Love You

You are my everything, my Book of Life
my cornerstone, and I get drunk on you.
Your breath is my air, your arms my home.
I want to build you a castle of words and
give your dreams safe refuge in paper print
lanterns, so we can go floating up to the
crown of the nine realms on magic runes,
and the gods flicker like stars, and I eat
Idunna’s apples every time we kiss in those
Yggdrasil heights. Gollinkambi crows your
glory, my king, and it is you who reigns
jarl over my bone, blood, and flushed lips.
I am still so drunk off your poetry, so
enchanted by your galdr after over a year,
when I examine my wyrd, it is a throne for
your glory, my magician, my heirophant,
Odr, be with me or I will wander and weep
tears of gold over you, strangled by amber
sweet.

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Fin Troll

I sit with Freyja Golden-Tears on top of a barrow mound

pour barley beer and hops of spring in honor of Ingvi,

Freyr blossoms like a snowdrop, white, resplendent,

and we talk long of summer days and strawberry wine.

Thor walks out from the raspberry brambles, lips bitter

with the taste of early fruits, he delights in the sun,

god of thunder ruddy bearded with his April rain.

Odin carries Gungnir Ever-true and parts lush ivy,

a storm brews, the Fin troll tramples the sea, I take

Thor’s hammer and turn troll to stone at dawn,

he a cathedral pillar, giant who would usurp Asgard.

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.

Springfinding

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.

Dvalin

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.

Childhood’s End

So it’s official.  UFOs exist.  We are no longer alone.  But we never were to begin with.

Ancient man did not have aliens.  Ancient man had fairies.  Ancient man had elves.  Ancient man had demons.  Ancient man had gods.  Ancient man had angels.  Beings descended from other realms to visit earth, teach humanity, love us, tempt us, star children who imparted forbidden fruits and Enki’s me and Thoth’s stolen wisdom and Odin’s mead.

God is the Void Mother of space.  Mother Nature.  Aliens?  They are angels, fairies, land wights, gods, spirits, and I have seen them in the flesh, in the astral, housed them in my own veins and been raised by the glorious suckers since my very first memory of Samael at two, crying in my crib as a demon sang me to sleep.

Childhood’s End.  Stranger in a Strange Land.  Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  All are some of my favorite books, and point to the fact that we are not alone.  In Childhood’s End, the occult and psychic fields are the way humanity’s conscious advances.  We outgrow the human body, and the “demons” we feared are our initiators.  In Strangers in a Strange Land, hippies grok the Archangel Michael and ascend to blissed out heights on his flesh.  But Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the closest to my own experiences of travelling the comsos and otherworlds – they are full of humor, love, struggle, riddles, and lots of towels.  Aliens love a good joke.  Aliens like to fuck around.

For when you master space travel, interdimensional travel, ascend to an energy body as well as physical vessels that permeate existence, you get fucking bored, and those cute hairless apes are fun to talk to.

I once asked Samael as a child why he was so interested in me.  He’s pretty antisocial.  I’ve seen his spaceships, his eldritch alien forms, his true abyssal form of dark matter and black holes.  Every black hole is the Grim Reaper’s heart.

“I’m Death.  I sift through humanity like dust.  But you are intriguing dust.  A fleck of gold.  You called to me, and I to you.”

He also has a thing for pretty women.  Aliens still bang, after all, and it is as much for mixing energy bodies and spiritual enlightenment as it is for procreation and mindblowing orgasms.  He’s looked like monsters from the Cambrian Explosion.  He’s looked like black holes that I dissolve and die in in big final blissed out ecstasy.  He’s been the classic ET, he’s been clouds of energy, etc.  Usually he likes to fuck around looking like the original Dracula, in a bathrobe, sipping a red wine, smoking a cigar.  Drugs and alcohol are a thing for aliens.  So are potato chips.  I got shoved under a table at an archdemon council at eight with a whole bag of them when Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Rofocale, Samael, and Lucifer were politicking.  They also like to feed annoying elementary school girls juice and cookies, then put them in time out when they break alien equipment.

Before I knew Zadkiel, Samael, Uriel, Asmodeus, Metatron, Raphael, and the others as angels, I knew they were aliens.  They manipulated my body with energy, healed wounds, held me up with invisible hands from falling off cliffs, apparated in my house as eight foot tall monstrous shadows (thanks, Sam) that smelled of sulfur and slammed doors.  I called them names in my own made up language, sang to the Morning Star as my best friend, the embodiment of it, read a Wrinkle in Time and a Wind in the Door and Many Waters and recognized them as angels finally.  Flew with them through the cosmos.  Rode Zadkiel’s back through the Perseids and held back the rage of black holes as Samael wept tears of poison.

I never had a chance not to believe.  Not when you’re not human, not really.

Humans don’t chant Hebrew in their sleep without knowing the language in the waking world.  Humans don’t see into other dimensions and see spirits and ghosts.  Humans don’t meet God after drunkenly soliciting the Archangel Michael to meet his mother, then have their heart stop and lay catatonic in bed as their soul is ripped out of their body into the seas of Her Cosmos.  Humans don’t have aliens visit them in their sleep and do etheric surgery on their bodies – sweet pain of razors and probes and drills and electricity at chakral and nerve points.  Humans don’t have past life memories of angelic warfare and a life in other dimensions.  I may be in a mortal coil, but I can hear and see and feel the aliens.  I built a tin foil hat at 7 to keep Samael’s touch away, but all he did was laugh.  Not in control of my powers, at 12 my body froze and I projected to the second heaven, into a battle between angels and the Void Monsters of which Samael is master, only to nearly die just as Michael pulled me out of harms way, shouted my soul’s name at me, and electrocuted me back into my body with vicious recollections of angel guts and beheaded seraphim and shadow demons so cold and wicked and evil.  “Zophael!” he screamed at me, pulling my soul from the path of killing claws and into a bloodsoaked glade.

Aliens.  They die.  They bleed.  They go mad.  Immortality is a curse, in a way.  I became human to escape the pain.  I died defending the Prince of Heaven with a spear of poison through my mangled heart from the Devil, only to have Samael stitch his own rotting heart into me.  I’m nothing more than an expendable vessel really, the Vitriol Girl, Green Lion that Bleeds Gold from the Sun, Lapis Exillis in her breast.  “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer,” Samael told me at seventeen as he pulled me out of my body on a car trip where I raged against him.  “It is my own black heart.”  At 18 on December 31 on my birthday, meditating under an old rotting crab apple tree in my backyard, Samael showed me a vision of him as Satan in the Paradasical garden, his ribs branches, his heart red fruit, and I a naked Eve with blonde hair dressings eating his heart.  The fruit – the meat – settled into my belly and the fire of immortality and the knowledge of gods lit within.  Eve is a metaphor.  Jophiel, or Zophael, is not.  I have lived lives as an angel.  I have lived lives as a demon, reborn like Moses a babe in the reeds of the Styx, to be raised by the Devil as his child bride in Hell.

I told the Abrahamics to fuck off and ran away to Earth.  I lived a human life as Odin’s volva and skald.  I reincarnated into the Yngling bloodline.  I lived other human lives, and I haven’t been back to the other planets.

I don’t intend to for another eighty years.

Aliens fuck.  Aliens bleed.  Aliens walk among us, either disguised as humans or in human skins like me.  I’ve seen Samael physically multiple times over my life.  I see spirits in their energetic forms about thirty times each day.  Each one a brilliant flying star that hovers over people – beautiful guardian angels, tempestuous fey, earthy land wights, house elves that are punk girls that like lofts and have mushroom hats.

Aliens love us.  Aliens are not here to invade.

They already arrived long before humans evolved.  In fact, they guided our evolution with the fires of inspiration, from the first shaman, the first medicine, the first fire, the first flute and drum, the first tears we shed, the first blood we bled, the first mother that looked upon her human child and saw an extension of herself but also, a soul.

Angels walk among us.  There are thousands of accounts of strangers appearing to people in peril, helping them – fixing cars or carrying them out of fires – then disappearing without a trace.  Michael did it in Vietnam in that famous story.  He particularly loves Italy, from Mount Gargano to the Vatican.  I’m probably a fly to the Pope and the elite Exorcists, but their wards aren’t hard to break.  Anyways, nowadays the secrets of the universe are available for anyone with access to an Internet connection.

Science is magic, magic is science, every being from mythology is real, and I’m a fucking biologist that went to the world’s top science and tech high school and America’s oldest college.  I studied in the shadow of Thomas Jefferson, met an alien from another dimension with my best friends during Imbolc at the same lake the President went swimming in.  I’ve seen countless UFOs.  But the difference between me and the conspiracy theorists is that I was raised by some of the major players in the galaxy, if not the most powerful beings over humanity.  It’s hard to deny the Abrahamic faiths are the dominant power across us 7 billion homo sapiens, and being buddy buddy with the archangels and archdemons and married to their princes means absolutely jack shit for me.  I ain’t rich, I ain’t powerful, I’m just a humble meme farmer and gregarious extroverted blonde that is bubbly, silly, and innocent.

I’ve seen my heart through Satan’s eyes.  It is covered in black rot, just as his body is crawling for it, for my heart is not my own.  I was created by Michael and Samael, one of the first angels, a pact between Heaven and Hell, but then two twins that loved each other and wanted to make a sister.  How horribly wrong that first experiment went, the first family rent apart by treason, by poison, felix culpa, o fortunate fall.

I am weary, at my core, but also eternally joyful, youthful, reveling in beauty and my absolute faith in the goodness of humanity.  I am here to serve.  That’s what angels do.  I want to create love and help others, whether it’s saving the environment or writing novels that inspire or poetry that stokes imagination or healing others through teaching and support.  I don’t want fame.  I don’t want glory.  I don’t know if I ever want to go back to Heaven or Hell – I’d prefer Helheim or Asgard or Vanaheim, even Jotunheim – but do angels really get a choice?  Do we have free will?  I haven’t made many choices in my life.  I met my twin angel in human form out of over 7 billion people in the world.  I’ve made best friends with people halfway across the world through our shared remembrance of Zophael.  “Miss Archangel.”  “Saphael.”  “Freya.”

I’m a whore.  I’m a virgin.  I’m a mystic.  I’m a jack of all trades.  A mile wide, inch deep Washingtonian.

The angels let me in on a little secret: they’re envious of us.  So are the gods.

One perfect life is what immortals crave.  Innocence.  The chance for a good ending.  Our lives are like Hollywood movies to them.  They indulge in our culture, from Michael loving Ryan Reynolds and mixing up superheroes or rapping Hamilton to Samael indulging in horror flicks, Harold and Maude, and postwar German cinema.

They like to read a lot.  They like k-pop.  God forbid Loki ever makes you watch his Marvel movies.  That’s a trip.

Humans lives are a love letter to the stars.  Aliens lives are spent in our service, and they dream of us, exist for us, have been with us since time immemorial.  They’ve fought wars over us.  They’ve died for us.  Stolen fire from the Heavenly Throne from us.  I remember that most clearly, my Fall.  And now I am nothing but a girl.  I always die young.

Halfway between Satan’s Eve and Michael’s Joan of Arc.  My spiritual metaphors.

Halfway between Aslaug and Malusha the Prophetess, my ancestresses great and bold.

Aliens are old news to me.  Being one is old news.

But each of us have pieces of angels in us, pieces of the gods, pieces of the spirits, and all of us are, in fact, aliens.

Don’t be afraid of invasions or abductions.

It’s pretty cool inside of a spaceship, and Michelangelo has made some pretty beautiful sculptures in the higher realms.  There’s even beer and wine and French Onion Soup there.

Aliens love our inventiveness.  Curiosity and love are our greatest virtues.

We love their majesty, their divine guidance, their glory.  Also, they’re pretty hot.

Just remember, 42.  And bring a towel.

 

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.