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.

Snow Bunny

“Bunny Queen,” Skadi calls me as I’m watching snow fall, sending images of a hare with white winter fur into my third eye, hopping and frolicking under holly and mistletoe.  “That’s my nickname for you.”

Earlier the Goddess of Skis, Bows, Winter, and the Hunt had told my Odinsman – and Skadisman – that “Allie can never go hunting.  She loves bunnies too much.”

The Ondurdis thinks I’m a snow bunny, and it’s not far from accurate.

We meet in a winterscape.  I am the same white hare, feasting on nuts and roots.  A red fox comes and sinks its teeth into me, strangling me.  A bear eats the fox.  The bear dies of cold and rots, and an eagle picks its bones.  The eagle dies, and all the predator’s corpses feed the dirt, creating grass.

Come spring, the bunny is reborn, and I nibble on grass.

“This is the dance of predator and prey,” Skadi says, now a melting Snow Queen.  “I hunt you, you hunt me.  Death feeds life, and when the wolf bleeds out, it feeds the rabbit.”

Wolves and ravens throng around her as she fletches an arrow.  She has snowshoes and is dressed in wolf furs, trekking across the frost and snow, eternally on the hunt.

Loki ties his balls to nanny goat and he bleeds on Skadi’s lap.   Skadi laughs.  Her laughter melts winter.  She slits her wrist with an ice dagger to fructify the earth with her blood, and white roses well up from the rime.

She is blue lips and porcelain skin.  Ebon hair and freckles like a giggle.  Blinding white furs and breasts like mountains.  Muscles taut like a cord, the wilderness this Etin Maiden’s heritage, Scandinavia her namesake.

Skadi lifts the bunny to her face and nuzzles its nose.

Spring comes after the coldest winter.


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

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.

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.

Scarlip’s Thanksgiving

Firelight does not feed me, hoarfrost razes my skin bare,
I am in the wilderness with only my heart as a lantern.
The trees are tall as Ymir, my bread and ale are cold,
I am shivering without Freyja’s falcon cloak, so why
do they call me a flame? My warmth is their laughter.
When I am cast out of the long hall, my candle withers.
For I am a tallow made of the fat of Audhumla’s milk.
Burn me up and I will give riches like dripping wax.
Come too close to me, I am blistering heat, but all
that sunny humor is lost on me now as I wander, alone.
In truth I am in a cave, blinded by poison, mind in
Niflhel, bound by my son’s guts, and my breaking mind
is used to light my wife’s travails, blood seeps from
my cracked skull, but it is divine, so light the stubs
with the sorrow of the trickster, my winter is forever,
Narvi is a starving child in snow, and my sweet Vali
a ravenous wolf that devours what little meat Narvi is.

I never knew what I had until I lost it.

Once, I was rich as a king.

So, for my thanksgiving,
I praise memory – Mimir,
that I may live the past.

For the present is too
much to bear.