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Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
Pythogorean sorts:
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains. 
Ah, now, now

There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
to lashout
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
in this
only race that counts,

first and only, no second place in this race
to pass
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.

All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into

Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.

Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg

and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?

Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,

slow and steady sets the pace,


up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,

pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
complex knot
lock meet for me, the key

in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.

From <>
Shorter breaths, longer steps
Bragi Sep 2018
Like a hammer that’s too short.
Like a wall that feels lacking.
Like a land of giants, vanished.
Like a god among gods who aren’t your own.
Perfect in an imperfect world or

imperfect in a perfect world;
your imperfection shown.

Yggdrasil overgrown and all the options leave you empty.
At first nine worlds seem plenty
but soon you hope for twenty,
finding no treasures tempting.
Your desires in the waters 

of three holy wells reflecting
a thing that seems calm and collected:
an ending to the ending;
soft but not,

like a pillow made of rock,
you rest your head upon
the thought of Ragnarök.
Birdcaller May 2018
Once upon a frozen land,
pity weigt upon your soul.
You saw it fit to take me, then,
and offer me a home.

Seems I was never in the right,
though He was never wrong --
what fool was I to never question
where I, true, belonged.

Years drifted past us quietly,
dripped from both our hands,
but you had always known the truth
despite your careful dance.

Now that I've seen your clever ruse,
and I, your son no more..
Ragnarok, one day, shall come --
your crimes, you'll answer for.
[ based in the mcu. ]
lynnia hans Aug 2017
my fiery and forgiving god of mischievous delight and pranks
who holds me in his loving embrace to shield me from harm
guide me and protect me from the stabbing swords that have fell on me cutting, slicing and gashing into me to cry in anguish and pain
love me and be tender to me like a gentle, caring lover that will never betray me, pray to you my ever loving handsome god, loki, may the valkyries bless me as well and guard me as well as loki's children keep me from danger
Joe C May 2016

Shield-Maiden, Lover

Sister, Mother

Enkindle within us the fire of love

Embraces owing

Life unfolding

Blessings upon the fiery hearth
Tears above

Love below: relieve our toil

Darkness ebbing

Rhyme unending
Listen to my bold tale!


Red hair flowing

Sunlight growing

Rising upon the hill
song of springtime

Complete our bold rhyme

Hear now my tale!

Set out into the dark forest with newly picked flowers from hearth, grasped within a meager coat.

Flowers clutched in bare hands were protected against her chest from the cold wind which blew so insistent.  

Not far from the village when she met a woman on the road.

"A penny for your thought? A purpose for your soul?”

“I do not think so.”  

Mysterious crones on a lonely road.

“Perhaps mittens to keep an old woman’s hands warm?” scratched the voice of the Crone.

She who wished to be on her way produced one flower from her coat,  

“May the thorns keep your hand warm as they do mine.”

Fresh blood dripping from the open wound,
the Crone graciously accepted the rose.

“For this trouble” she said “I will return a favor of my choosing...for you did not give me what I asked... I give a warning. You may not know of such things, but on this night in these hills is a crone not unlike me. When she asks a favor of someone, and they do not give it to her...she takes them, then buries them in her garden to make the spring come faster. She always asks for that which cannot be given. The snow cover and the full moon coming will sneak night upon you. Wherever you are heading you must stay the night. For if you travel back you will surely lose your way, and find yourself food for the flowers.”

She who had been taught to be polite even to witches replied, "Thank you for your gift.”

She headed on her way not believing a word of what the old Crone said.

But Loki's dread loom was woven with defeat for the God's, who would keep us safe from evil, guard from death 'till the end of days was determined.

I say for us all in this song of god's that after light had dropped, the first of the frost did melt...
Evelyn Culwch Jan 2016
O husband, behold the marks that mar your handsome face!
The angry red where poison left its sting,
Where my arms trembled.
Where I failed to save you,
If ever you were mine to save.

O husband, remember when your eyes first met mine!
We were so young,
When we married beneath the world tree.
When we danced among cowslips and primroses,
Like life would always be dancing.

O husband, think fondly on the first child!
Meant to be a great warrior,
Born as night broke into dawn.
Born a prince who would never be king,
By no fault of his own doing.

O husband, think too on the second son!
The magician and scholar,
Gentle in thought and action.
Gentle in word and deed,
That innocent youth.

O husband, cry for that betrayal!
The punishment passed down
By highest authority and greatest king.
By queen who shared my lineage,
Who in punishing you punished us all.

O husband, forgive my tears!
Those that drip down my face,
Landing on our dirtied robes.
Landing on your ashen skin,
As cooling as the poison is hot.

O husband, my strength grows weak!
She the always faithful,
My arms burn with the weight of two small corpses.
My arms sing with the agony of venom,
Fingers trembling where they grasp the golden bowl.

But O husband, I shall never leave!
Faith unwavering I sit by the eternal flame,
My husband the Silvertongue whose voice has long gone out.
My husband the Sky Traveler, who now lays bound to the earth,
I shall hold the bowl unto eternity.

O husband, behold the marks that mar that handsome face!
The angry red where poison left its sting,
Where it is soothed by the tears from mine own cheeks.
Where I failed to save you,
If ever you were mine to save.
Dornish Bastard May 2015
When you take everything from a man
And his trust has been betrayed,
That man cannot be trusted
But you can trust his rage.

That man will stop at nothing.
He'll be ready to take the fall.
In his rage, he will seek vengeance,
And he will want it all.
Inspired by Loki from Thor: The Dark World.
who does not aid you
to be the Character you are
only helps to water you down-
to sell you out to their world.

Moreover, anyone
who discourages you
from being your Character
isn't worthy of your attention;
they are an enemy of your creative potential,
that is to say that they are destructive
to the you that would be;
the you that could be-
perhaps should be.

Be a Freak.
Break social rules.
Defy expectations.
Play the Fool
and own it, too,
lest the Fool own you.

What has the Fool taught you?
Have you been willing to learn?
Have you the capacity to teach?

Wouldst thou follow
Hermes, or Loki? Mercury? Thoth?
Or would they follow you?

*We need more Characters.
Fear not Card #0.


— The End —