Truly Terrible Heathen Poetry
Valkyrie in my Pocket
Windwalkers
Semi-saga of the Sysadmin
A Poem to Loki
A Poem to Odin
Valkyrie in my Pocket
Windwalkers
Semi-saga of the Sysadmin
A Poem to Loki
A Poem to Odin
I am a raging battlemaid
I really rock the house
I live in Germanic legend
With Sigurd as my spouse
I don't suppose you've seen me,
Or that you really should;
Though I'm warped in Wyrd's weaving
I'm not what you'd call good.
Before I was a Valkyrie
I was a maiden in a bower
Valfather Himself picked me,
And gave me Choosing power.
Now Odin has many Choosers
That He trains on battle fields
We become His arms and legs
Because His tools we wield
And because Odin is so busy
With way too much to plan
He said that my assignment
Was to pick the best fighting man
When He tucked me in your pocket
He blessed you with Chooser's care
And you should burne on a pyre
Rest assured I will be there.
Windwalkers
In the wind you hear it - the first notes of winter's song
The days dying early and the nights living long
And they who travel the sky's black cloak pace among us
Gale and gust and cold's bitter kiss makes their presence known
In the streetlight's glow, a child shuffles through dead leaves
Sees them caught up in a sudden biting breeze
She thinks she hears a woman's voice and children sobbing, thin -
Frau Wodan rides the wind
In the woods a man lingers in the bloody light tracking a wounded prize
The gust's icy grip tightens as he watches sun blood leave the skies
Does he see horses made of moon and cloud, hear mad howls of hounds and horn?
The Wild Hunt rides the wind
The farmer's field is turned under and ready for the snow
Tools are shelved, seeds are bagged and he's covered up the plow
But in the field, like in his sire's, stands a lone sheaf, neatly tied
For a weary eight-legged horse when the Old Man rides
Night neer rules the city - true; bright neon holds it at bay
A comfort, those false fires, to those who crave the sun
But if you dare the dark beyond the circle, beware you're not alone
Until Day gains upon Night, you 'company those who ride the wind
Semisaga of the Sysadmin
What's heathen about the poem, you might well ask. Well, it's truly awful poetry written by a heathen. By definition, that makes it Truly Terrible Heathen Poetry.
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Strong was the sysadmin Defragging diskspace creeping crashes. tapes towards an warehouse. Wondering might be misformatted Inventorying the office useful for fixing Checking the budget Sceaming seriously for medling management to pass while pontificating to explain events but not by to challenging computers |
sensing problems. to defend against Carrying backup offsite terrabyte when data by misguided users. for old parts foobared computers. in case of cost overruns. senseless excuses needing manure to pinheads higher up preventable by Eris human bondsmen coming unglued. |
Animate me with your absurdities,
Agent of the absurd.
Bestir me with your brainstorms,
Blazon of the brain.
Carouse with me in your complexity,
Cavalier of the complex.
Deploy me with your defiance,
Defier of the divine.
Embroil me in your engagements,
Emissary of emergency.
Face me in your facetiousness,
Flambeau of the fracticious.
Gamble with me in your gambits,
Gamester of guile.
Haunt me with your havok,
Harrier of the habitual.
Inflame me with your infamy,
Inciter of intrigue.
Joke with me in your japery,
Jester of jeopardy.
Keep me alert with your klaxons,
Kaiser of kibitzers.
Light me through the labyrinth of life,
Loadstar of logistics.
Make your mockery of me,
Master of mischief.
Mystify me with your madness,
Maker of mysteries.
Needle me with your nuisances,
Needler of nerves.
Oust me with your outbursts,
Outlaw of the outlandish.
Puzzle me with your paradoxes,
Patron of the peculiar.
Quicken me with your quanderies,
Quasher of the quiescent.
Rattle me with your rabblerousing,
Rogue of radicalism.
Share your sharpness with me,
Shatterer of sameness.
Taunt me with your tangles,
Trampler of tradition.
Unleash me with your unconventionality,
Underminer of the usual.
Visit me with your vagaries,
Vanquisher of vanity.
Wake me with your wagers,
Wayward wanderer.
Yell your yarns to me,
Yardstick of yammer.
Zap me with your zest,
Zenith of zip.
O, Lord Odin, regard
Your deserving devotees,
The diehards who do dare
Rage and redeem the fleas
Who run from fear of death.
We wrangle and, with hammers
In hand, hurl ourselves hard
Against the hateful shammers,
Shameless in their fright, yet
Too frightened not to fight. They
Rise up with their own might,
To strike from fear, and they pray
Not for victory but
To live another day. Let
Us battle them fiercely,
All-father, let us set
Upon them like ravens
To rip out their worthless eyes
As they hang helplessly
From the tall trees while we rise
Up in triumph. Lend us
Your strength to strive stoutly
In the battles we bring
To burden enemies, free
Ourselves from their foolish
faint-heartedness, and honor
The harsh truths that strike those
Who disregard your lore.
No dusty pedestal shall e'er I claim
Nor to dry academe do I aspire
Fast fleeting or imagined be my fame
Yet daily with my pen I do conspire
For inspiration is a moment's thing
And moments do a lifetime thus compose
And from the last, the next will surely spring
Like blooms from 'neath the compost of my prose
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