Terror steed.
He drinks from the well
where Mimir’s head
hoards the runes.

His avatars stand in forgotten corners.
I found one in a fragment of green
saved from the sprawl of the Great Wen;

his grey trunk was lightning-scarred,
yet bravely he held up his broken arms,
and under his root, bees were nesting.

Beset by serpents, nibbled by stags,
still he bears up the weight of the world.
Without his breath, the air we breathe

would choke, not nourish. Our lives hang
on his outspread arms, athirst for the sweet
inspiring ale which Bragi brews.

Wisdom’s words
lie in the well;
you must ride the terror-steed to read them,

but the price is high, and few will pay it,
though one eye sees more clearly than two
how when the ash shakes the earth trembles,

and terror-steed bears off the quick and the dead.

everyone doubted him
because of his attitude
his life is kinda dim.
they say he was rude
but with wisdom he was full
even Athena cannot rule
the way he talk's, it's like irony
even his jokes it's like poetry
he does not talk about love
not a typical Romeo in a plot
he was good at writing poems
he could possibly get Bragi's throne
his works are as white as doves
but nothings inside, his lines are blunt
he could not pierce a line in his audience
even the people around could not feel his presence
this words made him read more
and more and more poems
even Eddie and Bill
Maggie and May
in just, with a silver sky
up in the hill with a whistle
and his sweet spontaneous
he was drown into poetry
in love with rhythm and rhymes
writing and reading is not a crime
I hope his life wont end
both of us will still have a duet
he is a poet.

Waiting while the white ball spins
Hurry - I’ve got other stuff to do.
So many corrections yet to make.
Why didn’t I type more carefully
Rushing through some new ideas
Throwing words out like confetti
Only to be scattered by the wind
That never seems to take a break.

Watching while the ball still spins
Pounding mental fists on walls
That make the labor twice as hard
As Bragi promised it would be.
Breaking up what’s newly writ
And stomping on the pieces
That turn sharp and cut my metric feet
Which then bleed through my stockings.

The ball will never end its spins.
The buffering goes on and on.
I might as well go dig a grave
And bury all the honeyed words
And clever phrases I created,
Fighting iMac all the way.
Their use-by date was yesterday
And there’s no hope to salvage them.
The buffering has done me in.
ljm