Holy, Holy, Holy

A flower from your gardens, Paradisaical rose.
You in buckskin, barefoot, wings of whispers,
sunlight hits your skin, flaming sword drawn.
We are in a white marble and gold silk palace.
We are in the fields of France, the Crusades.
You are wild with blood, you are peaceful light.
Golden Eagle, Fanged Lion, raging smoky wildfire.
Wrath of Heaven, Prince of Princes, halo crown.
I am dead and dreaming in your arms, alive and
starving and empty for you, rain down on me
with blessed embers and good, sturdy red clay.
Earth and fire, water and wind, spirit and power.
The kaleidoscope of you is a wind chime in a
hurricane, a king without a throne, ephemeral
yet solid as Petra cliffs, holy and renowned.

Bless me Archangel, lips melt me like snow.


A Memory of Spring

You came to me on the first winds of summer, riding gold.
Hallowed footprints in loam you left, hands in the silt –
you painted me with mud and gley and rust, and I was Earth.
And you were the Horned God, antlers like tines, skin supple
wood, hair like wildfire leaves, oh how I ached to be tilled.
And when your rains came, my parched heart opened.


In the footprints of Machig Lapdron by Mary Sharratt

Amazing info on Tibetan Buddhism in one of my favorite countries, Bhutan!

Machig Labdrön with PadampasangyeMachig Lapdron, female Tantric Buddhist mystic and lineage founder

I’ve just returned from an illuminating trip to Bhutan, high in the Himalayas. Bhutan is a Buddhist kingdom and the world’s youngest democracy.

On our last full day in this enchanting land, my husband and I drove with our guide over the nearly 4000 meter pass of Chelela and into the Haa Valley which doesn’t see that many tourists. Our goal was the Hermitage of Juneydrak, where Machig Lapdron (1055-1145 CE), the famous female Tantric mystic, master, and lineage founder, once meditated.

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Thor: ride the lightning

Absolutely wonderful dissection of Thor.

We Are Star Stuff

We’re always taught that Odin was head of the Norse gods, and father of most of them. But when the Christians in Scandinavia began to press the pagans to give up their religion, the sign of resistance was Thor’s hammer, not Odin’s spear or valknut.

This may come as a surprise to us, who mostly think of Thor as big and strong and a bit dim, out of his depth when it comes to anything more complicated than smashing giants. But Thor was a very popular deity in the Viking Age, as place-names and personal names show, perhaps because of his closeness to the humans he defended.

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Blood Brothers

Loki and Odin Blood Brothers

Scarlip and the Old Bastard go way back, sweet-tooth,
see them dancing in the rain under an abandoned train,
watch them scooping sparrow eggs to fry up for food,
they cast runes to woo the maidens, Loki with elvin
songs on his guitar of ash wood, Odin the shaman drum.
Blood brothers, mud brothers, river brothers, stone.
They mixed lips and wine and gore in a damp summer,
a ragtime summer, and they wander the Nine Worlds,
only to find crows, ravens, vultures, snakes, wolves.
Flamehair and Greyhair. Alfather and Father of Monsters.
One sage, one shady, none saint. Deal us your finest
cigars, bartender, another glass, we toast our kinship
on this darkest winter night, memories play like storms.

Spindle Sleep

Just take a peek at Sleeping Beauty’s silhouette through the gossamer window,
the dragon prays for just a taste of moon girl and pink wine blossom breasts,
his fire is unrequited lust, for comatose madrigals cannot embrace red flames,
instead those of us poisoned by love in sicksleep bower dream of infinity under
thorns, our tower rooms are freezing with internal snow that ices our solitude,
my skin is milk of the dead, my wyrm takes my unmoving hips and lifts up stars,
snaking wyvern so sly in assessing a spindle’s used goods, but as he cops a feel, the prince comes with flaming sword and fury, even the downfall of dragons
begins with a single question: what if the princess could love me? What if I was
man, monster rid of the cruel curse of hermitude, and his watch over his charge,
my arsenic jello limbs, is prone to a wandering mind, so though no true love will awaken me, a peepshow underneath hitched silver skirts satiates the beast.

The Doors

“Know you can break hearts but know that such a gift is secondary- it’s breaking minds that matters most.”

S. K. Nicholas


If you let down your guard and show yourself for what you are, the days as you know them will come to an end. If you stand in your back garden and undress with the rain splashing against your face, then the hour has come for you to show your true hand. When I’m not working, I’m writing, and when I’m not writing, I’m dancing like Ian Curtis in the spare bedroom with the curtains drawn. Downing several energy drinks, I lock myself away and snap my head back and forth while thrashing my arms around for the best part of the afternoon making no attempt to hide my strange ways. It helps me to stay sharp, you see. When you come around, I give you my biographies on Moors Murderer Ian Brady and tell you to make notes on what you find. He was a bad man, yet he knew…

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The Long Days

Ottar my boar, my bridegroom, my steed!

Spill your hoof-blood on ruby red leaves,
ride on through autumnal romance, seek
ancestors in the stars of Hyndla’s eyes,
our union is one of hero and shieldmaiden,
brave the draugr and dokkalfar, your tusks
root for hidden Balder in dying sunlight,
the long days are coming, my steed, rut
with me as Syr, Sow, in field and furrow.

Trample the grass and know your legend.