On the interim between occasional series of invading inspiration, I offer a series of poems on the theme of Valhalla ,hanging on a single silver thread , minted in the South of Spain.
Valhalla stands out clearly and right now, rumbles of storms, emulating from the sleeping gods.
As they haunt the caverns dark of subordinate alchemist’s lair.
PoetrySoup.
The Best Valhalla Poems
Ragnarok: The Storm
With the end of days upon them
Nears the time of final battle
In the halls of high Valhalla
Asgard senses its death rattle
In the forest crows the rooster
In the sky the sun does darken
In the cave the hound is howling
To these signs the Aesir harken
Heimdall blows the Gjallarhorn
Dark the rainbow bridge is turning
Vivid lightning cleaves Yggdrasil
Then the central tree is burning
Aesir watch in fascination
See volcanoes spew like fountains
See the heavens splitting open
See the oceans climb the mountains
See the continents convulsing
See the forests burn to ashes
See the sons of Mim awaken
In the fatal lightning flashes
As the winds consume the wasteland
From the south Surtr advances
With his minions tearing corpses
Bright his sword and sharp his lances
Aesir then prepare their weapons
Eyes are clear and arms are steady
The Midgard serpent Jörmungandr
Upon the battle plain is ready
With his heavy hammer Mjolnir
Strides the mighty god of thunder
To do battle with the serpent
And to rend the world asunder
June 30, 2014
N.B. This poem is an Epyllion, a brief narrative poem with a romantic or mythological theme. It is written in trochaic tetrameter, like some of the ancient Eddas.
Glossary:
Ragnarök - Final battle and death of the Aesir
Aesir - The Norse gods
Asgard - one of the Nine Worlds and home of the Aesir
Valhalla - a majestic, enormous hall located in Asgard, ruled over by the chief Norse god Odin
Heimdall - A Norse god who blows his horn to signal the beginning of Ragnarök
Gjallarhorn - Heimdall’s horn
Midgard- Middle Earth, or the world of humans
Bifröst - the burning rainbow bridge between Midgard and Asgard
Yggdrasil - The sacred Norse central tree that holds the Nine Worlds
Mim - an Asian renowned for his knowledge and wisdom who has been beheaded. Odin carries around Mím’s preserved head and it recites secret knowledge and counsel to him.
Surtr- a fire troll with a flaming sword who sets the world on fire.
Jörmungandr- The world serpent or ouroboros that surrounds the earth and grasps his own tail. When he lets go, the world will end. Jörmungandr’s arch-enemy is the god Thor.
Thor - The Norse god of thunder
Mjolnir - Thor’s hammer and principal weapon
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2014
“The Ode To Olaf Olafson.”
By,
Michael .P. Clarke.
(Story Poem)
Alas son of the North
Your end is come
Olaf Olafson
Mighty Viking
To Valhalla soon to go
Child of Odin warrior strong
Your life is a wondrous song
Long it shall sing in memory
In this twilight of sorrow
Your people remember their Lord
In silence they await procession
All eyes upon the ground
Oh man of the North
The sadness lives this night
A final journey soon to begin
Your longship now awaits
A strong ship
It shall bear you into eternity
Mightiest warriors await you
The halls of glory sing your praise
Oh true Viking son
Your glory is known beyond the stars
On the last day your glory shown
Soon you sit in Odin’s halls
King Harold
In his majesty displayed
Standing on the jetty awaits
A sly smile upon his face
His greatest enemy now gone
Betrayal did kill Odin’s son
On foreign field of England
Olaf’s life song did end
A village lies silent
The North does cry its tears
The Valkyrie ride the sky
Their white flashing trails
They crash down upon the earth
Odin’s thunderous voice calls out from Valhalla
Come my son we await you
Suddenly all becomes still
The rain does stop
The lightning does cease
The thunder does speak no more
Just sorrowed silence
All await you oh son of the North
The preparations complete
Now take your final journey
Valhalla awaits
Silence in the lord’s hall
Tonight it lies dark and sombre
The hill on which it stands bleak
The doors open
Two men come forth with torches
The brazieres are beginning to be lit
The hall of Olaf does seem to come alive
Now the hill not so bleak
Oh son of the North
Lie still upon your wooden litter
Oh man of strength and power
Odin awaits you in the kingly halls
Now let your song end
It is time
All are ready for the final walk
Come to Valhalla
The night is cold in the North tonight
By the jetty a mighty longship moored
The fjord in darkness awaits a death ceremony
From Olaf’s hall on the hill a woman wails
Sorrow does permeate the Northern air
On the sigh of the breeze a hero is called
The ceremony of death shall soon begin
A Viking Lord shall sail into Valhalla
To Be Continued…
Copyright © Vladislav Raven | Year Posted 2018
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Rough Roads To Roam
The flames of the furnace (well-travelled by wind
slowly glazing the rags of gray women chagrined
at the sight of a hair fleeing tresses now thinned)
sometimes billow like waves flooding naves through the night,
when the lightning peeks in where the tension hangs tight
while the lanterns, alarmed, appear fulgent with fright.
Having lost both his hands, and now dancing for dimes,
Captain Hook haunts the alleyway’s rivers of rhymes,
sometimes singing or prancing to mimic the mimes
with white faces contorted to pillars of pain,
as the ringmaster murmurs “we’re all the insane”
and the inmates dunk donuts in droplets of rain.
With their hammers in hand, in their plum pinafores,
Satan’s soldiers of fortune wield powers of Thor’s
leaving blood on bent bodies, the tombstones of wars
lining highways and byways with manna and gold
for the mastermind movers, survivors consoled
with some pie in Valhalla (or so they’ve been told).
Above boulevards, battered with batches of bricks,
flys the Duchess of Dawdle on waxed candlesticks;
while she watches, debauches, her Gigolo tricks
as he talks (on their walks in the summer-day parks
where a parrot kneels praying, a parakeet barks)
’bout the buffed brazen beaks of the latter-day larks.
Hoary goblins glow gruesome, they leap from the loft
to the hard-hearted rues, shedding tears that they’ve quaffed
through the night of the dead as the clarinets coughed
and the keepers kept watch so that no one escaped
dingy dungeons where priests and their puppets hide caped
behind walls lined with tulips and justice hung draped.
In the Garden of Eaten, where apples once grew,
lie the bones, somewhat blanched, from the last barbecue
and the snakes strut like storks down a lost avenue
along tracks like the cracks on the mask of the moon
all alight with the shadows that seep down a dune
as the firefly crawls from a crimson cocoon.
Phantom trains travel tunnels (dispatched in all haste),
voiding tickets to nowhere, it seems such a waste
to see roadblocks with red lights at dead ends misplaced
at the base of the bowels of the bottomless pit
where reflections of life seem so damned counterfeit
from the back of the eyes of the blind hypocrite.
Lady cockroaches, camped in the Countesses’ beds,
are commanding crusaders to fit arrowheads
to the ends of burnt bridges suspended by threads
from frayed thongs of diminutive bald balladeers
taunting Cerby, the three-headed dog, serving beers
to the pagan disciples of bold puppeteers.
The oceans lay barren, the garbage dumps filling
with fracking and cracking and lead water spilling,
for milling and drilling are thrilling but killing
the birds and the beasts and the tea leaves, soon falling,
yet gurus roast chestnuts but can’t heed their calling
while mauling and crawling on knees while they’re brawling.
Unshorn sheep in the meadow are led to the bay
to be brainwashed and fleeced, trusting donkeys that bray
of the virtues of demons that haunt yesterday,
while the vultures deflower the turtle dove lanes
where the blood trickles up and the cruel crimson stains
Easter eggshells and feathers – that’s all that remains.
One eyed bees pilot lines through electrical storms
and blind hornets hum hymns when they’re swirling in swarms
while the rest are repressed as the blue marble warms
(regent Queens losing sight that the end has begun)
and for eyes of the ewes, veils of wool have been spun
and the wasps fly their flags from the butt of a gun.
Seven trumpets (attempting to echo the horns
of the Siamese goats and the three Unicorns
giving birth to the mirth in the temple of thorns)
sound the bugles of sorrow inside of the sea
of crazed lies of the wormwood afloat like a pea
in a pod of dark dolphins that can’t disagree.
Often bellowed by barkers, to crowds with no faces,
are words (in their aftermath, leaving no traces)
of picnics and parties in limbo-like places
on paths to perdition where pundits are preaching
and sirens belch bullets while pirates prowl, breaching
the shadow’s barbed branches, with whistles blown, screeching.
They’re dissecting dissenters that dare to annoy
and then trample with jackboots sent in to destroy,
until taming the toes of the last Gypsy boy
who gets caught in the craw of their cold catacomb
with no rescue by running nor staying at home,
and no freedom to breathe, only rough roads to roam.
Copyright © Terry O’Leary | Year Posted 2016
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A Meeting of Minds
In the silence
of this crystal night
shimmering,
entombed in light,
we’ll tippy toe on the stars
Moving in a universe
the tips of our fingers
write poems in stardust
as we shift
the dust of time
being graced in part,
a poets Valhalla
Fishing in the black holes
pulling the next dimension
through, meeting minds
from the center of the think
they ripple with the solar winds
ghosts of the eternal flame
Lavender light shaves the moon
sheets of light trickle in mirrors
imagination is reborn
again
and again
Copyright © Jayne Eggins | Year Posted 2014
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Norse Mythology, Return Of The Slayer Of Dragons
Norse Mythology, Return Of The Slayer Of Dragons
( Part One, Darkness Arrives)
I - (THE PLEA)
Slayer of weak beasts, ravager of torn breasts
Darkness from East, dragons its armored crests
What hero dares to slay this foul evil
What man may dispatch this tool of the devil?
Hell’s fires doth burn hot from its massive jaws
Innocent red blood drips from its sharp claws
Hero, bring thy brave heart - courage made of steel
Hope’s faith, all it begets in thy iron will.
Shall Valhalla send relief - heroic hands
Salvation from great beast in weakened lands
Doth not their sad cries reach their merciful gods
Can avenging warriors smite with lightning rods?
Hero! Bring thy sword and armor with dire haste
For this foul creature, such dear lives now wastes
Blessings on thy travels to their burnt cities
For they languish so sad in their deep pities!
(Part Two, Odin Sends A Hero)
II. - (THE ARRIVAL)
From dark skies, ball of fire downward fell
From Asgard’s vault, landed he in their hell
From Thor’s loins this invincible form was sown
In armored flesh, power never before known
Sword fired from Asgard’s own best armor makers
With Thor’s own hammer, still an earth shaker
Standing eighteen foot from head to his bare feet
Thor’s new warrior anything but sickly sweet.
With blue eyes and a mind keen as dawn’s new lights
Courage born from his father’s greatest fights
Seeing desolation, far as eye could see
He had been summoned down to set this world free
With sword and hammer obeying Odin’s decree
Wings formed by Loki, flew he to the sea
Found, huge tracks of massive, marauding black beast
Blood all about, stripped bones from its bloody feast!
( Part Three, Slayer Finds The Beast)
III - (The Battle)
Far off, clouds of smoke reveal the beast at play
Slayer knew battle coming, he knelt to pray
With words sincere, he asked for Odin’s favor
Strength to beast destroy, victory to savor.
As Valhalla’s sign sky-fire, showed brightly clear
Slayer arrived, to conquer dragon with no fear
Beast saw Slayer in armor and keen to fight
Charged forth with fire and all its massive might
Slayer stepped quick and sent spear into its side
A mere nick to sting and burn its fierce pride.
Angry beast turned and blew fire upon empty stone
Slayer plunged sword hilt deep, hitting dragon bone
One mighty leap on its huge scaly back
Its vulnerable neck he began to hack.
Beast fast rolled left throwing slayer right off
Spoke of Slayer’s death with arrogant scoff.
Slayer laughed out loud and gave a big smile
Said, beast you shall die in just a little while
With that said, Thor’s invincible hammer he threw
Dragon received true justice so long overdue!
( Part Four, Slayer Returns Victorious)
IV- (Fame, Feasts And Rewards)
Death had by Slayer’s right hand found its place
Slayer relaxed and sighed, with smile on his face
With one stroke he cut of mighty dragon’s head
A hero’s final act to prove it truly dead.
Victory won, back to Valhalla’s great hall
Glory found, for answering Odin’s call
Feast of honor as never had they before
Slayer’s name sung on Valhalla’s every shore
Odin gave Slayer castles of solid gold
Commanding his tale to forever be told!
5-04-2017
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017
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The Valkyrie
In days of yore, when Vikings vigorously reigned
Beauty of the Valkyrie, vixen of intoxicating dreams
The maidens chose a paladin who departed and gained
entrance into Valhalla, they were Odin’s esteemed
Beauty of the Valkyrie, vixen of intoxicating dreams
Goddess to serve her warrior - immortally embraced
Entrance into Valhalla, they were Odin’s esteemed
Under her soft touch, favored men - tenderly placed
Beauty of the Valkyrie, vixen of intoxicating dreams
The maidens chose a paladin who departed and gained
Goddess to serve her warrior - immortally embraced
In days of yore, when Vikings vigorously reigned.
Amy Green
Epic motif
Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2010
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Love Letter II
Dear Thor, I think we both agree,
I punched above my weight,
You’re a hot Norse god - and me?
A checkout girl from Yate.
My mates stood, gaping, gormless,
When I said you were my guy,
See, that hammer’s SO enormous…
Such a help for DIY!
But as for who you’re friendly with,
Well. Take that trickster Loki,
Alone with me, you’re sensitive!
With him, you’re just so BLOKEY!
And when you dressed up as a chick,
To steal Mjölnir from Thrym…
Your hairy legs, those frilly knicks -
I can’t unsee that. Grim.
And down the pub, the weekly quiz -
You’re just not up to scratch!
(Plus, you think that foreplay is
A doubles tennis match.)
So. Here’s the thing. I met your dad,
The one-eyed war god Odin,
Now there’s a man! So strong! So bad!
My girl-bits were exploding!
He’s also God of poetry,
His flow’s too hot to handle!
And Valhalla could be home for me -
It just needs drapes and candles!
So, sorry that you had to hear
this from a talking raven:
It’s over. Odin waved his spear,
And now it’s HIM I’m craving!
1st April 2018
For Love Letter II Contest sponsored by Viv Wigley
Copyright © Nina Parmenter | Year Posted 2018
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The Ode To Olaf Olafson - For Anne-Lise
“The Ode To Olaf Olafson.”
By,
Michael P Clarke.
(Story Poem.)
The night is cold in the North tonight
By the jetty a mighty long ship moored
The Fjord in darkness awaits ceremony
From the Lord’s hall on the hill a woman wails
Sorrow does seem to be in the air
On the sigh of the wind a hero is called
Ceremony of death shall soon begin
A Viking Lord shall sail to Valhalla
The hall door opens and light floods without
Men with torches walk down a pathway
Sure of foot these men of the North walk proud
Bjorn the bear he leads the procession torch in hand
His steely blue eyes looking straight before him
At the foot of the hill by the jetty people gather
They look upon the line of torches approaches
Once more the wail from the hall
Bjorn drops his eyes knowing the pain
His grief he must lock deep within himself
He must be as strong as his Lord’s Lady
She must be strong for her children and the people
She wails not for her Lord this night
A sister of the Lord shall do the mourning for all
Bjorn raises his eyes once more keeping them on the dragon
The long ship that shall carry his Lord to Valhallah
Now the body of the the Lord Olaf is carried from the hall
There is silence everywhere as the body comes down the hill
Eight mighty warriors carry their Lord on a large wooden litter
Indeed it is strewn with flowers what a wonderful scent
Behind the body came the Lady Marga and the three children
Then came the four sisters of Olaf
They were followed by more warriors holding torches
The procession walked silently down the hill…
(Fjords Dreams Series.)
To be continued…
Copyright © Vladislav Raven | Year Posted 2016
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Valor’s Silhouette
Friendship - we have chased that apparition, endlessly,
But it's elusive spirit - always beyond our fingers' reach.
Resentment, disappointment, heads thumped in anger,
Each of us in a role, obligatory - never had a chance ...
Oh, how I pleaded, many times, just to be your friend -
Tears perishing in the stream of lost hope between us.
It is what it is, we are who we are, oil and water, thus.
Still, you have always been my hero, there's no other,
The exemplar of character and integrity, innately kind,
Talented, brilliant, hard-working, and always altruistic,
Letting others, even friends, wittingly take advantage,
Rather than risk a slight or argument ... or alienation.
Goodness and decency were the edges of your sword,
A gallant knight, willing to lay his life for friend OR foe.
Yet now my heart rends so for you, my dearest father,
Armor rusting in the rain, sword blunted, halted steed.
And your faculties failing - that, the cruelest calamity …
But still, you push to stand tall for your beloved queen,
And your squire is here, true, fain to shine your armor,
'Til the bellman of Valhalla calls ... for it's most dear.
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017
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Blood Born
Raven eyed the moon glowered
in an anthracite sky
bleeding onto an India-ink stage
where Valkyrie’s pluck
dead heroes to Valhalla.
Wolf winds howl the ravished sight.
Rent storm with fang and claw.
Purge the all too monochrome plight
with the Bloody born.
Harken the twisted neck of owl
observer of raven eyed moon.
Mourn the passing of the faint of heart
for they’ve met their foreshadowed doom.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
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The Voyage
The tempest rages, tossing longboats high -
It’s better than a ‘straw death’ way to die.
But is the cause the writhing Midgard snake?
Are Aegir and his Maidens wide awake?
Is Aegir lurking, planning a surprise,
To clutch at us, with glee in his old eyes?
I scan for nixies, undines, and mermaids,
And hope we reach the land to savour raids.
Next, comes the singing of the Lorelei:
Ignore her voice if you don’t want to die!
As storms subside, just sea spray makes us wet.
Beware! Ran may be waiting with her net -
She’d hope to drag us down to her stronghold;
To buy our comfort there, we carry gold.
So on and on we sail ‘til we sight land,
As guided by the mighty Odin’s hand.
And there I’ll fight: a hero’s death for me.
Next stop Valhalla flown by Valkyr!
Copyright © jack horne | Year Posted 2011
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Viking Death Prayer
With raised sword and shield,
The Norseman yells to Odin
The Viking Death Prayer*
Lo, there do I see my father.
Lo, there do I see my mother,
My sisters and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people,
Back to the beginning.
Lo, they do call to me,
They bid me take my place among them
In the Halls of Valhalla,
Where the brave shall live forever,
Where thine enemies have been vanquished,
Nor shall we mourn but rejoice,
For those who have died
The glorious death.
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014
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Minnesota Vikings
When Thor’s mighty hammer sounds a thunderous call,
this football team is willing to do it all.
They are ready to plunder and pillage opposing teams.
The Vikings are reality, not merely dreams.
They have played well before the overwhelming cheers.
Success has come easily throughout their playing years.
When the Vikings defend the home field in Minnesota,
their vanquished adversaries are transported to Valhalla.
The offense is ready to score with an attack.
The defense holds the opponent’s offense back.
They answer the call by their chief god Odin.
A new season is here. Let the games begin.
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012
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Valhalla - Vikings’ Paradise : Mythology
In Asgard, kingdom of the mighty God Odin
A place awaits all battle fallen warrior heroes
It’s in Valhalla where there is endless feasting
And an ending of all griefs and sorrows
The Valkyries, Odin’s warrior daughters
Carry the fallen heroes from the battlefield
To Valhalla to join other fallen warriors
Where they are restored to life fully healed
Each day the warriors fight on Asgard’s plain
Their battle skills to sharpen and maintain
Every evening wounds and injuries they sustain
Are healed and each warrior made whole again
They dine on liquor and fresh cooked meat
That is always in great abundance for all
Providing a delicious gourmet treat
At Odin’s banquet in Valhalla’s dining hall
July 18, 2014
Addition:
Here is the poem which aroused my childhood interest in the Vikings, and to
which I referred in my reply to Shadow. I would like to share it with others.
It is “The Sea King’s Burial” by Charles Mackay. It recalls the days when a
Viking chief died and his body was placed in a boat. The vessel with full sail
set and a fire lighted, was then sent drifting out to sea. It is a long poem so I
am only quoting the first and last verses:
My strength is failing fast
(Said the sea-king to his men).
I shall never sail the seas
Like a conqueror again,
But while yet a drop remains
Of the life-blood in my veins
Raise, oh, raise me from my bed,
Put the crown upon my head,
Put my good sword in my hand,
And so lead me to the strand,
Where my ship at anchor rides
Steadily;
If I cannot end my life
In the crimsoned battle-strife
Let me die as I have lived,
On the sea.
…
Once alone a cry arose,
Half of anguish, half of pride,
As he sprang upon his feet,
With the flames on every side.
“I am coming! " said the king,
Where the swords and bucklers ring,
Where the warrior lives again,
Where the souls of mighty men
And the weary find repose,
And the red wine ever flows,
I am coming, great -All-Father,
Unto thee!
Unto Odin, unto Thor,
And the strong, true hearts of yore:
I am coming to Valhalla
O’er the sea.”
rampantscotland.com/poetry/b … eaking.htm
Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2014
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Grease Monkey
Grease Monkey Rainbows
by Odin Roark
How colorfully the reflective smears ignited the senses.
How sinuous the undulating slick remained forever permanent,
its unintentional abstracts made prescient.
Dank syrup of engines idle,
spilled upon aged concrete
where the mechanic beneath rusted warriors
drained yesterday’s tensile stress,
fresh loading tomorrow’s fluid to live.
How focused his oily footprints remain,
now aloft riding the escort of Valhalla,
gliding upon colors of other-world palettes,
yet remaining forever heroic,
forever indelible,
in a little boy’s perpetual memory.
Yesteryear’s ever present ether continues embracing,
bestowing a blinding courage for the senses to endure,
even as the buried vestige remains dark.
The smell revered.
The smooth touch esteemed.
The unbridled colors forever a reminder of love.
Diesel rainbows,
still rippling in this man-child’s quiet ebb.
Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015
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My Valhalla
The great expanse of the Mississippi
just outside a sleepy little ledge-locked
town in western Wisconsin called Maiden Rock,
is where we like to picnic in October.
Above the north/south railroad tracks at a spot
overlooking the river is our favorite picnic table.
A century old working well with an ancient iron, creeky
sledge-handle provides fresh water.
Freight trains constantly rumble past in both both
directions, frantically racing against the coming winter.
The river, 3-miles wide at this stretch, surges a steady
dominoes of whitecaps down the river.
White Pelicans, with their striking long yellow bills,
huddle in vast rafts of white, just off the current, resting
and feeding on small fish, their migration only
beginning.
Barges, heavy-laden, plow south, pushed by stout
baroque tugs. Behind us, straight-up, limestone
bare bluffs tower, Bald Eagles circling lazily
alongside.
Mom likes the local handmade cheddar-brats, grilled;
on sprouted 9-grain buns with ice-cold spring
water!
the brats are spittin’ sizzlin’ cheddar!
time to go!
10/25/14
Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2014
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Limerick croises: Once our 'Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne - 14
Limerick croises : Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne – 14
Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne
Sirens howled « panic stations » refrain
One Valhalla Rani
Offered her much money
For a shot sans mantilla – in vain
Our ‘Rita – you bet – a stunning beauty
Not given to falling for flattery
Was all of prime six feet
Which she tucked under meat
For Sevillan beds stood (on) two feet plus three !
So they put her up that night till Morgan
Classified her as subterfuge weapon
NSA roped her in
To put one o’er Putin
Now Chinese wish her to test rat poison !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013
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Limerick crochetes: Our great uhr-Father from Africa
Limerick cochetés: Our great uhr-Father from Africa
Our great uhr-Father from Africa
Hallowed be Thy fame in high Valhalla
The Asian walk-about
Down backbone coccyx snout
Who didst Thou mate in Peninsula Malaya
To produce orangutan Malaysia
Did our great uhr-cousin Gorilla
Chimpanzee when in doubt
Precede Thy walk-about
Swinging from tree to tree to Australia
To judge by great life in Southeast Asia
Smoke-filled lungs from HAZE in Sumatra
Death penalty for tout
With drugs- Hell for khalwat*
Is there doubt who preceded whom from Africa
• khalwat: (a Muslim – all Malays - religious law)
According to which, no Malay may marry a non-Muslim nor be found in close proximity giving rise to suspicion of promiscuousness, law enforceable by religious courts whose officials are empowered to spy on offenders and report their activities to the relevant authorities
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015
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Viking Me
Viking me, I want to be
warrior culture, decadent vulture
plunder & pillage, every village
navigate the sea, longboat to be
clash of steel, organic feel
Viking Me, I want to be
impenetrable shield wall, kingdom fall
Valhalla bound nomads, Victorious death glad
Discovery of Vinland, Vigilance of Norse man
Expedition by Erichson, conquest by Self assertion
Viking me, I want to be
slayer of Saxons, settle in Briton
cognizant of victory, details are gory
bringing cathartic terror, no maidens fairer
discernment of Odin’s Eye, Viking battle cry
Viking me, I want to be
Winter harvest feast, sacrifice the beast
preserve Heathen blood, The Christian flood
warlike mind, one of a kind
unstoppable force, ultra violent source
Copyright © Robert Lawrence | Year Posted 2015
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VALHALLA-THE VIKINGS-PART 1
In the bay of icy mists, the viking ghost ships arrive, sails set full ahead,
Crashing anchors rattle loose, plunging beneath the cold murky surf,
As the hailing horns of the dead, announce to their lord, Odin, that
Valor’s courageous have arrived, and wish to enter, the great halls of
Valhalla.
Here the cold winds of the north dwell, it’s chilling
Breezes flow freely, through the phantom warriors spirits.
But these rough men fear not death, nor it’s harsh breath, for they
Are vikings of the northern kingdoms, and they have come for
Their last rewards treasure, to enter beyond the gates of Valhalla,
And are armed ready to fight, beside their God Odin,
In victorious battle.
In these waters of the ethereal unknown passage,
The cracking and heaving, of these heavily
Laden vessels made of vapors thin mists,
Send an eerie chill down the backs, of mortal men.
As mountain icebergs float upon the wind
Chilled oceans surface, the Valkyries approach,
Smiling beneath their shimmering chain-mail of
Brilliance honor.
On the evergreen shores, a timbered lined hall stands,
It’s gates of golden pitch blaze, with fires white
Hot flames of those concurred, their souls scream
For penance mercy.
Two long swords, Chris-crossed are the gates steel dead bolts lock,
Above it’s embers glow, a fierce eagle with red crimson eyes,
Grapples, it’s sharpen claws, cutting deeply into the oaken shields,
On the thatched roof of the golden hall.
A lone wolf beneath therein, passes sniffing at the
Garments of the fallen men, if fears scent, the wolf so smells,
Cast out is this soul, and dammed it is forevermore.
Within the many souls do enter, a hardy welcoming at the feasting
Table mead and honey wine, is set before these hero’s of honor.
But outside the ships remain tethered, awaiting for their masters safe
Return, unaware of Thor’s approach, his mighty hammer set at the
Ready.
Striking with thunders raw force, the hammer of power,
Brakes against the sheer ice, as quick as the lightning’s flash,
Freezing tidal waves clash upwards, swallowing whole all evidence,
That these ghost ships ever existed.
Oh Valhalla, I pledge thee my life, my fighting spirit, my blood and
Body given in the name of Odin, for thy honor sake, shall I live and die,
Behold the vow’s pledge of these Nordic men, known as the Vikings.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014
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Death of a Lady Soldier
Three warriors strong, of fleeting
Foot, beset by columns of night’s
Thick soot, to waadi’s tears dried
Long and loud, waits deadly mine
With shrapnel’s shroud
Rocks as mailbox, scattered
Round,but no letters can be found,
One foot ignites, a flash of gas,
Sleeping soldier, foot of lass
Her mind now scattered, poems
And loves, the semblance of a
Tattered glove; by lovely
Face, old Troy was won, now lies
Shattered, in the sun
Wailing much and beating hearts,
Comrades gather, fits and starts,
Radio crackles, hoist at last,
To the copter, goes brave lass
Spirit visits mum and dad, brief
Young lover, surly, sad; Valhalla
Waits, brave angels’ girl; farewell
Banners, rise quick, unfurl
Written for Open Poetry Contest 11/7/15
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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Operation Money Jump
Thanksgiving, 1971,
a parachute pilgrim approaches Northwest Flight 305
as Dan Cooper, anonymous businessman, anarchist airborne,
black suit, black sunglasses, a black tie
and a black briefcase broaching black motives,
Portland to Seattle, prison or criminal pantheon,
before he can be inducted into purgatory, or the Valhalla of antiheros
the unknown villain of a quiet cause
got buckled into the last row of the 727
stealth as painless sin
cold bluish clouds smearing the November sky during ascent
as though flying through the palette of a sad Cezanne
while low volume, buttery jazz tinkered on the plane’s airwaves,
as the Stewardess handed him his bourbon soda
Mr. Cooper placed a neat note in her hand with polite moxie,
she took it with salted style, uninterested in a comeon,
moments later, struting to the rear with applepie aplomb
the quaint stranger, sunglasses removed, needed her to heel,
to him she came, ready to reject his appeal,
however, there would be no ripe rejection on this special day,
her eyes of professional pity were met with his slow burning stare
as he informed her with untroubled insistence
that he had a bomb, and that she needed to read the note
without visible alarm,
reading the demands made her feel excited
she instantly felt sweat in so many places,
she knew she’d give no resistance,
she wanted to cooperate, for everyone’s safety,
briefly speaking with another Stewardess
she entered the dark cockpit, danger in her hands,
there was going to be no argument
the stipulations were going to be satisfied
in exchange for safe landing and undamaged life,
returning to this man she’d never understand
who had the power to spontaneously change lives, she sat by him,
the plush red seats made her feel so warm
while sitting next to his insanely calm authority,
it seemed as though he owned them all
the passengers, the crew, and aircraft,
the skyjacker opened his briefcase as if it’s contents were sacred
showing her the parts of his lunatic design
then quickly, carefully, closing the shock box,
his eyes went back to the window
the view giving him vignettes of what he knew as Vietnam,
the mountains and divided greens, the mischievous mists,
she asked him, “Do you have a grudge against Northwest?”,
to which Mr. Cooper replied with wry correction,
"I don’t have a grudge against your airline Miss,
I just have a grudge. "
Upon landing in Seattle at 5:PM
the innocent and uninformed travelers exited the plane
onto the slick tarmac, untarnished and untraumatized,
oblivious to the epic history that was being fuelled in part
from their supporting roles on this Thanksgiving flight,
the F.B.I. and airline owners were playing nice
like cats whom wanted the amusement and the ambush,
Cooper was given four, nonmilitary parachutes as requested,
and $200,000 in twenty dollar bills
unmarked, random serial numbers, also as requested,
although, to help make sure that the “House” would win
all the money came from the Reserve Bank of San Francisco
with every bill number begining with “L” , and issued in 1969,
a little trick for the devil himself,
less than two hours had elapsed since takeoff from Portland
yet the hijacker was well on his way to meeting his ultimate objective,
each of his goals fitting together with precision
like watch parts keeping time of a fragile freedom,
after receiving the 21 pounds of illicit cash
giddy with blushing banditry,
intoxicated by the scent of fresh money harvest
Cooper did a jumpy Irish jig
out of view of snipers and cameramen,
nightfall was dimming the stage
as the abyance of audacity amplified everyone’s anxiety
including Cooper, who for the first time
exhibited a snakey irritation
during the ponderous refuelling of the jet,
he could taste the escape,
only he and the flight crew remained aboard,
at 7:36 PM the plane was lifting into a lawless legend
and the law was left clueless on the land,
heading to Reno so to refuel for Mexico
taking the final puff of his last cigarette
like a fugitive at peace with fate
he told the Stewardess that she was sweet
and that it was time for her to go,
to go up front to the pilots and close the door,
a thousand fantasies flew through her mind,
she felt attached to him
as though he were a nightmare that she needed,
turning around to see him again
to see that face which witnessed her heart change
while securing the parachute to himself
his eyes spoke to her’s with excited fear,
and then waved her goodbye as she closed the door,
shortly afterwards he instructed the pilots
through the intercom to maintain at 10, 000 feet,
release the cabin pressure,
adjust the wing flaps to 15 degrees
and to fly no faster than 200 MPH,
he left the black tie with Mother of Pearl tie pin
on the seat of his former self
and then proceeded to the plane’s rear stairway
as a paratrooper prepared to meet perdition,
the weight of his crime tight against his body,
in the cockpit
where speculation was spinning on their nerves
the pilots saw the red glow of emergency
from the panelboard indicating stairway open,
as D.B. Cooper stood braced to the lowered stairs
freezing wind icing his mouth and eyes
he thought about how his Uncle
15 years earlier inspired his curiosity for skydiving
and how the U.S. Military should be proud of his proficiency,
he recognized the Lewis River through a cloud break
and then hurled himself like a hawk
into the dropzone of America’s elite outlaws -
J.A.B.
This poem is based on the true story of “D.B. Cooper”,
whom has never been caught for the 1971 skyjacking.
He escaped with $200,000. Other than $5,800 being discovered
along the Columbia River by a family camping in 1980
the F.B.I. has found no more of the money, nor his body,
parachute, clothing, etcetera.
In 2016 the F.B.I. finally closed the investigation
on “Dan Cooper”…Justin A. Bordner
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2016
War Horse
War Horse by Steven Cooke
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship,
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders field.
His rider glorious in his regalia, sword in hand.
He was his master now, and the horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple, their bond complete.
His last feed, bathed in a red sun,
Which hovered above the morning mist hiding yesterday’s sin.
For this is the place where death is king and reason is lost
This day, where man throws sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed, and discarded.
To blow away into the winds of time,
Recorded by nations into the ledgers of loss,
For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla
Their Trust, in man, galloping where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.
This place, Mans ultimate betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared, Eyes wide,
steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the next stride.
Then the Stumble, a moment’s recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck, then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his brow, the last kindness,
A wavered shot ushers his life away, like so many before,
No one will weep for you my War horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man, left to rot in Flanders field.
But for those precious minutes, he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,
Galloped blindly through the death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No equal, never forget,
For it is the shame of a nation, a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god.
No glory here, only an empty cup left on the altar of insanity
Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent Beast.
Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2011
The Last War Poem
I tell you, this is the last word for this war.
This little side war we were the center of.
There is no justice from poetry-
Any veteran can tell you that.
They want their land, their lives,
Their livestock back.
Grenade fishing in the aftermath of Phou Pha Thi
Has lost its novelty
To the man with a bullet fragment rattling
In his body, slowly tearing him apart.
“Write,” they tell me. Write what?
We lost, we were forgotten, we are ghosts.
We are victims of fat tigers and foreign policy.
There is no Valhalla, only memories of Spectre gunships
There is no Elysium, only pleas for asylum.
This jungle was filthy.
There was ****. There was blood.
There were refugees
Who to this day cannot explain why they were the enemy
When the war came.
Their sons fought. Their brothers died.
Their uncles, maimed, were hauled screaming
Into the shadows of the Plain of Jars.
“Write,” they tell me, “so people won’t forget.
So someone will know. “
Lift the broken bodies with my words, bring them out
And say “we did not die in vain.”
For every bullet hole, let there be a word
To stand as a monument.
For every lost limb let there be a sonnet
To stitch the truth back together.
For every eye gone blind, let there be something
To take its place.
Something. Anything.
How can you not have words for the war of whispers?
How can you not shout, now that the whispering is done?
And I swear,
Each time I break this promise, that the next time
Will be the last word I write about this damn war.
Red Sunsets On The Blue Hills
Red Sunsets On The Blue Hills
What of soft red sunsets on the blue hills
Or true love found in sweet dreams of the light
Just as night frights give deeper cold chills
Crimson sunsetting views show heaven’s might.
Such wondrous blazing stirs in me a dream
Fire cast from Valhalla’s great skies.
Reminding of dying brave warrior’s gleam
Of truth in death’s bearing no twisted lies.
Of glowing red sunbeams gracing sweet earth
We can see true courage gifting its hope.
Man cries praying for all that he is worth
For all resting beyond his earthly scope.
When red sunsets tell us life does renew.
We may ponder the path we dare to choose!
Robert J. Lindley, 10-19-2015
(Modern Sonnet)
(1.) Valhalla—In Norse mythology, Valhalla
(from Old NorseValhöll “hall of the slain”[1])
is a majestic,enormous hall located in Asgard,
ruled over bythe god Odin. Chosen by Odin, half of those
who die in combat travel to Valhalla upon death,
led by valkyries, while the other half go to the
goddess Freyja’s field Fólkvangr. In Valhalla,
the dead join the masses of those who have died
in combat known as Einherjar, as well as various
legendary Germanic heroes and kings, as they prepare
to aid Odin during the events of Ragnarök. Before
the hall stands the golden tree Glasir, and the
hall’s ceiling is thatched with golden shields.
Various creatures live around Valhalla, such as
the stag Eikþyrnir and the goat Heiðrún, both
described as standing atop Valhalla and consuming
the foliage of the tree Læraðr.
Valhalla is attested in the Poetic Edda, compiled
in the 13th century from earlier traditional sources,
the Prose Edda, written in the 13th century by Snorri
Sturluson, Heimskringla, also written in the 13th century
by Snorri Sturluson, and in stanzas of an anonymous
10th century poem commemorating the death of Eric Bloodaxe
known as Eiríksmál as compiled in Fagrskinna. Valhalla