Friday, January 24, 2014


In her cat-drawn-chariot she rides,
one of Woden's several goddess brides.
The Valkyrie Freya, feline queen
of cats and fairies. Allfather, god supreme
of they the Norsemen, they the oarsmen,
of the Vikings, Woden of the raven,
tears of fairy-gold she shall weep
when you are gone; into final sleep?

As a rock 'n' roller
his voice he'd pitch.
Took the damned name
of a long-ago witch.

Held ever in his hand
a can of Budweiser.
An alcoholic Cooper.
Now bud, he's wiser.

Trials with trolls
and long trails of travel
brought the warlock
to the lowly crone's hovel.
A broth came to the boil.
A bowl of it he was fed.
Then the weary warlock
she showed where to bed.
He dreampt of a white-witch
who was young like he,
and when he'd awoken,
naked there stood she.
Offspring of the crone,
so she revealed to he,
along with her fine figure
in its total nudity.
But the crone's gown lay
raven-black on the floor.
Who posed as the daughter
was the crone, for damn sure.
"I know who you are.
You're not what you seem."
And then the crone awoke.
The warlock but a dream.

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