Poetry written by, and for followers of the Northern traditions, and Gods.
Let us dance
in the sacred
sky's fire-light,
celebrate Sol's shine!
The bouncing
ball's beautiful
bounties, blessing
by holy beauty.
Hail the sun,
the divine peak,
achieving it's
sacred zenith.
A blessed day
indeed, enjoy the
gifts of our Sol,
and holy, holy Gods.
Sacrilege,
sacred-space,
soul-sanctum,
struck down.
A holy,
hallowed
wood, cut
before holy Gods.
Revenge
was swift,
but debt
not paid.
Few Folk should
find forgiveness
for foul assaults,
fiends to our folkway.
Midgard's
middle-man
to many
mysteries
Tarnished by
treasonous
traitors to
the Thunderer
Curse the
coward called
Boniface, certainly
Nástrǫnd calls.
Forget the world
thrust upon you
For the wicked world
teaches you none.
Holy, holy gods
live on in
spite of such
Soul-Sickness.
They can hear
if you hail
and treat
them with honor.
Even in the
decadent
Demon-Age,
They can hear.
Mosiac-men
made up of
many pieces,
carry much.
Each piece,
a person of
blood parentage,
an honor to carry.
Pieces of great
size, beauty,
and name
honor the picture.
Each piece
with history,
Each piece
with wisdom.
Mosiac-men
know their
worth, and
great power.
Wandering alone along
the holy path,
many mysteries
illuminating the way.
Few travelers have
the courage to
walk these mighty,
treacherous hills.
Such men claim
to know the path
better than others,
but are misled.
Thousands of
con-men line the
road, offering an
easier trip.
But the grand
rewards, earned
along the way
will be all the less.
If one takes
the correct road,
it will lead
to a sacred place.
Where the Gods
dwell, and one
will have
appreciated the journey.
“Oh Wisdom-Granter,
deliver us
Sons and Daughters
of Ask and Embla
From our own corruption,
corrupted in spite
of the many gifts
sent by the Gods
Oh Wisdom-Granter,
why is it we
decay in the absence
of those holy, holy gods?
Men may think
we know better
than the Gods,
and Men will pay for it.
Oh Spear-Master,
will your spear land
on the side of the just,
or on the side of the soulless?
Will those of holy, holy gods
be destined to win
in the dark times
of this current age?
Oh Flaming-Eyed,
do you rage
at all the children of Heimdallr,
or just our enemy?
For we have stood by
such sick decay
with our knowledge
of Allfather’s truth.
Oh Poetry-God,
do you hear
when we call
in your divine method?
Or do our cries
fall upon deaf ears
as though we are
forsaken and damned.”
Poetry for the Gods 