Maharaja Blues

Without Regrets our Masterchef Basks In the morning light As a new dawn takes flight In its glory, the egret basks And why it does bask Should anyone ask Well yet again He created culinary heaven For behold Goa’s own Auguste Escoffier, The white robed wonder of the wetlands’ buffet, Whose beak, precise as a paring knife, Carves symphonies of flavour from a simple life. He, the bearer of the Michelin Feathers Three! A title whispered with awe from creek to sea, The sovereign of sautéed sunlight, The emperor of elegantly plated twilight, The maestro who seasons the breeze With hints of river herbs and estuary teas. Frogs applaud from lily pad pews, Crabs scuttle forth to spread the news, Even the herons, forever proud, aloof Bow their heads in humble proof For none surpass the egret’s art, His marsh born magic, his culinary heart. He stirs the dawn with a flourish grand, Whips up clouds with a flick of his hand, And garnishes the rising sun With zest of joy for everyone. So when he basks...

How could there ever be any regrets When the chefs were advised by egrets? With wisdom and manners nice, They judged every morsel, every spice, And approved each dish with finesse. By Miku the bear bard Maharaja Rich's reply. The only regret   the egret ever met   was the day it tried   a soggy baguette.   It poked at the loaf,   got its beak firmly set,   and wobbled around   Full of baguette regret. Now it dreams of a cheesy raclette. Full story index blog-story-category-index

 🦩 Chronicler Pink’s Officially Unofficial, Flamingo‑Feathered Review of The Celtic Darbar 🦩 The moment Miku the narrator opened his beak—yes, beak—I knew he was Miku the Bear Bard materialised in your dimension. The same wandering ursine troubadour who once wrote a ballad so moving it caused three nearby constellations to weep. The resemblance was too uncanny and using a time machine in the show exposed his identity. Oh that lilting cadence, the faint smell of honeyed prophecy, the ability to make an audience feel like they’ve accidentally stepped into a myth they weren’t warned about. Then came the Sayed brothers, flitting about the edges of the performance like a pair of magpies who’ve just discovered a jewellery box and absolutely will not behave. Every time the lights dimmed, one of them appeared somewhere unexpected—perched on a speaker, dangling from a curtain, or whispering suspiciously shiny secrets. Troublesome? Absolutely. Essential? Completely. And then—Rangila. Rangi...

(In my finest fake Scottish and dedicated to Anoushka who was celebrating the New Year in Edinburgh in true Hogmanay verve)  By Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard Och, up the Monroes o’ Caledonia, Where the mist rolls thick and grey, There wandered a weary Frenchman lad Wi’ an easel tae light his way. He’d painted lilies till kingdom come, Till them petals drove him mad, So he donned the tartan o’ ancient Picts And declared, “I’ve had it, lads.” Through heather wild and bracken brown He stomped wi’ a painter’s roar, Cryin’, “No more ponds! No more blooms! Bring forth the noble boar!” And lo, in the fog o’ New Year’s morn, A snorting beast appeared A wild wee hog wi’ a muddy grin And a backside Monet revered. He painted it thrice in swirling strokes, In colours fierce and free, Till the Highlands echoed far and wide: “Behold! Hog Monet’s spree!” So raise a dram tae the misty hills Where legends love tae stray For somewhere still, a Pictish Frenchman Paints boars at break o’ day. © 2025 Mik...

Poems by Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear BBC News Article - Victorian Shoes wash up on Ogmore Beach She walked the Ogmore shore at dawn, her breath a silver thread, Christmas sun spilled molten gold where sea and sky were wed. She paused to hear the quiet waves hum soft, familiar tunes, When something in a rock pool glowed like tiny sunlit moons. She leaned in close, her heart amused at what the tide would choose  A nest of ancient, salt kissed shoes dreaming in the pools. The Causation Maharaja Rich of Ogmore, patron saint of period swagger, Had long dreamt of Victorian finery, frock coats, cravats, the works. But tailors were slow, and patience was not his strongest chord, So he did what any self‑respecting eccentric would do: He converted his old brass resonator guitar Into a time machine tuned to open wormholes in open D. One wrong strum , a slightly flat F# ! And the machine hiccupped. Instead of summoning waistcoats and top hats, It tore a shimmering rift across the centuries. Th...

Roses are red   Maharajas are blue   Boy oh boy   Do I have a story for you... One dark Christmas night   Mississippi shining bright   A flamingo stretched a wing   And softly began to sing. The notes they rang out soft   And through the air began to waft   A tune so sad and blue   But a rhythm so wild and new Something in the air shifted   And as the moonlight drifted   A portal awoke   Through it, the Maharajas spoke "I have lost my palace   And he has lost his palace too" They looked at the flamingo:   "We thought we'd come and stay with you." The flamingo seemingly from air   Found a bass guitar without a care   All of time and space went stiff   As he pulled off one sick riff. The tabla was banging   The harmonica jamming   Tonight once more, we are lucky to see   The Maharaja Blues se...

On Christmas morn in Ogmore fair,   The Maharaja rose from his royal chair,   But doom befell the festive plan.  The oven died with a wheezing fan.   No turkey roasting, no gravy steam,   Just seven souls and a fading dream.   Yet Rich, undaunted, stroked his chin:   “Fear not, my friends, this feast begins.”   Two chariots revved in the winter light,   A convoy born of culinary plight.   Seventy‑five miles through wind and frost,   With sprouts and stuffing carefully tossed.   To Nano Maharaja’s distant hall,   Where pots were mighty and ovens tall,   They bore the bird like sacred gold,  A Christmas quest in legends told.   The turkey sizzled, browned, and sang,   The kitchen filled with festive clang.   They carved and feasted, laughed and cheered,   For victory tasted richly seared.   Then back t...

https://museum.wales/articles/1187/Christmas-Traditions-The-Mari-Lwyd/ Mari Lwyd stomped in and neighed, “Come on then, bardic bear!” Miku flexed his velvet cloak and tossed his perfumed hair. They traded rhymes till closing time, each couplet more absurd, And no one could decide which line was worse than the last word. Mary rhymed “cawl”  with “towel,”  Miku rhymed “sheepskin”  with “deep sin,” Someone tried to judge the match  but drowned beneath the din. By dawn the pub was trembling,  the rafters near collapse  Yet both declared themselves the champ  and asked for more applause. By Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear  Full story index blog-story-category-index

  🎄🦩 Flamingo Sleigh On Christmas morn in skies of grey,   A sleigh took flight in bold array.   But reindeer called in sick that night. Too much eggnog, not enough might. So Santa squawked, “I need a crew!”   And from the tropics, pink wings flew.   With goggles tight and scarves aglow,   Flamingos lined up in the snow. They flapped and flared with festive pride,   In leather jackets, side by side.   Their legs were long, their hearts were light,   They danced through clouds in frosty flight. One led the charge with fearless grace,   A flamingo with a pilot’s face.   He winked at elves, then took the reins,   And soared through glittery candy canes. They dropped off gifts with perfect flair,   A ukulele, some socks, chocolate coins, and a pear.   From Cardiff’s roofs to London’s lanes,   They painted joy in snowy refrains. And Santa laughed,...

To the Roostaah Maan on his Grand 60th In Ogmore’s grand mansion, feathers gleam bright, A rooster of wisdom, a beacon of light. He strums the blues with a vintage flair, Kind and clever, beyond compare. A husband, a father, with love in his stride, Gentle and noble, with joy as his guide. A loyal friend, steadfast through years, Maharaja Blues thrives from his sweat and his gears. Nerdy delights and creative surprise, He builds little worlds where laughter flies. With passion and effort, his music takes wing, A rooster whose heart makes the whole hall sing. So raise up a cheer, let the laughter flow free, For Maharaja Rich, as grand as can be. A surprise awaits, with delight in the mix Now he has turned 60, let’s cheer him to the hilt! The Bus Pass Blues Maharaja Rich the Rooster, feathers shining gold and red, Oh Yeah, Maharaja Rich the Rooster, feathers shining gold and red. Got himself a brand‑new bus pass but them buses all play dead. In the scorching summer heat, he stands there ...

When the ambassador of Blushmirage visited the Potatolord In spud-bound halls where tubers reign,   A flamingo strode through golden grain—   His velvet cloak, a crimson tide,   With noble poise and stately stride.   The Potatolord, enthroned in starch,   His crown aglow beneath the arch   Of golden spires and tater towers,   Held court amid the root-born flowers.   “Your plumage gleams,” the monarch said,   “Like sunrise on a buttered bread.   What brings thee here, oh feathered knight,   To lands of mash and royal rite?”   He bowed his neck, a curving plume,   “From lands of salt and seaside bloom,   I seek alliance, trade, and lore—   A pact of peace from shore to spore.”   They dined on chips and gravy dreams,   And danced beneath the moonlit beams.   The flamingo twirled, the spud did sway,   An...

Mr Glass Half Empty ,  shattered liquor store owner : ‘’Alas I found my shop a wreck last night. Glass on the floor, the shelves all light. It gave me an all mighty fright, To see my liquor store’s sorry plight! And it aint any hooligan or street gang, That such destruction brang. A raccoon came, or so they say, And drank the bottles clean away!’’ Mr Cop McCop : Attending the crime scene, pen and paper in hand. ‘’You’re sure of that? A raccoon, drunk? It sounds like talk from men who’ve sunk Too deep in tales. Yet still, I’ve heard Of beasts who act beyond the word. And when in the mood They leave the wood, And hit the store Looking for more!’’ Mr Glass Half Empty: Now tearful ‘’On the security footage What an absolute outrage  I saw it all unfold Yes it was a racoon bold! He staggered in, he smashed the pane, Insurance men will count the strain. And when his thirst had had its fill, He sought the bathroom, slumped, and still.’’ Mr Cop McCop : Looking serious radioing help ‘’N...

(How paintings cross dimensions) When you gaze into a painted scene,   Where flamingos strut or bears convene,   Beyond the brush, beyond the hue,   A mirrored canvas stares at you. In realms where pigments pulse and breathe,   Where velvet suits and basslines seethe,   The figures pause mid-mythic play,   To glimpse your world in oil and clay. Their eyes, once fixed on distant skies,   Now scan your stance with quiet surprise.   A man in plaid, a curious face Hung in their hall, in gilded space. You peer through glass, they peer through glaze,   Two portraits locked in mutual gaze.   Each stroke a portal, each frame a gate,   Where watchers watch and contemplate. So tread with care through painted lands,   For every brushstroke understands:   The art you view, with awe and thrill,   May view you too—so soft, so still. Picture this scene of Maharaja...

In a bowler hat and tailored grace,   A flamingo struts through cyber-space.   No squawk, no honk, no feathered scream.   Just silent acts on pixel stream. His channel’s called “Mime & Flam-mingle”,   Hosted by a dapper flamingo.   He mimics clocks and climbing ropes,   Invisible walls and dashed hopes. Subscribers flock from every land,   But only English speakers understand.   His gestures rhyme with British slang.  A wink, a shrug, a silent bang. He mimes the Queen, he mimes the Tube,   He mimes the phrase that warms your cockles.   He mimes his pud, his spotted dick,   And breaks the fourth wall with cheeky chuckles.   No captions, no translation key,   Just mime that speaks in BBC.   His feathers pink, his silence loud,   He’s viral now. A Flam-mime so proud. So if you speak the English tongue,   You’ll hear the jok...

Upon the lagoon of laughter,   where pink flamingos dance in pairs,   the sky unfurls its velvet chapter   to honor Miku, bardic bear.   A Maharaja crowned in song,   whose bass ripples, bold and free,   the flamingos lift their necks along   to toast your mythic jubilee.   Happy anniversary, noble bard,   your words are lanterns in the night;   the flamingos guard your dreamscape yard,   their feathers blazing soft and bright.   So may the music never fade,   may myth and melody entwine—   for Miku’s lore, in joy displayed,   is sung by flamingos, Anju's and thine. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY MIKU AND ANJU. Full story index blog-story-category-index

🦩 A Nonsense of Chronicle Maharaja Blues in Aldgate East 2025 by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo A Journey Through the Blues The Band. - Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard — bass growls echoing the field hollers of the Delta   - Maharajas Dilwyn Roberts & Jonathan Browning — twin harmonicas, weaving call‑and‑response from Beale Street to Chicago   - Maharaja Richie Red the Rooster — slide guitar and vocals, crowing dawn into bottleneck laments   - Maharaja Satinder Grewal the Tiger — tabla rhythms, clawing syncopation into the lineage of blues percussion   Special Guests: Ashley Tragic and Aalok Patwardhan See  the-chronicle-of-ashley-tragic 🎶 The Set That Traveled Time The Castle Pub, landed in the Welsh‑Indian enclave of the Mississippi Delta,   became a vessel for history.   - They began in the Delta tradition:     raw slide guitar moaning like Robert Johnson at a crossroads,     harmo...

🌌 The Chronicle of Spiral Arm Galaxy's Three-Piece Orbit by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo Location: The Castle, Aldgate East Cast of Cosmic Characters : - Phil Jones — bass navigator, plucking gravity into groove   - Adrian Taylor — vocals & electric guitar, transmitting solar flares through his pedal board   - Jason Lawrence — cahon pilot, percussionist in orbit around the Castle Pub, Aldgate East  The Introduction Ladies, gentlemen, and interstellar wanderers…   Spread your wings, adjust your telescopes, and prepare to be pulled into the spiral arms of sound.   From the black‑hole depths comes the Bass, a gravitational pulse that anchors galaxies.   From the wooden nebula rises the Cajón, meteors striking rhythm into the void.   From the comet’s tail streaks the Guitar, bending light into auroras of harmony.   And the vocals narrating myths only galaxies understand. Together they are not three, not...

🦩 The Nonsense Chronicle of Ashley Tragic Written by Pink Flamingo the Nonsense Chronicler   I. The Perch of Ink Upon a lamppost most precarious, the Flamingo balanced, quill dripping bubblegum ink into the margins of improbable history. The Chronicle began not with sense, but with rhythm.   II. The Green Episode 🌱 - Ashley rapped in green.   - Words sprouted like vines.   - Audience ankles tangled in chlorophyll syllables.   - Pavement cracked as roots demanded applause.   III. The Blue Episode 🌊 - Verses flowed like rivers.   - Cool tides swaggered through yesterday’s dust.   - Oceans hummed in freestyle cadence.   - Galaxies leaned closer to listen.   IV. The Flamingo’s Scribble 🦩 “Green was the jungle’s heartbeat,” the Chronicler scrawled,   “but Blue was the cosmos humming.”   Feathers quivered with impartial flamboyance.   V. The Verdict of Colours ...

Maharaja Blues performing live on Dalí’s surreal custard stage at Bouffantia Basin in Flamingolandia. Here is the report from the Nonsense Chronicle. 🦩 The Nonsense Chronicle Filed by: The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo   Bouffantia Basin, Flamingolandia — Special Dispatch Filed under: Surreal Stages, Animal Bands, and Gelatinous Reverberations Prologue: A Flamingo’s Perspective Darling readers, allow me — a pink flamingo with quills dipped in raspberry ink — to recount the most wobblicious, custard-splattered spectacle ever witnessed. Maharaja Blues took to Dalí’s Surreal Custard Stage, and I, perched elegantly upon a breadstick stilt, chronicled every wobble, warble, and cherry rain. Chapter I: The Custard Stage Quivers The stage itself was a trembling pudding palace, golden and glistening, reshaping into melting clocks whenever the bass growled. Bouffantia Basin, a lagoon of whipped cream and flamingo feathers, served as the audience pit, its surface reflecting both moo...

The journey Dilwyn had a 6am start. There once was a Maharaja Dilwyn, Whose harmonicas wailed in the chill wind, At six in the morn, The Croissant Train horn, Chugged in with a pastry‑filled grin. He boarded, compelled by its twist, A ride he could never resist, Through tunnels and swell, To The Citadel, Where a Welshman blew hard and never missed! Other Maharaja journeys in pics. Setting Up Maharaja Rich arrived at 4.45pm with Carmen. Roz, our public liaison officer was at the venue already setting up seating. Maharaja Miku and Maharaja Dilwyn arrived shortly after. The sound guy, Sam wasn't far behind. Sam started to build the PA and stage as we unpacked instruments and the golden mic was gently placed in it's stand. Carmen and Roz nipped out to Koi and brought us back some tasty chicken miso ramen.  We did some sound checks to check the setup. Adrian from Spiral Arm Galaxy had already arrived during our miso ramen eating. The rest of  Spiral Arm Galaxy, Jason and Phil arriv...