Hela’s Tithe

The blonde huldra has a birch bark back
she dances in flowery fields for Freyr,
delights in cow tail sweeping men’s sleep
one with the earthen ploughs and dales,
a dancer on the Forest King’s hollows,
but just as Ingvi gives his life harvest,
so must the elf woman learn of sacrifice.
She sleeps in a gossamer moss down bed,
hair long as wheat shafts, sparkling sun,
the Maiden of Helheim, Hela Half Rotted,
rises with the moontide, graces the girl
a spiderwork of bones shimmer under skin
as Hela lays hands over the burning witch
she may belong to the Golden God, but Hela
is also her mistress, life and death twine
like thread in braided brass hair, frolics
in fields, Ingwaz to Ear, Green Man falls
to Lady Death’s scythe, and in the milk of
her marrow, John Barleycorn is reborn.

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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.

Freyfaxi

Seven white horses, tails with bells
barley and heather, midsummer smells,
we roll in the fields, sunshine bright
boar for the feast, mead for the night.

Freyr

The curve of a tree, weighed down by blossoms
is my favorite place to find you, one with the
roots, your antler curved like the branches,
hair the gold of yellow ochre fall leaf bower,
buckskin leggings the color of bark, green knit
sweater smelling like basalm, pine needle eyes
that open and shudder with morning grass frost –
I sat down with you in the grove, you showed me
how to become one with the trunk, the flowering
of Yggdrasil, Ratatosk and Nidhogg in their quiet
burrows – you are a part of that tree, Gebo light
as falling leaves, for the gift of the gods flow
down to Midgard, where we revel in the roots, god
and devotee, man and girl, my beloved Shining One,
your frith fruits with compassion, and your sword
was given for love long ago, and service is your
true name, to kindred kith and kin, you tell me
that there is no greater gift than noblesse oblige
forefather of my Yngling clan, Hail the Golden God.

Freyr Woos Gerd

I came to you with open palms, a gift
of my sword to your gardens, we met in
Barri Woods, I stripped golden in sun
you silver with shining arms, dear Gerd –
mistress of my heart and my kennings
when I first saw you from Odin’s throne
I knew what it was to die, more than
being cut as the first shaft of barley
come harvest, my rain and bounty are
nothing compared to your Etin grace,
my ship and boar and humble antler just
trappings to adorn our bower of trees,
we were wed then on dewy grass, we took
pleasure in summer sun, echoing fjords,
does and bucks danced in Vanaheim and
the Ljosalfar sang dead elven songs
as we knew each other, became one, you
are my orlog, my wyrd, my life and fate,
and our children are all of men, love
what we reap, my Jotun maiden, seer of
frith and faith, peace and good seasons
you till from my body in the soil, and
together, we blossom into Yggdrasil.