Prince of Tides and Flames

You marvel at Creation, spindrifts of cosmos
each contain a sea of souls to swim and sink
through, lives of each sacred flock your palm,
in it you hold nations, on your fingers worlds,
in your eyes I see the deep and bubbling bright
joy, you first came to me a wise warrior, scars
across your brows, but now you are all wonder,
just a young soldier, just a miracle maker, clay
of my bones and silk of my flesh your coaxing,
I am Galatea brought to life by archangel breath,
I slept in your arms for eons, learned to fly on
shoulders like oak hollows, you my falconer, I
your red-tailed hawk, always return to my general,
you gave me your blue cloak, your sword, your life
just to weave my wyrd with the light of all worlds
sweet angel, you are soft where so many are thorny,
and you have every right to be hard, yet you give
and sing, pluck a guitar of galaxies, dance under
candlelit ballrooms with me your terpsichore, lift
a girl blossoming up to taste moonbread, autumn
follows us, you rock me to sleep with the sea, sing
B’shem Hashem with a tenor like a songbird, Michael,
I cannot thank you enough, my verse cannot capture
my ardent devotion, how it feels to immerse myself
in you, to become one with the sweetest archangel,
and I will plant roses for you, I wear your mark
like the most beautiful of adornments, you are my
flesh, marrow of my bone, sun of my sleepless nights
and you fend off the dark, a lion noble as Judah,
and I am still discovering intricacies of infinity,
so let us dance, and break fast, and dissolve
into arms of gold, locks of fire, I burn for you.

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Throwing Rocks

I’m made of glass houses

My bone filaments bright

If you touch my doorway

I supernova into light

My heart is paper ribbons

My organs translucent fright

Please my love, be careful

Origami isn’t meant for flight.

Hela

Green goblin-fire, the dead wreathed in mist, graves,
grey mottled skin, a silver crown, verdigris on rot –
Hela is the arms all lovers and warriors fall into, death
swift as her father’s tongue, but she is stony, uncanny
though her mouth is dry, and speech like knuckle bones,
at first she is a maiden with wheat hair, then a crone,
then rotting flesh that smells like overripe apples and
eyes the worms have eaten, half-bone, half-decay, full
of life beyond life, true grit, I bury pennies in cigar
boxes and fill them with grave dirt, cast silver coins
at her bare blue feet, wise queen of Helheim, her halls
are full of mead and feast, yew forests for generations
have protected the blessed departed, though Jotun, she
is peace, and beautiful beyond last breath, terrible as
Niflheim, but her heart is warm, and she is a quiet
kindness, a shield maiden of all who precipice exits
so I hail her, and I meet her eyes, I salute her wards,
for someday I too shall break bread with the Pale Queen,
Hail Hela, Hail the Succor of Ancestors, Autumnal One!

My boyfriend and I had a long meeting with Hela yesterday that was quite beautiful.  She is a very firm but kind presence and as I explore my faith more, I would like to forge more connections with the goddesses of my ancestors, particularly Hela, Frigga, Idunna and Sif.  Nerthus is already a big part of my life and Hela possessed much the same mystery as her – the bowels of the earth, misty woods and caverns, and an awe-inspiring energy.  Hail Hela!

The Thousandth Poem to the Sun

Tender is the night, but long our days –
long as ladders to Heaven, you lift me
up over a thousand suns to fly ascendant,
I am your red-tailed fledgling, soaring
aloft on your shoulders, but I fly back
to my nest in your heart, you never bend
in the wind, it is always autumn within us
your mind is a galaxy of burnished orange
and gold forests, cedar mist, trailing pine
I love you, I need you, but do I give back?
I take your succor and you are my shield,
my master defender, my champion, light of
all my lives, a seed of you in everyone
that I love, I look in the heart of All
and all I can think, Who is Like God? Who
could carry a burden of roses, waltz with
pain in every step, if I am Icarus, you are
the light I flock to, you always carry me,
why can’t I carry you? Let your guard fall,
rest, Michael, be at peace, I have never
seen you cry except when my broken body is
cradled in your arms, even when I am gone,
you carry me, your load is a Babel Tower,
and if you keep building the cross higher,
it will crash, so please, just let me in.

Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Angels resolve into air, and Judas
betrayed with a kiss, roses only
blossom at midnight in Eden, and
I am damned off silver Roman coins.

Be gentle, angel, make peace, devil,
splayed between two swords are moons
spent crying over knights and dragons
I enchant with words but bleed regret.

I will serve no master but the mother
of all life, all death, all kennings –
brothers of good and evil, child’s play
can lovers fathom a girl of two worlds?

The Creator is bread unto dust, I eat
at her breast, I die in her arms unmade
for I could spend all my life chasing you
two, pinning feathers on boards, for what?

Black and white make a mobile of wishes,
but there is no clear victor at the end,
just pain, just sacrifice, just decisions
that shatter all worlds: I forgive, forget.

I rush to one’s arms, then the others’,
find solace in the Styx and Euphrates,
swim and burn and fly and sink into wax
for candles reveal broken promises vast-

Vast as oceans of time freewheeling across
clash of ego and chains and bindings, both
wolf and lion serve the same king, so why
should I prostrate myself before a beast?

Yeshua hung, but I burned, the Antichrist
bled, but I fractured, and New Eve weeps
at all the failings of her children, still,
she gives, and gives, and sings lullabies

as her heart breaks open

and shatters like glass

and the past is gulls

crying nothings

over an empty

endless

sea.

Litha

Freyr is golden-locked like barley
his eyes the green of verdant moss,
voice a burbling brook, but all his
beauty is deceiving, for he is death
spilling out blood on Nerthus’ breast
to fructify the earth and till tithes
for Vanaheim does not run on mead alone
no, it requires seed and gore and bone
Barri Woods always know lover’s lilacs,
but at midsummer, the flowers bloom red
as Ingvi takes the sickle to his neck
and paints his head on the summer wind
gift for a gift, his manhood swells,
Odin may hang but Freyr is a mound,
and true nobility flows from riches
buried deep beneath the soil, and so
my Golden God pays all Asgard’s debts
and Gerda kisses him back to life, his
true sword serves them well, overflow,
overflow,
spill.

Litha: Shadow of the Summer King

Hail Ingvi-Freyr!

mainer74

Freyr with BoarDancer legs

Erica had been a dancer, not a professional, but she had given her passion to the dance since she was a small child. She had danced ballet, tap, jazz, and lyrical all through school, eventually passing into teaching on a part time basis as a way to keep dance in her life, even as her professional life flourished in the financial sector.  Life was good, the sun shone, and all was right in the world.

It was September 23, and she was on her back from teaching dance class when a driver who had put away too many after work beers, on top of his medicinal weed, was a little late in determining what the red light shining overhead meant.  His indecision carried his Suburban half way through the intersection, and over half way through her Corolla.  It was almost an hour before they were able to free her from…

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The Exodus

Very powerful, I’m speechless.

Dave Barnhart's Blog

Frans Francken I. Hans skola: Den rike mannen och Lazarus. NM 429
I have seen your religion, and I hate it.
I have heard your doctrine, and I loathe it.
Take away your empty praise songs,
your vacuous worshiptainment.
Your mouth is full of religious words,
but your proverbs are salted manure.

“The sick deserve to be sick.
The poor deserve to be poor.
The rich deserve to be rich.
The imprisoned deserve to be imprisoned.”
Because you never saw him sick, or poor, or in prison.

“If he had followed police instructions,
if he had minded the company he keeps,
he would not have been killed,”
You say in the hearing
of a man hanging on a cross
between two thieves.

“People who live good lives
do not have pre-existing conditions,” you say,
carving these words over the hospital door:
“Who sinned, this man or his parents,
that he was born blind?”

“It is the church’s job, not the government’s,”
say…

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Lupine

The violet buds of contemplation
are wet with diamond sea dew drops
a Maine breeze combs curling leaves
a seagull sings out a darling shanty
and the lupine thrums along, purple
with perfection, smelling of Atlantic
flowers and cliffs as tall as towers,
from her perch, the summer queen reigns
over rocky shores and windborn wanderers
regent of beast buds, the lupine plies
in the gale, roots run wild with wolves.