Freyja Rides Out

To be like the Great Sow, Mother of Battle.
they say I have gold tears that hide smiles,
my teeth are bright as tusks, my breasts be
mountains, little one, my thighs crush men
and as I strangle their necks, they grin,
pour wine into my lap, and drink down blood.

See me on the battlefied, bright armor shining,
See me in the bedroom, resplendent as a pearl,
See me High Seated, prophesying Valraven’s fall,
Odin may be Frenzy, but I am the Blade, see me
cut the Norn’s hair and spin it on my fingers,
See me ride out with Valkyries and Svinfylking,
See me scream and beat my shield, see me ravage
all who oppose me, or bed Ottar’s images, I am
the chooser of the slain, gods’ gift to men.

Worship me, make love for me, call out my names.
Mardoll and Freyja, Bercha and Syr, Butter Dame,
Gullveig Gold Drink and Heith Ill-Speaker, sing
for the Lady, dance for the Lover, cry for the
Wife and heal for the Lover, worship me sweetly
and offer me your strawberries, your amber, mead
bright as honey and the bones of hallowed dead.

I am the First Witch, a delight to evil women,
Learning seidhr at my veiled mother Nerthus’ side,
I am the survivor of Ragnarok, the Veteran of the End
When Muspell’s flames burn my body will quench them,
when the Aesir speared me and roasted me, I was thrice
alive, the most noble of battles was fought over me,
I am the coveted prize of the Jotun, but I fly falconwild,
and no man may tame me, neither Odin nor Freyr nor Ottar
nor dwarven makers of Brisingamen, for I am ineffable,
the Beauteous Maiden who breaks all men’s hearts, so
crawl to my bosom and breathe down my arts, I shall
rock you by Noatun and sing of your future wife, I will
speak softly of your first love and last lullaby, I will
comb out your sorrows, little one, and hold you tight.

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Holding Hela’s Hand

Bone fingers on mine as I shepherd ancestors
across the Veil, onto starry Death’s breast,
Hela grips my hand with ice and snowflakes,
her palms slide to my hips to ground my roots
as souls pour into me as black brilliant sparks
wreathed in white halos, flickering into light
Hela’s bosom is all Helheim, I drive in rainy
memories through those not yet in her kingdom,
first there is the overwhelming smell of decay,
a corpse baking sickly sweet in the summer sun,
slowly bodily fluids evaporate, bacteria feasts,
and the rot becomes wet dirt, Hela is beautiful
but does not shelter her girls from true passing
no antiseptic white wards here, just honorable
necrosis, hazy gray globes of eyes, bone white
hair that wreathes a half-flesh, half-frozen face
Hela smiles gently, and I become mist in her arms.

Frigga

There’s a spindle whirring in Frigga’s lap
and she stares down the World Tree eternal
churning bloody milk in Urda’s well, flax
becomes golden Sif hair, twine is dyed with
mead from Kvasir, it is her High Seat truly,
Odin is just a guest, her breasts Asgardian
skies, her eyes Mani and Sunna, her teeth
brilliant stars, weave wyrd and play lives
of Midgard out on her skein, beneficient
tender of the hearth, of my home, Frigga
does not like to be brilliant as Freyja
instead she wears dun white and fawn brown,
keys at her waist that open the Nine Worlds,
when she was young she was a Wanderer, but
few know how Frigga charmed her way across
the realms with sweet words and stories like
the finest of cheese and bread, bite into her
tales to children and elderly and warriors,
find the sweetest of mulled cider warm on
an autumn that speaks of motherhood harvest,
Frigga is tied to the seasons, the land,
she gave birth to light for a reason, for
Balder is what happens when death meets
life, Odin and Frigga are polar opposites,
that is why the Alfather kneels for no one
but her, he becomes a cabbage moth to flame
in Frigga’s bosom, and her body is All,
her breath could melt Niflheim, her wealth
is the way the Norns chant runes and cut
Frigga’s cloth to rainbow spindrils, no,
Frigga is the keeper of the Aesir and Vanir,
under her doe gaze, gods sleep peacefully.

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.

Morrigan

Mist seeps through my memory and the strangled
tunes of the dead rattle their breaking bones
treasure hoard or funeral pyre, I sit on skulls
drinking wine that was once angel blood, fresh
from wounds claws dug into to prise immortality
my beasts fetched my drink from the fields, the
corpses came of their own accord, I comb golden
curls off the mummified remains of my daughter,
dumb little bird, she could not handle my milky
poison, and so I tend things as barren Baroness
of the cavern behind the waterfall, Morrigan to
men, Slayer of Mine Enemies, Claimer of Spoils –
say my name and I descend like the stormy seas.

Gift for a Gift

You ask what price I paid to paint Ymir’s brains
across the cosmos? Sacrifice of hangman’s jig to
my own mortality, morality, I lost humanity come
the gallows, all that was left was ergi sorcerer,
wild wanderer, Bolverk Sly-Serpent questing after
Gunnlod’s mead. What Tyr whispered to the Fenris
Wolf as his hand snapped off is the same I say to
you: a gift for a gift, and your offerings summon
my whimsy, flipping the bird at me is a compliment,
you etched and sketched and drew and quartered me –
don’t think to tame the storm, I ride on thuderheads,
I ate up my forefather’s bones and took Jotun into me
all to become strong, because I could, because I was
there, and the opportunity to be more than ancestral
clash of ice and fire called to me like Frigga’s breast,
Wanderer, Warrior, Wounded King, I am all at once, a
conundrum of clashing seasons, but in truth I am always
winter, and your spine will dance in ice in my hands
so keep playing, sweet child: seek my riddled answers
I cannot promise you a throne but wisdom, glory, pain.

Inanna

She walks on soil tilled clay saffron with blood
lady of the Me and lions, crown of evening stars
Hail Inanna! Draped in rainbows and floods, arks
adrift from her fury find harbor at her breasts
she gives and she takes, courts, coquettes, claims
the young and strong and makes warriors lovers
Hail Inanna! Queen of the Heavens, daughter of Anu
Mistress of the Bull and Seeker of Dumuzi, braver
of Ereshkigal’s gibbet, Maiden to Woman, wise regent
of the heart and war, which are evermore the same.