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.

Advertisements

Apples and Hearts

The apple falls, and Newton thinks, thus
is gravity love, love, the tender organ
that bound the spear to Jesus Christ’s
Immaculate Heart – when the Eucharistic
Mysteries turn bread and wine to blood
and cardiac flesh, and Eve ate no apple,
but the flesh of God, and wore His skin.
The rays of Divine Mercy are heady tonight,
like the Aurora Borealis, they remind me
of the Great Northern Lights because Jesus
is freshly fallen snow in an apple orchard.
Hearts are apples, apples are hearts, and
apple pie the Pilgrims ate, breaking bread
with those they called savages, and yet the
Cherokee and Lenape and Powhatan and Cree
were more enlightened for they walked in
the garden of gardens, great wilderness of
the Puritan’s Shining City on a Hill, and at
William and Mary, the Indian School cut off
their hair and abducted the children, and the
ghost boys still run across the Sunken Gardens,
suspended three feet in the air, the boy runs
screaming for his lost parents until his feet
are bone and all the apple trees are bare and
he hungers for some sort of justice, but God
is not about justice, God is about letting the
Land of Nod swallow nonbelievers and faithless,
or those of other faiths, and the Indian Boy
died under a wicked apple tree, and there are
gardens in Heaven of the dead, and my ancestors
and ancestresses were once like him, converted
by Charlemagne’s sword, yet my forefather Saint
Olaf was a bloodthirsty mongrel of crazy Yngling
stock, I have Odin’s mad frenzy and Saint Vladimir
the Great to claim as great-great-grandfathers, for
my progenitor Ragnar died in a pit of asps laughing,
and Vikings were just as bloody as the British
colonizing with smallpox blankets, raping and
pillaging, and mine is a cursed orchard, and mine
is blood of rotten apple wine, rancid hard cider,
gather the white blossoms of the crab apple tree
and tell me, no fruit grows in the land of the dead.

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.

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.

Epigraph of the Wanderer

Inked on my hand in charcoal swaying
is the Ancient Wanderer, silent hang
from a yew that bends with sweet sap.

His one good eye a forgotten breeze,
his hands like tines raking the dirt,
searching past waterfalls for language.

There is a lightning swastika sun,
an emblem once holy, now cursed,
his corpse is blood-drunk but holy.

Blindi can see with more than nerves,
for his bones are in the web of wyrd,
now a Runic rock carving on my skin.

Allie’s Lokasenna for Dummies, Part 1:

Odin: “You womanly man, remember when you spent years underground as a milkmaid, Loki!”

Loki: “Well high and mighty Alfather, at least I didn’t crossdress as a sorceress and travel the world as a woman!”

Frigga: “Can we all PLEASE forget about your homoerotic drunken youth, guys? We’re at a fancy feast…”

Odin and Loki: “NO!”

– Allie’s Lokasenna for Dummies