Norse Gods and Goddesses Prose Poems – #29 Loki
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Shape-shifter’s little tricks, he giggles, led to laughter, much mirth led to anger, bitterness fired onwards, onwards to the very end of us. He is smited and will not be broken. Die all of you as he laughs, ‘What a party! Good times to die for.’ Loki of mischief madness has spoken.
The Stark Babe
What a birth, in the madness. This is the iron wood of pure steel, these trees are impossible, like thorns. There was the lightning, the storm, and there was the birth. Baby to a giant, she dies there. Lightning struck her as her baby was born. This stark babe who is born to end worlds. Son of Cruel Striker, he left there. Shape-changer. He should be dead, but his shape changed. We will never know but chrisilid, may fly, succubus, something that survived. It climbed.
There was Asgard. And it walked in unnoticed and proclaimed to belong. To entertain.
Perhaps he Laughed
Mischievous at first – he entertained. Oh the fun, and the adventure. They travelled together. The one who would be for the future, the handsome one Hænir and the All-father and he. Oh the joy to be.
Now as a god he could go where he pleased and become who he wished.
Cutting the hair was a mistake of a trick which he did. Abducting of Iðun he never meant really, saving his master from a murderer, he did things. Insults are something. He never meant harm to the Gods, to the Worlds, to the humans, to the future, he never meant to get to be as bad as he was.
In the end, he meant to kill Balder, he went from there to the end of the world. He meant it when he destroyed worlds. Perhaps he is laughing still.
Fly Loki Fly
No ride with this, go with him, fly with Loki. Join that dream. For he rose high, storming wild on a huge rising ship full of fearfulness. He flew there as leader. To victory. To death. To the end. Nothing he hated survived. Go with that. Thrive.
Long had his daughter worked for this; building his ship. Dead bits she lingered. She fingered the placing of them until the right moment. He called for her. He stood there at the helm of the ship of his daughter. His army stepped forward; rock, ice, fire, death – yes.
Worship him. The evil old woman. Giantess. Abductor. Whisperer to the blind. Go with his way with a jolly laugh. Follow him. You are of his kind.
Norse Gods and Goddess Prose Poems – #37 Kvasir