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!


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!

Old Man Wednesday

Alfather, my old friend, hail to you on this winter day.

I give thanks for your blessing, I give thanks for toil.

For it is in respite we can count the fruits of our labor.

We sit in Asgard as the spring draws long days afresh

from the frost, and petals are already blooming.  I hail

your patronage, all the tricks of poetry and magic you

have gifted me, and we talk long over spiced mead of

the duty of kings, and how in the death of your son,

you found renewal, a new purpose, but above all,

peace – losing the greatest thing you had meant that

there was nothing left to give, a twisted freedom that.

Hela will not let you in to her table Hunger, where

Balder feasts with Nanna and grandchildren that you

will never know, but there is a kind of surrender in

making peace with death, Grimnaldi, and you have a

bet with the Norns – who will go first?  Necessity or Need.

You call yourself Masked King to me, Hooded Ruler,

for a regent wears many faces – Wanderer, Warrior,

Sage and Spearman.  On Mani’s day, I knitted myself

a cloak of Ansuz, powered by your witchlight, and I

have slept under its protection ever since, rest I have

never tasted – a galdr you burned on my bones in

beautiful blue fire, your cloak over my shoulders,

for we are both insomniacs, to musing you succumb.

All your epithets and epigraphs penned to death, you

simply listen to your skald, who will tell her own tales

in time, and the crops send out taproots, and Freyr

courts Maiden Spring – your Wild Hunt rests, and it

is a time of frith – you were never good at peace in your

young days, but sweet Frigga taught you the value of

patience – not in this life, but perhaps a next one, you

will see your son again, and sweet grandbabes will

greet Old Man North, and ride pony on his lap, at last.


Snow softens the spring, spring melts the snow, forth.

In Ingvi-Frey’s hall in Ljossalfheim, a golden mound –

the bright wheat never fails, the barley never sleeps,

and burgeoning autumn is a stranger, summer reigns.

Frey descends to the mound like Frodi come winter,

churning glory on his wheel for the nine sacred realms.

Felled by the Harvest, he is John Barleycorn, his body

the ale we drink, blood the honey that spices our mead.

Gerda, his sweet shining-arm bride, dons dun and black.

She descends to Jotunheim, to Gymir’s hall, past flames

that wreathe her father’s mansion, to her herb garden.

Walled in earth, briar, and sod, Gerda sleeps, the dark

enfolds her into a cocoon with her lover, though worlds

apart, they follow the traceries of wyrd to the other’s heart.

Pound like a drum does the heart of a god, sing like a flute

does the breath of a slumbering Etin maiden.  Spring dreams

of Summer, Winter dreams of Spring, Freyr quickens Gerda

and her belly swells, at the Root of the World Tree she births

the first flower, defiant pink rose, and its fragrance would

slay the worlds themselves if it but lasted more than a day.

From its pressed juice flows the light of spring’s warmth,

Sunna is warmed by Freyr and Gerd’s passions, husband

and wife rise from barren death to blossoming life, rains

come and feed grass, sedge, and harrow, the hills of Barri

are made holy, and frith flows like wine, like wine, wine.


I am the beaded beard, sun-beaten smith of gold.
My cavern forged Brisingamen, the stars freeze me
but only because I am in love with the day, so much
I, dwarven kin, turn to stone out of sweet firmness
of desire, piercing the sky with pointed red cap.

Freyja found me on a dew-wet morning, marveled at
my crafts and charms, glorious trinkets shining wild.
I asked her for a night in my arms, she gladly oblijed,
and her love inspired two twin arm bracelets of Sunna.

I am of the damp earth, but even dwarves dream of light.
In this coldest Yuletide, remember, spring awaken in
the softest of frosts, a daisy like Mardoll’s tears.
I am Dvalin of the Day, and I say, merry Spring-finding.

Gold Canary

Her yoni blooms into a lotus pink as dew on a rose.
Hair a mane of sunlight, skin like starlight, dakini
dancing with six arms in yogic poses of sunny bliss.

The Lady melts winter and spring blossoms in her arms.
Her eyes are green, she laughs like swaying gold barley,
honey drips from her eyes as tears of amber joy, sweet.

Valfreyja! Syr! Mardoll! Gullveig! Horn! Gefn! Skjalf!

Melt the ice of the Wild Hunt’s heart. Ride Hildisvini
across bitter grasses and trample roses and strawberries
into fruition and rumination, grant young bride’s dreams.

Hail Freyja! Hail the Dancer! Hail the Lover! Hail Her!
Honor to the Vanadis, Honor to the Lady of Folkvangr.
She will take winter’s shawl off the trees, bring summer.

We shall rejoice when the new sun rises, and all is well.

Father of the Wolf

Since Farbauti struck Laufey with lightning,
kindling primordial fire in earthen cracks,
you have sailed through skies a deceiver,
Gammleid, vulture’s treacherous path, oh
Flaming Bastard, how you made troll women
your whores, fetters your mistresses, lies
your bridesmaid gown at Thor’s marriage feast.
Loki, swift one, enchanter and cunning fool!
Father of the Wolf, Master of Death, Progenitor
of the Snake, you are poison par excellance,
shooting poet’s veins with silver tongues,
and I’m tangoing to your madness, gleaming
fire your toothy grin, teeth tear witch
hearts apart, you burn everything that stands
in your way, tear it all down, charred to the