#nordic
...I keep thinking, and planning.
I'm laying out the schematics,
for my diagrams,
and my plans, of attack.
If I build a ladder, to Helheim
can I take you right back?
If I come down, the rungs,
will you race me back,
to the light?
...My love for you, rides.
Bound, for war,
on a horse,
through the storm,
at your side.
... and my love for you,
it roars.
With a force,
that endures:
it's the surf,
on the shores.
If I'm your curse, I'm your cure.
my love for you,
is ferocious...
but you should know,
that it's pure.
A Vikingr, born...
I'm not level.
and I'm not gentle.
But I'll pray, at your cairn
and sacrifice, to your temple.
If you crave love,
like its rain,
then, my dear, I will shower you.
But I will chase you, like Fenrir...
and if we come,
to Ragnarok,
I promise not,
to stop,
until I've devoured you.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 11:05 PM UTC
Part I: The Prequel - Genesis of the Cosmic Mirth
Where the Bifröst’s bright colors were running too fast,
And the echoes of Odin’s great laughter were cast,
A new god was born in a shimmer of light,
To bring structured joy to the long winter night.
He was Jólnir-Klaus, with a beard like the snow,
And a coat woven bright where the Auroras glow.
His staff was a stalk of the mushroom so grand,
The red-spotted magic that blooms in the land.
He was Structured Joy, with a twinkle and plan,
The benevolent trip for the soul of the man.
His reindeer were clouds of bright, vaporous smoke,
And his sleigh was a vessel for one cosmic joke.
But from Niflheim’s corners, where shadows are spun,
And reality’s rules are ignored, one by one,
Came a creature of chaos, a trickster of glee,
The offspring of Garmr, the hound of the free.
He was Giggle-Garm, with a coat that would shift,
From the blue of a bruise to the gold of a gift.
His hooves left a trail of bright, shimmering runes,
And he danced to the tune of the lunatic moons.
His Iron Chains were not forged of the steel,
But of pure, uncontrollable laughter you feel,
A sound that would bind you, a dizzying spell,
The Chaotic Mirth from the deepest, dark well.
They met on the peak of the world, in the haze,
Of a thousand impossible, shimmering days.
They shared the first Yule-Trip, a vision so deep,
They flew through the worlds while the mortals did sleep.
They painted the sky with the hues of the mad,
And invented the concept of presents they had.
"Let's give them the joy that is perfectly planned,"
Said Klaus, with a list in his perfectly gloved hand.
"No, let's give them nonsense! A fish that can sing!
A key to a door that means nothing!" Garm would swing.
And the First Pact was sealed with a shared, hearty roar,
To bring joy and confusion to mortals evermore.
Part II: The Schism - The Split of the Joke
But the nature of joy is a tricky affair,
And the need for a system hung heavy in air.
Klaus grew obsessed with the chimney and list,
The perfect delivery that could not be missed.
He polished his sleigh and he timed every flight,
To bring Mirthful Order to every dark night.
"The Mirth must be delivered with structure," he cried,
"Or the beautiful feeling will simply subside!"
But Garm saw the structure as prison and cage,
A terrible blot on the cosmic, bright page.
He yearned for the days of the glorious spill,
The joy that could shatter a mortal’s free will.
"Your structure is poison! Your list is a lie!
The chaos is truth that is written on high!
The Mirth must be unbound!" the Hound did declare,
"Let the dizzying nonsense hang heavy in air!"
Then Garm played the prank that would shatter the bond,
The ultimate joke that the two worlds beyond
Had never conceived in their wildest of dreams:
He turned Klaus’s sleigh into shimmering seams
Of a Sentient Gingerbread House, soft and sweet,
With frosting that whispered of glorious defeat.
He swapped out the list for a scroll of bright lies,
And turned the whole journey to pure, mad surprise.
Klaus, though he chuckled, saw danger in this,
The chaos that threatened the Yule-Night’s soft kiss.
He tried to impose a Rune of Logic so neat,
And wove it in threads of a bright candy treat.
"This will bind your wild spirit, dear brother," he said,
"And keep the sweet chaos inside of your head."
But Garm snapped the cane with a giggle and sneer,
"You try to cage laughter? You try to cage fear?
Then let the great battle begin, I proclaim!
The Split of the Joke is the end of the game!"
Part III: The Battle - The Yule-Trip War
The battle was set in the Hall of Pure Mirth,
A place where the laws of the heavens and earth
Were melted like wax, where the clocks dripped and ran,
And the floor was a trampoline, bouncy and grand.
Klaus stood on the ceiling, his staff held on high,
A beacon of red 'gainst the lavender sky.
He raised the Mushroom-Staff, and with a great shout,
He summoned a blizzard of rainbow snow out.
It sang in a thousand bright, dissonant tones,
And rained down on Garm, who was gnawing on stones.
Klaus hurled a great wave of Structured Glamour and might,
Perfectly wrapped presents that burst into light,
Releasing benevolent, dizzying visions,
Of logic and love and precise, sweet decisions.
But Garm was a master of Chaotic Intensity,
He met the bright gifts with a dizzying density.
He lashed out his Chains of Giggles so fast,
A sound that made the bright firmament crack and not last.
The laughter was physical, sharp as a knife,
It threatened to sever the thread of all life.
He turned Klaus’s beard to a flock of bright birds,
That chirped out the most nonsensical words.
Klaus, laughing, turned Garm’s chains to a bright,
Spinning carousel, bathed in pure, golden light.
Garm turned Klaus’s sleigh to a two-dimensional print,
A flat, cardboard cutout without any hint
Of the depth or the magic it held in its core,
And the battle raged on, with a mirthful, loud roar.
The final attack was a dizzying rush,
A close-quarters combat, a scramble, a crush.
Klaus tried to pin Garm with a blanket of stars,
Garm met him with pure, unadulterated guffaws.
The nine worlds began to wobble and sway,
As the Tickle-Fight threatened to end the bright day.
Part IV: The Resolution and Epilogue
Then, in a moment of pure, shared delight,
They both tumbled down from the ceiling of light.
They lay on the trampoline floor, side by side,
And the laughter that bound them could no longer hide.
The battle was over, the weapons all gone,
The greatest of jokes had been played and then drawn.
"You are too much of structure," Garm gasped with a tear,
"And you are too much of the chaos, my dear!"
Klaus wiped a bright tear from his eye, red and grand,
"The battle was perfect, the best in the land!"
And so they agreed to the Final Great Truce,
A pact that the two would forever produce
The joy of the Yule-Night, in two different ways:
Klaus gets the structure, the chimneys, the praise,
The gifts that are needed, the lists that are true,
But Garm gets the "after-party," wild and new.
He follows the sleigh, with his giggling sound,
To ensure that the joy is delightfully unbound.
They rose from the floor, with a wink and a nod,
The two sides of mirth, the two faces of God.
They shared a great cup of the spiced, glowing mead,
And planned the next year’s impossible deed.
The cycle continues, the Eternal Great Joke,
The light and the chaos, the words that are spoke.
The sleigh is a cloud, and the hound is a friend,
And the psychedelic Yule-Trip will never quite end.
The Mirth is the measure, the chaos the key,
And the two Norse-born brothers fly wild and free.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 10:54 AM UTC
I. The Frost-Born Origins
In the yawning halls of Yggdrasil’s dream,
Where roots drink fire and branches gleam,
Two spirits stirred in the northern mist—
One of laughter, one of fist.
Klaus, the red-robed wanderer bold,
Forged from Odin’s breath and Freyja’s gold,
His sleigh a ship of starlit runes,
His bells the echo of cosmic tunes.
Krampus, horned from Hel’s own sigh,
A beast of shadow, a trickster’s eye,
He danced with Loki in caverns deep,
And woke the guilty from their sleep.
II. The Pact of Balance
Long they roamed the ninefold spheres,
Balancing joy with mortal fears.
Klaus bestowed gifts of mirth and cheer,
Krampus lashed those who lied insincere.
Together they were yin and flame,
Two sides of justice, one ancient name.
But mirth is a drug, a dazzling light,
And envy grew in the beast of night.
III. The Psychedelic Betrayal
On a night when the sky was a serpent’s tongue,
And the stars sang songs that had never been sung,
Krampus laughed with a manic grin,
And shattered the pact with chains of sin.
Colors bled from the northern sky,
Auroras screamed, the moon did cry.
Klaus, with eyes of ember bright,
Raised his staff against the night.
IV. The Cosmic Battle
Upon the rainbow bridge they fought,
Bifröst trembled, the gods distraught.
Klaus hurled gifts that burst like suns,
Krampus swung chains that sang like drums.
The air was thick with fractal flame,
The world itself forgot its name.
Children dreamed of candy skies,
While wolves laughed with emerald eyes.
V. The Hint of Mirth
Yet even as they clashed with might,
A strange delight adorned the fight.
For Klaus would wink, and Krampus grin,
Two rivals bound by ancient kin.
** beast!” cried Klaus, “your chains are loud!”
“Ha, saint!” roared Krampus, “your bells are proud!”
And in their mirth, the cosmos spun,
A carnival of frost begun.
VI. The Eternal Dance
Now each winter, the tale is told,
Of Klaus the bright and Krampus bold.
Not merely foes, but jesters twinned,
Two Norse-born spirits, chaos-skinned.
They battle, laugh, and weave the night,
A psychedelic storm of frost and light.
And mortals dream, both dread and cheer,
For Klaus and Krampus always near.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 10:52 AM UTC
In the swirling mists of Yggdrasil’s embrace,
Where time dissolves in a kaleidoscopic space,
Lived legends woven from threads of rune,
From frost’s whisper to fire’s tune.
From the cold, breath-hinted halls of the All-Father,
Odin’s wild spirit, a wanderer—further and further,
Brewed a dream in the mead of the gods’ desire,
A tale of two shadows, one spun of frost, one of fire.
From the Great Yggdrasil’s Branches
Santa Klaus, a jolly old soul,
With eyes that twinkle like a distant star’s goal,
His beard a cascade of midnight snow,
A vessel of laughter, of gift and glow.
He rode a sleigh of shimmering rune-wood,
Led by shimmering deer, divine and good,
His coat woven from the aurora’s thread,
His belly shaking with mirth and dread.
Born from Odin’s trickster’s grin,
A spirit that dances deep within,
He roams through dreams and cosmic haze,
A cheer-spreader through the labyrinth’s maze.
And from the shadows, twisted and grinning,
Krampus awoke—sinister, spinning,
Born in the gnarl of Norse myth’s core,
A beast of darkness, myth and more.
His horns like spiraled cosmic waves,
His eyes—mad galaxies, a blazing rave,
Claws dripping with nebula’s night,
A creature of chaos, grinning wide.
A Psychedelic Prequel
In a hallucinogenic whirl of fate,
They met beneath the astral gate,
Where visions flickered—stars and bones,
A surreal dance amidst Norse stones.
Santa’s laughter echoed a kaleidoscope tune,
Like bells that sang in a psychedelic monsoon,
He tossed a gift—an orb of light,
That flickered in the cosmic night.
Krampus cackled, a guttural roar,
Riding the winds of a rainbow’s core,
His chains chiming a dark lullaby,
A melody of mischief in a swirling sky.
They spun through realms of endless hue,
Where dreams and shadows both ran through,
A game of jest, a wild delight,
In the psychedelic Norse night.
The Spectral Confrontation
Suddenly, the universe swayed and spun,
As magic collided—chaos and fun,
Krampus leapt with a twisted grin,
His claws a tapestry of psychedelic spin.
Santa countered with a joyful cry,
A burst of colors, a rainbow’s eye,
Their clash became a cosmic dance,
A swirling whirl of chance and trance.
Chains of glittering stardust curled and spun,
While Santa’s staff cast a nebula run,
Laughing at worlds erupting in mirth,
A war of wits on the astral Earth.
Mirth and madness—side by side,
In a carnival of myth far and wide,
They battled with a psychedelic flair,
A spectacle of cosmic dare.
The Mirthful Resolution
In the end, amidst shimmering tears,
They shook the chaos—calmed their fears,
Krampus grinned, a grin so wide,
And Santa chuckled, swelling with pride.
For in their absurd, kaleidoscopic fight,
They found a truth—how dark and bright,
Are threads of the same Norse dream,
A cosmic joke, a mythic gleam.
So now they dance in the nebula’s glow,
In realms of wonder where visions flow,
Mirth and chaos, joy and fear,
Bound in the tales we hold so dear.
And in each winter’s psychedelic haze,
Their legend burns in mystical blaze,
A tale of fun, of myth, of lore—
Santa Klaus and Krampus, forevermore.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
He lives where no god dares linger—
the strip of bark between sky and root,
where truth and chaos trade whispers
no prayer can survive.
A streak of fur,
a flash of laughter,
a rebel-tail flicking at eternity.
He kneels to no throne,
bows to no rune,
fears no serpent,
and carries no banner
but his own pulse.
Up the trunk,
down the trunk,
he runs his outlaw orbit—
past the eagle’s cold wisdom,
past Nidhogg’s endless hunger,
unbothered by the wars
that crush the worlds he crosses.
He is not hero,
not villain,
not myth.
He is the only one
who owes Yggdrasil nothing.
The gods will fall.
The giants will fall.
The worlds will burn.
But he—
he will still be running,
tail high,
laughing through the smoke,
free long after heaven forgets its name.
And maybe freedom
was never in the halls of Asgard
or the depths of Hel—
maybe it lived all along
in the small, bright creature
who never asked for fate,
and never accepted chains.
Call him Ratatosk.
Call him chaos.
Call him truth on tiny claws.
But know this:
No god was ever as free
as the squirrel
who ran where he chose.
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC
Freya
Shield-Maiden, Lover
Sister, Mother
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!
Freya
Red hair flowing
Sunlight growing
Rising upon the hill
A song of springtime
Complete this bold rhyme
Hear now my tale!
Set out into the dark forest with newly picked flowers for the hearth, grasped within a meager coat. Clutched in bare hands and protected against her chest from the cold wind which blew so insistent. She was 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.
The girl who wished to be on her way produced one flower from her coat,
“May the thorns keep your hands 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.”
The girl who had been taught to be polite even to witches nodded and replied,
"Thank you for your gift.”
She headed on her way not believing a word of what the old Crone said.
Still this dread loom is woven with defeat. Even for the gods who would keep us safe from evil, and guard us from death 'till the end of days was determined.
I say for us all in this song that after light had dropped, the first of the frost did melt.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 8:31 PM UTC
the wind brushing the mountain tops
the waves crashing into land
the soil saturated with sweet raindrops
and now I finally understand
islands in the vast ocean
dressed in mysterious clouds
always alive, constant motion
and now I say it out loud
this place feels like home
my soul and mind belong
a nordic paradise in every chromosome
sound of nature, its theme song
forever i will be
longing to awake
on these islands of my dreams
a precious keepsake
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 3:50 PM UTC
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
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
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.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC