Absolute proof of reincarmatio/eternal return


…well I let You in suspense long enough, and as I promised You, proof and perhaps reincarnation I will dispensing for the time being despised to give myself myself time to stretch , reality and perhaps even stretch the aching muscles to get benefit for undo pressure as he I refer to as th ok gh I never know him and still stretch for more time and even more to gain insight into what it may take to figure out

But hey insight comes in white spurts of interpretation if in that.

And anything it takes but anything mentally like on a magic carpetride.

Such though not totally immersed in the actual experience of it

Like what happened before and during, but, while!

Whooooooo[oooooo[[lol oops! And let me not get off this ride of still, very still, until I can know of either! I don’t care anymore which end get it bit I know (sluggishly) that the rise downstream may be scene as easier , but oh’ so covered the danger abide on the bottom side aye, and he yawned produndly and profusely.

The next installment if it ever happens , may swelge into some of the senses especially white …and then from that point on, delicious and fragrant as it is masculine without the intrusion.

Note this does not belong here in psychology but in fine literature.

But it is aimed at figuring out some real heaviness involved .

Now pretend it’s time to reveal IT

No lets not even pretend that’s it is really time to reveal it. IT.

Here it goes:

The a heart of the matter hm hm…that is .now the scene changes into an (Eternal version of Ken kasey on the beach with Einstein on the beach with who is left from I’m the best)

I admit I’m stretching it my back, the time frame to really really show you that includes me, that at least a convincing or at least an educated guess can be accorded. But I an honest and unrest no earnest in my desire to test the limits here.

Why? Because why any test run is frightening. Unsettling.

The white.That’s it
Light. Evolution.conditioning .
Before I forget fear. Yes very basic fear like before the neanthaler man even, fear. Openness. A lot of stuff in the garbage can .

When I get there they say you’ll know it. But them again you never really. know. Do you?
Athematically no
Mathematically? May be.

The eternal universe made of vast fire is the universe. That You may verse ,
Has to be a unity since only he can see himself with the aim of understanding himself in Total ity.

Has to why? Because the whole crystal could crack including all the condition ing t hat YOU can imagine.
All of it bit only a very small part of it.
That is glued but can melt.

That part could change.

But the Universe fill that part as quickly as milllllllise seconds, not time enough to form a perfect substitute but close enough.

The replaced new part is almost identical only missong a few peedwcr parts.

Given eternal time the regeneration of such close resembling copies show that .

It won’t be You, as you were but close enough for deception, at inxreasing rates of simulation.

The You is really a new you at least for the time being.

Of your afraid of the word universal then the cuts lost irredeemable for ever. Oh not as You may , on recovery but in the wider sense of ridding yourself of the baggage , the cut baggage your carrying and recovery becomes becomes useless.

Some scientist just published the idea that Einstein’s Idea of the unifying his ideas was a needless and wasteful endeavor.

I dunno. There are cuts and. Cuts.

White , and black. Forgetting Red, now.

So this something who knows what is filled by that 1 Universe, and forms him from mud, why?

Why? Because, coming from far away, needs to fill every nuance of the model. How close he gets to be able is a trick the model ha to become the modelor eldoror,

The be that one which should be unified.

Its everything the ring, and how everything makes the world around and no one can see his eternity because he denies his simulation. His own facade. Because unless it it hos own, the all, CANNOT BE HELD INTACT, bit it does simply he or she removed the old part and replaces it with strong glue with an equally shiny model.

They never find out because when its time , the creator becomes the created.

No exit, only one in the mind, and not in reality. It is only in the now can this ever be recreated in a flash of light for ever captured in am eternal album

No the following may not be nice but and therefore taking a break a cut and the white the incessant witness of a thirty gluey desert.

I will not come back, before delving into extravagance of delving into the doors through perception. Its fun pretending that its going to be different than with Stuart mea culpa .

So hope find a diesent copy. No money the depression mine . door closed I suppose.

Not really as it effortless closed to a thinnest veneer of gap. Almost. Silently not a sound.

Next installment deals with the grand compromise. The psychological through the political. Oh I missed one, the philosophical.

Kant was right every body should admit it by now , in a compromised situation what better them to use its double entendre in a sense that what. compromises us, is a lack of difference we should not worry about if we can’t slice it. If there is a larger upward sense of what’s involved in compromise , letting go it’s nominal meaning, but lounging out as if, the difference is notable, then things will clear.

The proof should be in the pudding, as it certainly could be.


How to go into the world of differences before aquainting one’s self with that of the world of similarities?

That is the crux of all and the singular, that is the consistamce of the Herculian struggle for conscious man to be able to exercise his will while exercising that which undermines it.

What possible motivation is there that the choice of a cosmologocally motivated god. .

To move forward , toward a model such as a super man, why did this project man evolve into this pattern, if regression is the final destination. Why , are people getting off this merry go round in scores? Why?

Maybe because they don’t believe there is a way to experience the innards of universal conaxiousnesss, of the unearthly denial of the inevitable based on set, theory and probability. They want to call it quits because they have a very very narrow of a sliver of experienced thought , without which they can assume anything but their inclusive compromised situation in it.

They can’t unable to see themself as anything but a universalmy conscious being, afraid to die to that universality, an idea that has its roots maybe for hundreds of not thousands of years.

Oh me, poor me, a victim at the hands of aubordinal and fearful types, afraid of losing an inch of their self into the unknown, into which they must have an inkling that they are destined to arrive to?

If that is not presumptuous , then the thought of the benevolent creator, who blunders from alpha to omega.

Bit the nich is reserved, and no opportunity to think that such is the conditioned necessity, the absolute condition within a man can attain his freedom, even at the chance overcoming the ideas related to the bonds that love has circumstanced around him.

Yes, love at times struggles against the unknown, which seems antithetical , and thinking how that ignorance will hurt that person. But is that love? And can it be demonstrated as having a selfish motive?

After all the manyform tribulations about love and the steps to bring them into the realm of eternal sunlight, white and undefiled, can it not be visualized as the moatnprofound vehicle which moves every subtle difference existing under its realm?

The realm of eternal sunshine, where darkness fears entrance because IT knows its only an absence and not a presence?

But for this to occur, there needs a practice perhaps billions or even trillion years passing, BUT Oh, can be gained in a fraction of itself, a tiny fraction that counts, as the universe measures in inatantainity, or close to that, and you’re there , there in the measure. ofntue effects of karmic law, but it happens only:

When you forget yourself , when you can stay totally uncommitted, alienated, on the sustenance of merely a diet of manna whose recepie5 remains as enigmatic as the sands downtime of all s deserts of desire.

Now to those who have been able to follow, I may credit gib, whose fortunes most closely resembles mine, without perhaps in investment in terms in terms of nearly a half a century, that , but without the strangely angled and severely cut, magically inclined fatale , and you will realize the negative effects , or negative characteristics of borderline situations.

Such are a product of a medicum of interest in compromise in a compromising situation, where number one, numero uno, the whole distinction thing is meant to benefit the Other.

But who’d believe it?

Its true, though

What’s true?

That I. Am not divulge in a season where its beyond. Comprehension.

And if I can’t describe it, because my knowledge is so limited , how could You? (Khrishnamurti, speech, Ojai Calif, 1982)

Now in under ground where few thread or dare, time is not merely only a situation. There is measured congruence and the satanic free of reincarnating as animal can be excluded automatically.

Why? Cause the dogs can not reverse. There is no time to reverse to because there is no time that can account for a man being an animal. No.

Why not? Because if it would be true, then such truth would show some semblance, positively. . Or if it is happening now even now as I as we think, but its unperceived, because IT happened say billions of years ago, the undoing even so, would also happen with that scale of recording values.So for practical purposes it is not as a mystery as popular opinion would have it. On the contrary. Say take a diamond. In the rough it is like another stone, but once it’s faceted, it can not be again roughed up. Its too hard the hardest there is can be broken up that’s all. Given to a self indulged lady, it can do wonders.

But the sun may be dead by then, or, worse, we could prove IT wrong and prove us wrong, by being our own undoing.

But why persists. Why be out own undoing, when our treasured philosophers resting in Walhalla, are merely resting, they can never die, and those who see it differently, well they will suffer to repeat their unlearned pain, with which their pleasure is so violently tied.

If these two opposing factions don’t work together, neither god nor the hidden one can get together somehow, then god can not descend into the underworld again to prove to the faithful.

Corinthians 1

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.


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.

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.”
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
A Meeting of Minds
In the silence
of this crystal night
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
and again

Copyright © Jayne Eggins | Year Posted 2014

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
Norse Mythology, Return Of The Slayer Of Dragons
Norse Mythology, Return Of The Slayer Of Dragons

( Part One, Darkness Arrives)


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)


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!


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
The Ode To Olaf Olafson - For Anne-Lise
“The Ode To Olaf Olafson.”
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
Viking Death Prayer
With raised sword and shield,
The Norseman yells to Odin
The Viking Death Prayer*

  • 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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

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
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Barges, heavy-laden, plow south, pushed by stout
baroque tugs. Behind us, straight-up, limestone
bare bluffs tower, Bald Eagles circling lazily

Mom likes the local handmade cheddar-brats, grilled;
on sprouted 9-grain buns with ice-cold spring
the brats are spittin’ sizzlin’ cheddar!

time to go!


Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2014

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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
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
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.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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

Details | Valhalla Poem | Create an image from this poem.
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 -


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

During intermission, or interval until the next attack, another line is worth pursuing: the origin of Valhalla and its magical power, usually transmitted in the spoken tradition. not unlike the Socratic method of information

Ancient Pages

Unusual Power Of Seidr: Norse Shamans Used Magic To Alter Destiny And See The Future
AncientPages.com | October 14, 2017 | Featured Stories, Myths & Legends, News, Norse Mythology, Vikings
Share this:
Share via FacebookShare via GoogleShare via TwitterShare via StumbleUponShare via EmailShare via Pinterest
Ellen Lloyd - AncientPages.com - In Norse mythology Seidr is the practice of magic and shamanism.

Shamans played a very important role in the Norse society. These enigmatic beings were known for their unusual powers and they were credited with the ability to alter destiny. Beings who mastered seidr were therefore as much feared as respected by people and even the Norse gods themselves.

Unusual Power Of Seidr: Norse Shamans Used Magic To Alter Destiny And See The Future

A völva was feared. Left image credit: Maris Orelia Right: Goddess Freya was the most powerful völva.

Seidr – How Norse Shamanism Was Used
In his book, The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in Late Iron Age Scandinavia, author and archaeologist Neil Price explains how seidr was used in general. “There were seiðr rituals for divination and clairvoyance; for seeking out the hidden, both in the secrets of the mind and in physical locations; for healing the sick; for bringing good luck; for controlling the weather; for calling game animals and fish.

Importantly, it could also be used for the opposite of these things – to curse an individual or an enterprise; to blight the land and make it barren; to induce illness; to tell false futures and thus to set their recipients on a road to disaster; to injure, maim and kill, in domestic disputes and especially in battle.”

Archaeological Evidence Shows Ancient Norse Shamans Did Exist
A Völva was a very powerful female shaman and her male counterpart was known as Vitki.

The practice of Seidr (in Old Norse, seiðr) is mentioned in many Norse sagas and evidence of Norse shamans’ existence has been unearthed by archaeologists.

Norse Shamanism: A Völva And Her Prophecies Were Feared Among Norse Gods And Vikings
A Völva in Norse mythology predicted the future.

A mysterious ancient grave with unusual artifacts that belonged to a Völva was found in Denmark. Some objects inside the grave that suggest she was a Norse shaman. Scientists discovered an intriguing metal wand and seeds from the poisonous henbane plant inside her tomb. These two particular accessories are associated with a Norse shaman because the name Völva (vǫlva) is Old Norse and means “wand carrier” or “carrier of a magic staff”.

The term Seidr originated from the ritual of the Norse to boil salt, which also happens to be a purification rite.

See also:

Mysterious Nine Worlds Of Yggdrasil – The Sacred Tree Of Life In Norse Mythology

Asgard: Enter The Ancient Kingdom Of The Powerful Norse Gods

Gungnir: Odin’s Magic Weapon That Never Missed Its Target In Norse Mythology

More Myths And Legends

God Odin’s Meeting With A Völva
Norse gods relied on the knowledge of a Seidr.

For example, when God Odin was determined to solve the mystery of his son’s dreams, mounted his horse, Slepnir, and made the long journey to the underworld, Nilfheim. There he called up a Völva and when she arose from her tomb, Odin introduced himself as Vegtam, the Wanderer,son of Valtam.

The Völva gave him advice, but as soon as she recognized it was God Odin in disguise, she refused to answer any more questions and sank into her tomb, vowing to speak no more until God Loki’s chains were unbound—that is, until the end of the world.

Female shamans were religious leaders of the Viking community and they were usually required to invoke their deities, gods or spirits, often before Viking warriors went to war.

Norns Were Masters Of Seidr
Being skilled in in the art of magic and prophecy was considered important in the Norse community, as seidr was also God Odin’s specialty. Norse shamans were said to possess ability to shapeshift, send nightmares to people, and alter destiny.

The Norns – Shapers Of Destiny Who Recorded Days In Person’s Life In Norse Mythology

Norns, known as ‘Shapers of Destiny’ in Norse mythology were masters of seidr.

The Norns were goddesses who ruled the fates of people, determined the destinies and lifespans of individuals.

Three principal and very powerful Norns lived in the mysterious well of Urd (‘fate’), which had its location beneath one of the roots of gigantic ash tree – Yggdrasill (World Tree”), which formed a column linking the realms of the gods, mankind, the giants and the dead.

We encounter the Norns as goddesses of fate and destiny in Greek, Roman and Slavic mythology.

Written by Ellen Lloyd – AncientPages.com

Copyright © AncientPages.com & Ellen Lloyd All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed in whole or part without the express written permission of AncientPages.com and Ellen Lloyd

About the author:
Ellen Lloyd – is the owner of AncientPages.com and an author who has spent decades researching ancient mysteries, myths, legends and sacred texts.

where is the proof ? =D> is that dot is the proof ? do i have to zoom it ? until i find it out ?

Proof? The proof of eternal return? Or Reincarnation?

The proof correlates to such intangibles as gate, the ego white light, the nature of evolution, and yes, a point
You can not blow up a point because it is virtual. It belongs to the virtual realm, and it is as real as the one we usually experience. Math belongs to this real as well.


If it was not have enough to candywrap everything, perceived karma or/and existential dread, and he told better to wrote truth may be to avoid the consequences donnas faith.

Life as existentially reduced phenomena , equates from a very long held theme: the sins ofnoir fathers.

What comes of this and how this come about? The sexual guilt of a children’s hour, Lillian Helman yawns, but it is a reductive effort to disjoin an act supposed to procreate , the semen wasted. Its a perception of hypocracy to uphold the myth of creation to kids, who happen to see their parents doing similarly as dogs outside, or they curious little beasts themselves, happen to glance at stores of unprotected porn.

How can the idea of the craziness of sex be equated with its animal nature while upholding a platitude of saintliness , of holding unto the innocent virginity of childhood?

What did they see, can they talk about it? Or maybe do as they do pretend not to see without the slightest suggestion of anything that may have gone down?

Why become suspicious about it and mix it with the greater one, that mixes unduly pleasure with the reality of the horror of the genetic deficit and it’s procreative-speciel consideration’s?

Nothing to get hung about, and it is for the advantage of modern men, that they are much more likely to avoid being pressed into a corner tunnel, like a wrecked train ominously speeding into it with no end in sight?

It can get very lonely as the place in zombie land, America yes, heading the opposite direction, toward an end of bright light light, where a reinterpretation of liberal management cues and ramifications of genetic maps, offered the coming age of Aquarius, of metaphysical connections in an age of freedom and resulting in sight to a new, shiny world of benefiscient and luminous technological applications.

An ungluing of the era of the old magic and the witches and goblins and the retributive gods.

The promised land of careless openness where the poor who will always be with us, can generate the good feeling of commaderie and good vibrations evolving with the privileged and the vested.

The guilt becomes tragically unfolded within the over stretched horizons of the fabric of social contentment, where more and more innovation and
functional unity can over come the differences of the economy of the ID, as well as that of the profit margin?

The seminal masturbation of abrupt social schizms, creating the bipolarity between the inner and outer directed selves with the outcasts in the middle, numbered in the disaffected thousands growing into millions: can it be the defining form of a very brave and new world?

Fighting the downward push of the vampiric eating away of a will, the power, eroding to make a change, to pull the mystical idol floating on the still and soundless lake , the lotus of desire, the son seeking the strength of the father, who can not pretend, and has to become real, even if over come by tragic weakness in the past incarnations, for it is countless fathers before him, who’s failure marked the heretofore weaknesses manifested by appearent failure. No it may not happen, as long as the heart beats.

Is there a magic in the god whose help he needs for the ultimate overcoming of the Major Arcana? That lack of reason some lost , and realising themselves, fearfully crawling like snails into their houses of horror?

The old magic of the sins of the fathers living in retired solemnity on their own Walhalla, afraid now to brand those left behind, below, in concentrated pulsating bounded types like animals to be accounted for, and expanding art, even descending into speciality for the special .

That is the meaning of the affordable liberal, and that man, that man, formed out of contradiction and understood via that contradiction, can actually pull of the faint glow of the coming of the apparent failure of civilization.

The new global unity, becoming manifest only through this contradictory presentation, can achieve its opposite, and defeat the program as usual, without appearing deceptive. Its not magic, its only a very carefully constructed sleight of hand, and the evolution of the convolution of all languages, primitive and complex, national and international, emphatically and methodologocally mixing the expressed and the implied, the natural and the artificial, the physical and the metaphysical , the archaic and the manufactured.

The mystical rose with Levi Strauss with the worship of levies.

Ask how the U.S. would have faired has it not afforded the 60’s ask not what it could have done for You?

The proof is in the pudding, old characters and plots recur in infinite thematic recurrences, but what is becoming new, is the fearless look into a new meaning arising out of the ashes of a shot up, worn out dead world.

The film of privilege becoming more simulation, wrap around reality, fearless manhood abruptly cease lying to their sons, leaping thus, while the new tech of varnished glory of the golden past restored and constantly revisited through the message of guiltless loss of ego.

Time is shrinking except to those deluded by false promises and psychotic social breaks, and the strong survive even if that fracture be redefined , a diminutive gentle breeze in a constant descent into the safe space of the cave of obsessive desire.

Your father denied or failed to make a stand amid his own puerile guilts and fears for he excluded them and left the female to try to hold it together, letting her strength rise as his diminished , the zero sum ending in covered guilt ridden states man today finding himself ;always his fault, mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa.

Redemption: through the doors of Preception. , in an absolute sense ,
Where either there is absolute proof, or none.

There can not be a way to get through through in pieces, by becoming an incredible shrinking man by somehow squeezing through.

Its got to be a one or the other way,

The one I’m talking about is light and darkness. The light is perceived through partial qualifiers of and through timespace. And that has to be due to fragmentation of man, consisting of the idea of dying alone needing to let go of all imagined mirrored thought or , reflection. This letting go, then, before getting true, has to occur before , it is the required state of being able to apprehend the required wholeness of entrance into the realm of preception of the conscious wholeness.

because once he goes through the door fragmented , he will never be reassembled AFTER he goes through , and he will need to be reassembled again and again.

But how?
Who knows. So if he goes on whole, not negated or any of his part s, then he will go through unchanged and in one piece:

He would have traveled through time whole. And he would have made it unless he chose to return , which is also a certainty, because his reentry
is bound in karmic necessity caused by the failure of the upper layers of the mind fading with the passage of necessary time as cutting up reality as more and more cut off parts are lost into the vestiges of memory.

Therefore, one man can only go through whole, and if he can not be reassembled after he goes through, he can’t get reassembled, only before.

Why get reassembled before he goes through the doors of Preception, is to. enable to enter hole through the doors.

Hypothetically everyone eventually get to be reassembled before, and then they will not need to go through the door, and the door will become a non existent artifact.

And then?

The nothingness beyond the door which is all of something, will let in one rotten apple just one, who will tempt the female and then everything will again be needed to have reassembled before a new door, which is really the same door.

Schwartz claims that his initial interest in psychic ability stemmed from a car accident he had with his then wife while driving on the FDR highway in Manhattan. The car was reportedly stopped on the roadway when he “heard a voice” tell him to “put his seat belt on.” He told his wife to do so, and moments later, said they were rear ended by a car going 50 MPH. He claims that having his life saved by a mysterious voice prompted him to begin his research into where that voice might have come from. [5][6]

In his early career, Schwartz wrote on biofeedback research and health psychology. Schwartz’s more recent research has been in parapsychology and consciousness-based healthcare. His VERITAS research project, which concluded in 2008, was created primarily to test the hypothesis that the consciousness (or identity) of a person survives physical death.[non-primary source needed][7] Schwartz performed experiments at the University of Arizona testing mediums such as John Edward, of the TV show Crossing Over, and Allison DuBois, who inspired the TV series Medium. Schwartz believes that DuBois could contact dead people. Schwartz says his experiments with DuBois included a reading for celebrity physician and author Deepak Chopra following the death of his father that Chopra characterized as 77% accurate.[8]

Gary Schwartz’s Veritas Project , into conscious survival after death, at the University of Arizona

In a universe consisting of innumerable galaxies and galactic particular objects and the more innumerable meta energy systems, any thing become a possible.
The idea of simulation and assimilation are the modus operans to define particularises objects whethwe they be inorganic or organic.

In such am energy filled.acemarip, the notable are of a more advanced apprpximation to the already purepisedul adbvamce toward struxtial fidelity to an ever further reaching modeling.

Modeling isn’t the intermediary between simulation and the assimilation by the mirrored , and cognitive re-peating patterns, of re-cognitive content.

The numbers don’t count, they only are accumulated , as potentialitis, or formal elements, without congruence, be it qualitative determinants as to the stage or number of elements.

Meaning that if, an x number of children expire before cognitive substantial development, it does not upset the possibilities for them, to return to their life’s s program , a million personal or galactic reinventions.

The trillions of possibilities ensure that every one has a destiny to understand their own connect to a realm between a mirrored simulation and assimilation toward that referrable modeling.

We are more creatures belonging to similar structural models than different ones, by virtue of primary developmental progression prior to differential.

That this process , develop ed through primary cognitive efficacy of the so called extra sensory , if you were, a priori means, and later doubted, and later still nihilized, in terms of numerical qualification, does need no explanation here.

The temporal qualification approaching. both: minima and maximal, at an increasing state, gives a pause, to the idea of a synthesis, of the original unity.

But given the multi universe assumption, there are no limits , whwre by, such distinctions can occur, and their simulation, is an a-posterior reflection of construxted self images.

That there is room forn1 million humam transcripted copies within innumerable repetitions , assured absolute certainty of totally identical replication of energy patterns, given the number of permeutive possibilities
In the 'out of mode ‘thought’.

In fact the number of organic entities are dwarfed by the universal inorganic possibilities by extremely over bounding. ratios, making organic identities scintillas of absolute certainty of innumerable possibilities.

The person called James Saint, has argued for at least 1 other, and that makes corresponding sense, along the lines of Leibnitz.

I would hazard the minima, as the Leibnitzian notion, was restricted.to a single universe, prior to the extremely plausible multi universe realization , resulting in numbers vastly different, andntje same, as a One, albeit an Absolute One. That One may loose it"s double, and theredore , beyond numerical qualification.

That One, is the unreachable, the totally mystically approachable entity,
the foundation of both: with which the bridge between simulation and assimilation could not begin a functional development.

Re-incarnation would also be nihilized, along the Way , because the direction and the objective , connecting the Source and the Final Object could not develop a workable structural model.

The numbers and the matrix formed along differential quantifiable qualities could not form a model. That it did, all along, is proof positive.

The doubt formed out of uncertainty, has.gone a lomgnway in forming more, not less basis for the opposite assertions, in particular , by setting such contradictions in terms of paradoxes, posing in variable content.

The ego is one such a content , that has little structure apart from the mirror effect proposed above ,(Ecmandu) and made into a utalitarian tool by post modern philosophy.

ref: Badrillard and Lacan

Lawn, mirror image

Peterson: childhood psychopathology


Lacan speaks: subtitles


The simplest of thoughts:

That we become nothing after all this over, inquire what that something is, and as we progress through this immensity we feel not know that wjat we previously thought as some ‘thing’ the mind , is no thing other then the brain function.

That function is more like a learning machine, which receives some signals, and signals are thought up to be things.

Signs are the derivitive of signals, so our knowledge of some or no things are crosswired and become ideas.

Our ideas reify into a progression of symbols, and cam be later on much later be expressed as structure and architecture.

This is all we have, ever had and ever will have as proof of what or who we are. It becomes personalized, as conscioisness.

But can this be really indicated as identity? Or a thing consistent with an articulated ‘thing’?

It can , and it has, but like any other description, it is a literal expression of a subjective experience.

It may as well be formulated as a chain consisting of interlocking impression-expressio-impression-expression series, compounding both perception and symbol formation .

That such a chain compounds both, the impressong of energy and its symbol formation and expression, leads to the conclusion that this is what ‘consciousness’ is made of.

But it is not some thing, before or after it’s construction, therefore the same can be said of it’s deconstruction.

It is nothing , but everything before and after, where there is no before nor after, of a permanent architecture.

Why permanent? Because it IS, not ISN’T.

What is it? It is that which is eternal and perpetual. Therefore man lives in a perpetually real eternity.