Blade of thorns, oh Damage Twig!
Fiery furnace that pierces Freyr.
So in dying the Green God succumbs
to Surtr’s glare, a razing dagger
Sinmora enchanted with molten roses.
Shield of simmering glass, leaden.
Temper the bow and measure arrows
swift, burn in time to the dance,
Ragnarok rides.




Hail Sinmara! Dark-hearted goddess of gold!

In your womb nest dragons, in your hair crows.

The fires of Muspell alight in your eyes, and you

are flame and flushing water joined in primal

elements, magic weaver of iron barb roses, a

steampunk dream of a Gordian knot encircling

a rusting sky. You are Surtr’s sheath, you the

fiery enchantress, dancer of lust and love. All

golden ferocity and placid rain on a window –

fire-rain. Dance-simmer. Stew of lava eruption.

Yours is a magic dark as the depths but alove

light with passion, measured temper, even breath.

Breathe with me, Sinmara! Let me see in the dark!

Oh sweet Sinmara, teach me your flaming arts!

Keeper of Damage Twig. Tender of the celestial

hearth. Pale nightmare. Druzy lips. Giantess pallid.

For the tail feather of a cock you grant me Lævatein.

For a kiss you grant wisdom eternal, throne bearer.

And but for a whisper, magic beyond measure ever

thus foretold. Hail Sinmora, Pale Dancer, Flame Jotun!

Hail Sinmora, Keeper of the Sword! Hail Sinmora, rosy

bringer of Dawn! Hail Sinmora, may you burn away all

my rusting doubts and forge anew a life of pallid gold.

Sinmara 2

Peace to the Greenman!

In the heart of Winter, solstice tidings, the Green Man
comes to me in ivy and holly glory, vines his body, grass
his flesh, leaves in hair and mossy eyes. Freyr’s body is
the promise of spring, his breath like morning dew, and in
the hollows of ice, we make love to the call of nightingales.
Wooden veins, blood of sap, slowly caressing the burls of skin.
Rings his age, proud fierce lines on the Yngling king, maple
promise of syrup and honey buzzing in the hive of his heart.
The barley rustles, green grow the rashes, we lay stupendous
in a mound most high, utiseta of Alfar, and the elves garland
the dawn as every inch of devotee and god blossom into spring.

Sometimes Loki…

Sometimes Loki is your dad figure, gives your fiancee a job out of the blue within a day and tells him to invest in Bitcoin via your horsing, and endlessly gives you manifold gifts.

And sometimes he opens the gateway to evil for shits and giggles during finals and you get haunted by a creepy gross incubus that makes you fucking bleed that you have to do a huge banishing for.

Oh, Loki!

We have an elaborate altar for him above the mantle, and I have to remember, fire is the giver of life, meat, and civilization, but sometimes it misbehaves.

Loki does NOT need a reason to play his tricks, but always following the tricks, treasure!

I’m a bit pissed and really want to slap him, but he is laughing his ass off to Helheim, and I love him dearly, so if he wants to play a dumb joke on me and show me true evil so I know how to fight off malicious demons, as in his words, “You needed to know true evil in order to know true good,” and my favorite, “Allie, how would you progress if I didn’t throw you the occasional curveball?”

Hail Loki, Giver of Gifts and Tricks and Who I Need to Remember, is Trickster Through and Through!

Freya Goldhearted

Worship the petals of my sex, my fragrant little sister,

rub the goddess marigolds onto my heaving bosom!

Make love to me by living! Speak in delight at my name!

I am Freya Goldenhearted! Witchblood seidhrkona of old!

I taught Odin his tricks, I taught Loki his names, and from

Folkvangr, I can see through the fractals of my swords and

warriors, brave women bold, sweet men soft as Ingvi-Freyr,

to the end of Fimbulwinter, through sheer fire and ice! I will

emerge in Hel’s cold fires, I will walk on alone into Baldur’s

new reign, and Heith is my witch name, Gullveig my shield name!

It was I that spoke the Voluspa, I that told Ottar his deeds, I searched

for Od and wept fragile honey blossoms, I am femininity wild and lustful,

sweet yet somber yet flirtatious as sin, only I know no sin, for I am holy.

So let us make love, little sister, raise your fragrant rose to my chrysanthemum.

Sing ecstasy in my name and dance the dance of volvas, pound your skald staff

into the roots of Yggdrasil and churn the cosmos with my Norns after my direction.

We will hail Yule and the Disir, come the Disablot! My ladies, Hela’s ladies, Frigg’s.

We are the Three, We are Holy. Hela. Freya. Frigg. Crone. Maiden. Mother. We see

all between Asgard, Vanaheim, and Helheim, and every woman has a pinch of us!

Odin gambles all away for glory, but I count my cards, roll my knucklebones, and feast.

Honey on my tongue, pollen in my hair, brass on my  brow, beeswax sweet my fire.

Loki speaks too soon, I measure my words, I am the prize of the gods, sought by Giants.

I am mead sweet on the lip. Poetry in my fallen. Valkyries in my wake. Shieldmaiden.

Thor would trade the worlds for a thrash at Jormungandr. I strike only the fatal blow.

I am Death. I am Deliverance. I am Mountain. I am Mystery. I am Falcon. I am Founder.

Know my names well, know your Dead, count the jewels in my hall and laughter wise.

We have pastimes aplenty, and fish from Noatun, and boars from Alfheim, we feast!

Seek out your fortune in my name, my daughters, and remember, I am All that Is.


Shape of You

Oh curves like a mandolin, sweet seraph symphony,

my Platonic ideal, angel girl, pillow cloud breasts and

eyes like sparkling cider, all honey gold, hair of gold,

let’s drink the champagne of the big city life like coins

cast into a stream, our glimmering wings refracted in

the rushing water, make a wish on a quarter like a

moon, there’s this place in the city hidden in a church

grotto carved out by our ancestors where the dead walk,

but they are loving ancestors, so let’s go there girl, light

a candle for the Mother, incense for the Son, and a dollar

for the Holy Ghost, Trinity of tears of joy like Christmas

every day, for your present, my heart, I will always protect

you, schema of a woman, perfect form, impossible architect

of shapes and madrigal blues, how do you see me, Freyja?

Valkyrie, Vanadis, Syr, Mardoll, Percha? Sweet Lady of Cats

and Amber!  We are thick as thieves, and you are my healing

bubbling warrior queen and seer of death, prophetess Heith

fullsprung as a heart and delight of witch women from Loki,

Gullveig Goldlust, Voluspa narrator and winner of falcon cloak

and beautiful Brisingamen, I wonder what I write, and my poetry

moves from my lips to mouth to throat backwards into my core,

then spurts out my fingertips in this lovesong, you are the girl the

girls lust after, mooncloud arms and sunbeam smile, enchanted isle.

Pink And Battle Sow

Oh great Syr, tusks of gold and sun between pert ears,

how you charge into battle breast bloody, how your pink

snout roots out the weak, only Ottar-worthy on to Folkvangr!

Ride the Battle Sow, Heimdall blows his horn and Valfreyja

roars with motherhood of warrior-ferocity, shieldmaiden and

bright enchantress, wreaker of passion and vengeance on the

corpses of all who oppose us!  And after our spears pierce the

hearts of all who stand in our way, let us feast, let us drink mead,

let us beat our breasts in witch dances and prophesy Fimbulwinter.

Hnossa is safe, Odr wanders, and as Odin hangs, we are the Name

he Whispers.

Gangleri of the Grove

Oh wise Old Bastard, from the raven’s feet on your eyes

I can see the wisdom paths of the mad king, hanging

spear-wounded while nursing bloody mead, flow to

the rivers of Helheim with me and grant me the path

of the wanderer, hail in your hair, gray storm beard,

out of all the troths I have pledged, to you, my lightning.

Father of the Wolf


O Father of the Wolf! Heed my howl!
Grip me in mischief’s embrace and
quicken my mead with your wits, O
Loki! O Father of Death! Grant me
the sly shapechanging to elude even
Odin’s mad frenzy, Hail! Heed my cry!
Father of the Ourobourous! Give me
utgard, give me seidhr, give me a cock
tied to the nanny goat and teach me
treachery, to have a tongue of knives,
O how I love you, Loki, like your yellow
dandelions and summer grass eyes!
Trickster Immaculate, Balder’s Demise!
Wrap me up in slender freckled arms
and elfin locks and let us sail on a
ship of nails to this Ragnarok. Breathe
into me, Lodr, I am quickened blood in
your pulse, running wild a skald, my
Northern blood venom like Gangleri.
I can slip into the earth and drink
down poetry from Gunnlod’s cunt, I can
see the end and shape of things! Oh
Loki, wife of Angrboda, husband of Sigyn,
enfettered like my mind, these chains suit
us well, and when no one looks, our madness
breaks free, oh Scarlip, oh Flaming Bastard,
oh tricksy muse of crackling wind and flame!
Can I count the ways I love thee? With all
my Yngling blood, with all my spaekraft, I
am your daughter, I am Lokisdattir, I am
penitent at your knees, Storyteller. Hail
the Wanderer, Hail the Outcast, Hail Loki!

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Freyr’s Shaft

And like the first sheaf of wheat harvested, your sword
stands erect and proud, blossoming greenery and bread,
but with the sickle, Gerda cuts down the Freyfaxi offering,
and the white horse you pride carries your manhood to the
mill, to be ground down to grain in the still, flour for
us to make sweet crust from and break bread with Odin in
the halls of Asgard, we feast on your body Ingvi-Freyr as
the harvest hallows, and the fields will lay fallow come
winter, falling into etin Gerda’s lap, and we shall keep
your golden grain hair to make Yule Goats out of when the
Wild Hunt rides, and you rest in the mound, churning out
miracles to the Yngling line and the kingdoms of Scandinavia,
it is said on your favored farmer’s grave in Iceland, it was
perpetual spring, and the flowers never faded, and so we gift
you the flowers of our fertility and virility as we turn hay
in your name, oh John Barleycorn of old, our beer and fruit.
Hail Freyr! Hail Skidbladnir! Hail the Boar Rider of Alfheim!
Summer comes to a close, Gerda’s fall draws near, and we make
love in your name, my dearest Lord of the Van! Hail, Hail, Hail!

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