watery eyes,
Why everytime I fell for you my heavenly?
SEASON OF MYTHS
Inspired, but unlike all the rest
Driven, with a burning fervour
So determined to begin a quest
Not as a dispassionate observer
Assumed the mantle of a sleuth
With research and detective skills
Discover kernels of hidden truth
Once the source of worldly ills
Buried deep in a lost prehistory
A heady mixture of fact and fable
Decoding and revealing mystery
From artefacts laid on the table
Led further into darker reaches
Where surprises live in gloom
What every wise man teaches
Stay focused and in the room
The false trails and obfuscation
Exposing challenges to ability
Even to maintaining motivation
Carrying a heavy responsibility
My key discoveries made at last
As more evidence is analysed
Slowly teased out from the past
Academics will be so surprised
A dip in the Styx
Sun chariot passing by
Ancient dreams greet me.
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