Maharaja Blues

In the court of syncopated chaos, one night in Bengal, Where saxophones sizzled and basslines brawled, Came Richie the Maharaja, hedge-blessed and bold, With trimmerhands twitching for rhythms untold. He snipped through the velvet, he pruned past the guards, His blades hummed in harmony with jazz avant-garde. “Live music!” he cried, “Not dead, not canned! My shrub-sculpting soul demands Miles and Herbie first hand!” The crowd gasped in 7/8 time, the drummer missed a beat, As Richie moonwalked in mulch, trimming roses with his feet. The vibraphonist wept, the flautist fled, While Richie trimmed a bonsai on the bassist’s head. He soloed with snippers, a metallic ballet, Each hedge he shaped sang Coltrane’s “Naima.” The conductor fainted, the trumpet grew moss, And Richie declared, “Let no groove be lost!” He carved a topiary of Ella Fitzgerald’s face, Then sculpted a shrub that could scat with grace. The audience roared, the garden bloomed, As Richie’s trimmers jazzily zoomed. But just a...

Tee shirt available 🌀 Croissantstein’s Monster: A Tale of Twisted Pastry In the misty hills of Boulangerie Hollow, where the scent of warm dough hangs heavy in the air, lived a reclusive baker-scientist named Dr. Croissantstein. Obsessed with the idea of creating life from pastry, he spent years in his flour-dusted laboratory, weaving strands of croissant dough like sinew, laminating layers with precision, and whispering incantations in the language of patisserie. One stormy night, lightning struck the copper whisk atop his bakery tower. The surge of energy coursed through his creation—a towering figure stitched together from buttery spirals, crescent limbs, and a heart of molten almond paste. It rose from the marble slab, its eyes two glistening cherries, its voice a crackling hiss like steam escaping a proofing chamber. “Je suis… Croi!” it bellowed, knocking over racks of éclairs and sending baguettes flying. But Croissantstein’s Monster was no mindless beast. It had dreams. It want...

On dark nights when the wind is a’screech, A Hwch Ddu Gwta chased the blues to the breach! Amidst burning stones and scary ghouls A headless lady and screaming owls A feast for old bones out of reach! By Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear The Tradition of Noson Gaeaf Noson Gaeaf (or Nos Galan Gaeaf) is the Welsh name for Halloween night—marking the eve of Calan Gaeaf, the first day of winter. It’s steeped in ancient traditions, folklore, and seasonal rituals unique to Wales. 🌒 Origins and Meaning - Noson Gaeaf translates to “Winter’s Eve” or “Winter Calends Night”, with calan derived from Latin calends (first day of the month), and gaeaf meaning winter. - It’s the night before Calan Gaeaf, celebrated on November 1st, which marks the beginning of winter in the Welsh calendar. 👻 Spirit Night (Ysbrydnos) - Noson Gaeaf is considered an Ysbrydnos, or “spirit night,” when spirits and supernatural beings roam freely. - People traditionally avoided churchyards, crossroads, and stiles, believing spi...

🦩 “Don’t Trust the Lobster” 🦞  by Pink Flamingo, still hungry At Café Plume, where mornings gleam, I sipped my tea and chased a dream. My toast was golden, fruit divine A breakfast fit for wings like mine. Then came a lobster, smooth and sly, With compliments and crustacean eye. He charmed his way with tales and flair, And Pink, too kind, said “Take a chair.” He spoke of tides and gourmet brine, Of kelp soufflé and sea-salt wine. But while I laughed and took a sip My breakfast vanished from his grip. No sorry glance, no crustacean shame,   Just crumbs and clawprints in his name.   So heed me now, from reef to dune:   Don’t trust a lobster before noon. Original Cafe Plume entry Cafe Plume Full story index blog-story-category-index

In lands where laurels bloom for brains, Where knights seek truth, not golden chains, There rode a lord of orange hue, Whose praise for self outshone the dew. His helm was vast, his greaves immense, His cuirass forged at great expense. “Behold!” he cried, “my armoured grace! The world shall weep before my face!” He posed, he preened, he puffed his chest, Declared his joust would beat the rest. He mocked the meek, he scorned the wise, And eyed the most Nobel of prize. But lo! The day of tourney came, He clanked toward his fleeting fame. His steed, once proud, now bowed in dread “Too much,” it neighed, “this orange head!” The saddle slipped, the girth gave way, The horse took flight in wild dismay. Sir Tangerine, a bouncing gourd, Was dragged like laundry by his sword. Through mud and moat, through hedge and thorn, He flailed like laundry freshly shorn. His helm spun thrice, his plume went flat, He lost his grip and then his hat. At last he stopped, a dented wreck, With frogs and daisies...

🦩 “Four Minutes in the Louvre” — by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo   I was sipping absinthe by the Tuileries gate,   When the sirens sang of a stolen fate.   Not me, dear world—I’m plumage and grace—   Just a flamingo with front-row space. They came in dawn’s deceptive glow,   In high-vis vests, moving slow.   “Construction,” they claimed, with a basket lift. But I saw the glint of a criminal gift. A lilac rhino, horn agleam,   Plotting theft like a fever dream.   Three cats in goggles, tails tucked tight,   Slipped through the Louvre like whispers of night. One cracked glass with a diamond kiss,   One danced lasers in feline bliss.   The third—oh sly—with a velvet ID,   Winked at the guards and set the jewels free. They took tiaras, brooches, and pride,   From Eugénie’s case with a thief’s soft stride.   Left the Regent Diamond, too bold to...

Main site:  Devauden Festival, near Monmouth. Early Bird tickets are on sale now Tickets Volunteering also open. Volunteer here Full story index blog-story-category-index

The Maharaja's Diwali Anthem  By lamp and lute, by drum and flame, The Maharajas rise in festive frame A tiger taps the tabla’s beat, Whilst a fox with a harmonica skips down the street. A rooster strums his resonant tune, A bear with a bass thumps under the moon. Their robes aglow with golden thread, They sing of light where darkness fled. “O friends of fire, of spark and song, Come dance with us, the night is long! Let every diya blaze with cheer, For hood shall triumph year by year.” No gate too closed, no heart too small This Diwali, we welcome all. From alley cat to cosmic train, From bureaucrat to bard insane. We light the skies with saffron sparks, We mend the world with joyous marks. A year ahead, so full, so bright Of kindness, courage, love, and light. So raise your voice, your lamp, your paw, And sing with us in festive awe. The Maharajas wish you grace and glee A Diwali of wild harmony! The Rooster’s Raga of Radiance The Rooster, bedecked in crimson silk with golden emb...

The Quantum Encore   A monologue by Maharaja Richie the Rooster  hatched at the edge of the Anti-Delta when feeling the blues deeply beneath a flickering lamppost shaped like a flamingo bassoon! This was witnessed and recorded on a quadraphone by an elusive bear, face hidden behind shades with a bass in his claws. So you want the Encore, do you?   The one that plays when no one claps?   When the fog’s too thick for applause,   And the noodles are tangled in regret? I’ve seen it. Heard it.   Played it once on my resonator,   A six-stringed beast tuned to heartbreak and Old Fashioneds.   PI Barry Noir went white.   Madame Fuchsia danced with a spoon. They say I crow too loud for paradox.   But I was born in the Anti-Delta,   Where the blues don’t mourn, they merely misremember.   Where rivers run backward   And harmonicas bleed Penderyn whisky. My resonator? ...

The press declared a scandal loud:   “A Picasso stolen!” cried the crowd.   From Madrid’s vault to van en route,   A painting gone, no sign, no loot.   Steel strings embedded in a desk,   Now vanished in a tale grotesque. But truth, as ever, wore pink boots,   And danced between dimension roots.   For Pink the Flamingo, suave and sly,   Had wagered once beneath moon’s eye.   A debt unpaid, a canvas owed,   A Cubist chord in steel bestowed. No lock could hold what fate had signed.  Pink blinked, and space itself aligned.   Inside the van, mid autopista glide,   He shimmered in and slipped inside.   No crowbar, glove, or getaway,  Just feathers, flair, and quantum sway. The driver swore he saw a flash,   A velvet blur, a cosmic dash.   The painting gone, the van still sealed,   No fingerprints, no clues revealed. ...

First case Previous case Harry Pi, trenchcoat damp with last night’s regrets, leans against the flickering lamppost outside The Hatstand club. He speaks like a man who’s seen too many variables and not enough constants. "I need your help Harry. Who else can I turn to. Word on the street, Harry. The truth is your game. And no job is too surreal". Sally exhaled a curl of smoke shaped like a question mark.  “I’ll give it a go” he muttered, voice like a broken metronome. “Got my quota in yesterday—two disappearing mathematicians and one radius too wide.” He flicks a spent match into the gutter, watches it spiral like a Fibonacci whisper.  “Truth’s a circle, see? You chase it long enough, you end up back where you started.” She slipped a napkin into his pocket. On it: a lipstick print, and the words “They’re folding the truth, Harry. Inside out and people are non existing.” He adjusted his tie, the colour of dried blood, and stepped back into the fog.  “Trying’s just habit in ...

 I have been researching Pistachio Cake  🦩The Pistachio Laureate  by the Pink Flamingo, Esq. I waddled through archives with crumbs on my beak, In pursuit of a cake both noble and chic.  Its layers were whispered in treaties and tunes, Its icing once brokered a truce on the moon. The Pistachio Cake, with its peace-prize acclaim, Was known to resolve intergalactic blame.  It soothed warring nations with nutty delight,  And ended disputes with one generous bite. But deeper I dug, and stranger it grew—  For this cake had invented a boomerang too.  Not just any throw-stick, but one that reversed,  It flew back in time, then politely rehearsed. It looped through the cosmos, it spun through the air,  It returned with your hat and a marmot’s despair.  It was used in diplomacy, sport, and ballet,  And once stopped a duel in Bombay by midday. I gasped at the footnote, I twitched in surprise:  “The cake was the architect, cunning a...

It started with feathers.   One on the windowsill. One in my coffee. One tucked inside a jazz record sleeve that hadn’t been spun since the moon last blinked. I lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl like a question mark. Something was off. Pigeons don’t just happen—not in triplicate, not in my flat, and not with that look in their beady little eyes. Like they knew something. Like they’d seen things. So I laid the trap. Seed trail from the fire escape to the phonograph. A fake feather duster rigged with a motion sensor. And a decoy pigeon—stuffed, stitched, and wearing a wire. I called him Gregory Peck. Midnight. A rustle. A coo. A shadow moved like guilt across the parquet floor. Then I saw him. Trench coat. Bread crumbs in his pocket. Eyes like burnt toast. The Pigeon Smuggler. Real name? Clive. Alias? The Beak. He’d been planting birds in flats across the borough—some kind of avian espionage ring. Surveillance pigeons. Message pigeons. One was trained to tap Morse code on ...

At Café Plume, where clocks dissolve  And teaspoons hum in minor resolve,  Croissant skeletons, crisp and curled,  Debate the ethics of jam in a parallel world.  One stirs his mocha with a violin string,  Another sips dreams from a porcelain wing.  Their flaky skulls wear monocles of brie,  Discussing quantum toast and existential tea. Naturaly sourced Breakfast Cafe Plume sources its organic coffee and croissants from Breakfast Valley. Three croissant stallions, crisp and bold,   Gallop by coffee, dark and cold.   Strawberry trees in marmalade bloom,   Whistle sweet jazz in breakfast’s room.   Their flaky manes catch morning’s gleam,   Racing through steam like a pastry dream.   And somewhere beyond that buttery bend   A flamingo barista awaits to blend.   Your choice Coffee ? Or Tea  ? More croissant fun Take the Croissant Train https://maharajablues.blogspot.com/202...

Part 4 Part 1 Jonathan the Fox Here’s a tale of wonder and mystery, of gentle Jonathan the Fox, he who tapped into the songs of the woods, he who could make his harmonica sing to newts and axolotls  and turn frogs back to spawn, he of the gentle smile who always changed from the gentlest of morning breezes to a wild gale when performing, he of the hills and valleys whose force was strong within, he who unknowingly was born to fix that that greatest of glitches, the Curse of the Witch Panda! Here’s to the origin tale of Gentle Jon the Fox—a mythic melody in fur and breath, whose harmonica held the power to stir ponds and seal cosmic wounds. Let us travel in his paw prints and learn how his mystery meets music and destiny hums beneath the hedgerows. The Ballad of Gentle Jon the Fox: A Woodland Prelude in Whispering Harmonica Before the glitch, before the brew, Before the stags in rhythmic queue There lived a fox in hills so wide, Where morning mists and secrets hide. Jon the Fox, wit...