May Mjölnir's might strengthen you.
May your thoughts flow from Runic streams.
May your chosen path feel miraculous,
And may the northern winds uplift you,
So that Yggdrasil fills you with kindness!
May Frigg ignite your divine visions!
May Freyja summon fertile dreams.
May Magical Mead pour freely from above,
Letting your courage lead to valorous action!
Walk the forest's path, where unique trees and flora thrive.
Listen to the wildlife 'round the trees.
Meet your inspirational animals,
And live boldly as one who ventures forth with courage,
Allowing the vines and flowers to entice you---
That they may be your good companions.
Was she a vision or the foretold prophecy from Norse shamanic lore?
No one questioned her as she transmogrified into a warrior in the great hall.
The king was cowed. “Are you Yggdrasil, Goddess of Life?” He asked.
Was she the keeper of the nine worlds? The rest of us looked on, awed.
She brought her entourage, a dragon, eagle, and four stags.
They appeared as she had, in front of the king, in the middle of court.
There were audible gasps. Was she Old North, coming to fetch the king?
We Germanic people began to pray, as we had never prayed before.
She raises her façade to greet the dawning sun;
Yggdrasil a goddess, the empyreal one.
Tree of life, tree of hope, in sunlight’s kiss;
nurturer of the winged, in ethereal bliss.
She births her children with or without light;
nature’s sacred, matriarchal and wizened sprite.
Fronds of green, adorn her brow while
varied lichens are sprouted on boughs.
Nine worlds she guards, this venerable soul;
nine worlds her gasp will forever hold.
Concepts held of cosmogony;
concepts of origins of anthropogeny.
Symbol of the great of visica piscis;
a link of Tetragrammaton devices.
A soul is born of spiritual essences;
into many lives, existence coalesces.
Every tree has its sprite,
a living deity ever vigilant of its needs.
Great Yggdrasil
ancient tree of life
holds her sprite within
her wending, winding arms;
a caress of gratitude
for its warrior guardian.
An ancient sentinel
guarding the wisdom
of Gaia’s mind,
needs a soldier;
this recruit, at the ready,
studies “The Art Of War”
with considerable vigilance.
No axe will ever release this tree
from Mother Gaia.
6-3-2021
ALL YOURS (JUN 4) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Beneath the roots of the Tree of Life,
The mythical Yggdrasil,
Live the Three Sisters of Fortune,
Three spinners sit weaving still.
Our fortunes favoured, fortunes damned,
Are spun to dusk from dawn,
The destinies of every man
Ordained before we’re born.
Spun threads of rope and threads of silk
And threads of finest gold;
With every one a path of life
The Spinners have foretold.
Embittered entertainment prompts
Their play with our distress;
They weft and warp our misery
With transient happiness.
Even the most blessed threads
May still incur their wrath,
Sometimes are spun through deeper roots
To weave a darker cloth.
The rarest threads, the bravest lives
Led so resolutely,
But as with gold debase to dust
Corrupted absolutely.
They spin the hopes we seek fulfilled,
And bring them dashing down
They weave our ways to where they wish
Then laugh beneath the ground.
Life’s choices are illusory,
And false we have free will;
Oh cruel Sisters of the Tree!
Oh fickle Yggdrasil!
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