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Blade Maiden Sep 2018
The wolves are hungry tonight
and so is she
her heart does know no fright
with her pack she longs to be

Under the bloodmoon
see her limbs grow
her feral body is to swoon
turning wolf into lady from head to toe

Her brothers and sisters sharp teethed
running with the winds of winter
in this cold and star-bright night they will feast
blood smearings in the snow look just like cinder

Hear her song howling through the air
all ice melts underneath her fiery feet
as they catch and bite and tear
lucky ones see her eyes before their demise they meet

'Tis the night of the hunt
benighted men will not run
shouting "Begone! Animal! ****!"
happily she devours them, flayed bodies in the morning sun

She's always lurking, lusting for your smell
Dripping wet her mouth with the juice of life
no one lived for the story to tell
of the wolf woman, dark wood's feral wife
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...
Every tree has its time;
Every tree, with its every root, has its rings,
Treasures kept in the stories they tell,
History written on its paper leaves.

Kind branches reach around me,
Breathing my breath,
Kissing my lungs from within,
With food for fire;
Its greenery grows,
Seconds gathering layers,
Becoming minutes,
And months, and eons;
Twigs become branches,
Become trunks.

The tree is bending slowly over the ages,
To the will of the winds, so swift and passing;
The roots are weaving through the soil,
Searching for moisture beneath the earth,
Digging deep past the soft sand to the stone below,
Laying its blankets on the bedrock.

It makes no sound,
But breathes nonetheless;
Children climb its branches,
Overwhelmed by the mystery,
That something so big,
Came from something so small,
That something so deep could reach so tall;
With hands in the homes of the bird and the worm,
They are the stitches holding the earth and sky.
Samuel Stair Feb 2016
I can never properly remember the name of the sculptor.
But can recall the letters in his name.
J, E. Two of many.
I was already impressed.

Walking into the courtyard.
It was overcast, and the rain
had just ceased. But begun had,
the snow to fall.

First snow of winter and
no wind, yet still,
I was hit in the eyes by a
wind that carried the words of
a pagan truth. Crystal, cold, scripture.

A crystal wind, that filled
my eye sockets. My eyes
cloudy gemstones. Suspended
in a water-ice skull.

Ó and I. Perhaps an Í.
Perhaps an eye. Eye for an I.
High (pause)
on (breath)
the feeling of wet snow on
my back. Osmotic allegory.
The melting ice diluting
opaque shawl worn around the
      a soul membrane
      tied to the place of now and tree bark,
with a Tale of Thor. Unspoken.

Fate. Hope. Faith.
Sun and Moon.
Light and Shadow.
The names of my brothers
in the graveyard.
From behind their wet headstones
grew a fur that was unpleasant to touch
at first. Too damp to be so coarse.
Too sad to be so soft.

“Who do you belong to?”
“Why carry such sorrow, of aeons and countless winters?”

Reply: “meow. A, S, N, R.”
Somewhere lay a double letter.

How many times had this cat been here?
One winter per age?
Per lifetime?
Nine times?
Had I been truly so lucky?

Was this cat God?
A god?
The God?
Which god?
Snow-, Rain-, Tree-, Stone-God?

Pat. (pause)
Blink, slowly. (breath)
The snowflake -
      too wet to be cotton.
      rather, glacial salt.
      pass the salt please.
      Odin? The salt please.
      I know who you are.
      That look has no power here,
      in your graveyard I hold the
      power of things unspoken.
      Those words your stone face,
      marble bicep, and rotting organs
      want to hear for their vindication
      lie in my mouth and I
      shall hold them until I’m
hit my nose and my head
splits. Eyes dissolve into mist.
Nose bursts. ******. “Yes!”
A waterfall of seven thousand thawing rivers
floods from my open mouth, the foss from
my eyes. The graveyard fills.
The cat drowns.
The moment is over.
The snow stops.
The stone brothers look back at me.
“Now you know.”
“Now you understand.”
“The farce of life, and the truth of death.
Wait, and open yourself only to
time and place and this moment
in the sculpture garden of infinite winters
in each direction.”
The only truth is a snowflake,
melting on their -
      we don’t know who they are.
      neither will you.
skin, and the aroma of droplets, sitting
weightless on the oils of a pine in February.

The name is known for now.
Snow-God with Stone-Face and the body of a cat called Time.
If naught view of grey cloud or vestigial granite in snow, then
listen for the purr of breath’s steam on a winter noon and remember.

— The End —