More Sarah Fimm

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Gaurdians of Dis

This image is by Artist, Author, and Musician  Daecaunt

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Red Samurai

Behold!
From the field rises
Red Samurai.
The light of Bushido
A glow in his eyes,
In blood-rain
His armor glazed.

Slick the gruesome battle plain.
One thousand blades
Now noble-dead
A broken purple glave
It's master fled
All that remains.

Behold!
On the field
Red-Samurai kneels
To pray.
Weary, gore-stained,
The Lash
Takes the day!


Written for my friend Lash. ("You know the guy in the red armour") after Artemisian Games one fine year.
Anno Societus XLIV 
By me Fentyr

A Winter Solstice Poem

2009 Solstice

 

Lo.
Into the darkest night we go.
Wash the blood from thy hands
Thy crimson tears in vanity shed
Fair Prosperpine, dead.

This circle of woe drawn in grief
While the girl of spring time sleeps
Broken not but by mortus release.
Cruel ring, dark ring
Oh nightmares bring.

A Silly Beltaine Poem

Hail the dawn of summer
The Old Man doth truly slumber
Though I lost my ribbons to a Troll
There are more in the village
about the may pole.

Sol rides his chariot high through the sky.
On ward t'ward the shortest night
When we'll cry to the north wind
About our plight
That we're burned in the day-time
and need longer nights!

An Old Swedish Folk Tale

Eleven peasants were walking through a wheat field, it reminded them of ocean waves as the ripening wheat moved back and forth. Soon they begin to fear that one of them had drowned. Sure enough when each one counted the others he only came up with ten forgetting to count himself. It remained a mystery which one of them had drowned. They told there curious plight to an old farmer. The farmer told them that there was a fresh cow-pie right there in the road and each of them should stick there noses in it.
They did, and were relieved when they counted eleven nose prints.

A Few Short Verses.

Let the moon kiss you goodnight.
Follow the stars
The dream-road guide.
Lose yourself in that light.
Drift away far
From this earth and its plight.

Longest day of the year.

Ever spurring the fire eye
Sol flees Skoll
And thus the judgement day.
To Ragnorok
The wyrd-winds blow.
Nott holds no sway.

Solstice poem rewrite.

The corn-maid cries eternal
for the sun-king.
to burn away sins of may.
Ha! For the longest day.
Fare well once again to the lifeless spring.



The champions fiery chariot
chased by winters sting.
Who's cold breath chilling creeps,
To freeze the flora to sleep.

But the champion comes for his maiden,
ever riding the ring.

Estrella XXIV

Well Estrella War was great.  I fell head first in the mud.  Got puked on by a cute girl.  Put out a guy who set himself on fire.  Had champagne with my beloved hat-friend Sati.  Spent way to much money.  Can not remember much of Saturday (turned 35).  Met new friends and had beers and camped with one of my dearest S.C.A.  brothers Mogalin.   Made burnt offering to The Lord of the Wood.  Told a few stories and poems.  Missed those of you who were not there.  Apologized to those who were.  Made it from south of Pheonix to Blanding on one tank of gas.  Found some great coffee and incense.  A Lord died on the field of battle. ( Of a heart attack, not technically from combat.) No one else died (Huzzah).  Broke the lock on the trunk of the car.  Found a new favorite drink. ( 1 part sarsaparilla/ 4 parts rum over ice. )  Found a few new members of The Order of the Green Dragon.   Realized how much I really want a period tent.  Tipped the pan-fried noodle guys five times.  Did not get a sun-burn. Managed not to get stopped at Rimdulars trap. ( or any where else)  Partied with Magh-Thura. ( The southern bunches.)  Resolved to go next year.  Never wanted to leave, and am officially in a state of  stagnant melancholy.

Springtime Dance

With spring time comes a wicked dream.
On fanciful wings strange visions bring.
A restless sleep,
In slowly creeps
The court of the Elfin-king.
Mad the dance,
The dizzying reel.
Crazed,  his visage grim.
Who opened that door?
A secret path
And let the Elf-king pass?
Soft the Dawn-king breaks the day.
The faery chorus stops the play.
The murderous dance
It ceases at last.
And the night-folk fade away.

A Pie for Rowan

To my delight.

On the window sill I saw a pie.

Greedy little child I.

I reached in to get me a slice.

Its' Hot!  I cried.

And tears came from my eyes.

 

Mother sighed.

"That is the world pie.

Wait your turn or you'll be burned.

Have patience.

There are many lessons to  be learned.

If you bide your time.

And always be kind.

You may.....

Get a bigger slice."

Down to Earth

Falling through the sacred verse.
Falling forgotten, down to earth.
Crashing with a resonant sound.
Into the cold cold ground.
Falling, falling, falling first.
Down, down, down, to earth.
From a sunless sky.
Is this what happens when an angel dies?

For The Girls

A water sprite came to me.
Her full lips kissing sweet.
She drew me down,
down to the Undine deep.
And left me there
with stolen breath.
Drowned in the sea.
With naught care
nor grief or wot to weep
o'er a foolish love-sick boy like me.

 

To me you are like heaven-fire.

The horns of power shining.

Warming my cold lonely way.

A queen or two has fallen before.

Always the life-orb sets on my day.

Bright flower of morning.

From the path do not stray.

Your spear held fast.

When the last skald

His last song

Has played.

 

Mother-nature wept
When she brought forth you.
Her tears the morning dew.
All her children raised there voice
Giving thanks to The Lord on High.
Ne'er a child so fair
Since the shining one walked the earth.
And all man-kind now lifted up
Is blessed by thy birth.

With trembling delight
Thy lissome limbs around me bold
Do excite a not so secret delight.
When thy fair form I do behold
I weep for want of saving you
From your miserable plight
Come now to my arms
Into the warmth and the light.
Hold me forever
Into the blackest night.
Let not the vile stench
Of ill intent turn you from
what is right.
Let my love surround you.
Receive this not so secret delight.

 

 

 

 

Artemisian Games

Come one. Come all.

Drink around the fire.

The spirits salute summers call.


Listen to the stories told.

Of times ancient and old.

As you quaff your ale.

Tales of heroes foolish and bold.

of maidens pale,
and hidden dragons gold.


Rest your weary bones
at Dragonsmarche home.

Leave your worry behind
as you tip your mead in the fires light
and ease your troubled mind.

From Highschool Years

The grass withered where he walked.

The trees bent the other way.

Night time descended when he walked.

Well, that what they say.

I saw him once, deep in prayer,

In the icy still of the church-yard.

I shivered and turned away in fear.

And blessed my self for god.

Next I saw him on the road.

Bereft and empty, dark his eyes.

A marble hand gnarled, stiff with cold.

I swiftly passed him by.

 

She waits for me around every bend
But I mock her
Laugh in her face
She'll not govern when my end.
I'll not run her mortal race.

She will wait for me
Until I am ready to be free
Until I clasp her icy hand
And join her in her lonely land.

 

 

A Bloated Cow

I saw a bloated cow today
As we drove
It's belly huge soft and grey
Ready to burst.
It wobbled in the back of a pick-up-truck.
A methane filled balloon.
A filthy fat stinking carcass.
Dinner for twisted ravenous grubs.

Bound for a carnage filled place
Full of pets neglected, abused, dead.
Great machines will push bones
Around and around
While all the flesh is absorbed
Into the barren ground.

Suffering

To what end this suffering?
Will eternal joy it bring?
If we could find the river Lethe
I would take a sip,
Forget my grief.
All my wanton care.

Then to the spring of Hvergelmir.
A place of far off dreams.
To take our pleasure there.
Before we taste the sting
And by Urd on cruel wings
Our love is rendered bare.

To Camp in These Hills

I love to camp in these hills of mine.
Sometimes hike
There is nothing like
the way they sparkle.

The noon-sun, hot, shimmers
casting it's rays
off of Budlight cans
and broken Sobee bottles

The mid-day heat
can not compete
with the plastic Smiths bags
waving in the breeze
from one or two trees.
And the underwear in
that scrub-oak grove
does not belong to me.

The Lazy Knight

                      I.
It's time to get fat for the winter!

Don't  ask me to climb that hill.

Look here comes my dinner.

They have served it upon my shield.

It's time to get fat for the winter.

I don't think I'll climb that hill.

 

What is it you say?

It's time to march to battle today?

It's time to take the field?

All that din and the clatter,

Some one bring me my platter.

Oh look it's already filled.

 

I think I'll stay behind.

The hogs, the foul and the cattle to mind.

It's time to get fat for the winter.

That's something I don't mind.

 

                       II.

Oh where is the Lord of the manor?
It's time to plow the field.
The Lord of the manor is in his house
Drinking up last years yield.

Its time to get drunk for the winter.
But don't ask me to pay the bill.
Oh look here comes my dinner!
Be careful it's easily spilled!

So what do ya say to a round?
All that rich, foamy, dark ale.
Quick some one bring me a pail.
Too late! I'll just lie on the ground.
Open my mouth.
And pray that I'm not drowned.

                III.

Oh where is that dragon?
It must be slain
This is the last flagon
And he's burned all the grain.

Oh who will slay the dragon for me?
I'll invite you to dinner you'll see.
I fear I can no longer mount my horse
But if you come to dinner I'll eat every course.

Now we've nothing but wine to drink
That dread full dragon
Oh how he stinks!
He's slaughtered some cattle
and eaten some sheep.
I confess.
I'm finding it hard to sleep.

So the dragon, please kill it for me.
Or at least make friends with the awful beast.
For it's awfully cold in the winter
We'd be glad of the heat.
Aye we'd put him to work
At cooking the feast!

      IV.

Well I fear
the Earl is here.
He demands food for the army.
Spirits and beer.
But the lord of the manor
he`s not around.
A maid most charming,
he has found.
The pantry is bare to the ground,
And the barrels all empty.
The whole house-hold soused.

Now The Earl he`s pacing
around the grounds
grumbling and muttering
about food to be found.

He looks rather flustered
All huff and bluster
"Now where is the beer?
The spirits?
No time I fear!
The dreadful enemy
Is drawing near!"

So stowing his thumb in his iron breast plate
he turned on his booted heels to make haste.
Calling "Double time men!!
The drink has to wait!"
We`ll have em by morning
All in their graves!
We`ll sup with the ravens
And be home the next day!"

 

 

               IV.I

Now one small lonely wagon lingers
And a young boy
wringing his fingers.

"Please sir put our dinner in here.
Me and this donkey
We`re to bring up the rear."

He proffers a small bag of coins
Some new, some old
all of them minted of gold.
With an awkward salute
he turns and he goes.

 

 

 

 

             Extras.

Aye and his wife,

not to be found
for she is tending the miller
who has nothing left to be ground.

But more is merrier on the manor grounds
So who wants the wife around?
When maidens are plenty
The beer is so stout!

And  she's having her way

With the grain grinding lout.

 

 

 

 

 

Sunset

Who killed the sun?
"I."
Said Twilight.
"Pulled him down into the night."

"And I saw him die."
Said Urd.
"His blood spread across the pale blue sky."

"He's not dead."
Cried the Moon.
"Here I'll show you his light"
And she shined ever so bright!

Until Dawn came
A terrible sight
Burning away at the kingdom of night.

Winter Poem

Frau Holda
I am cold.
You shake the down from your blankets,
To much snow.
And your fellow Jack
Frosts my soul.

The dryads will sleep
In the ever-green tree
Inside in the warmth
Through cruel winter deep.

Oh Snow-queen,
Jultom calls,
Old Juleniss.
So release thy cruel hold.

This hard ice-road, cracking my bones
Was ne'er for me.
I can not hear what thy ice-maidens sing.
Just burning kisses my heart to freeze.

Sun-king lying with virgin spring
Forgets his squabbling brood
Leaves us to Frost as he dreams.
But oh what that wicked lady will bring.

Now Red-cap his sleigh of delight
Loaded with lies
From the Fae-realm will ride
Perhaps to snatch him
An unwanted child tonight.

Our doors are circled and crossed
From thy sting
And we remember those lost
In thy season of grief.

Now then from thy ring
Of torture release!
We call on gentle Danu
And winter appeased!

 

 

 

Yup I think snow is on the way.

Another Winter Poem

I entered this one in the local winter writing contest. I never heard from them again.

Oh close your weary eyes Father Sun.
Grandmother winter has come.
She shakes her autumnal apron dry
And the snow flies!
So father sun close your eyes.

Grandmother winter is here.
She hangs from heavy tree limbs
The crystals of her chandelier.
She frosts the frozen ground with snow
And bites at your fingers, ears and toes.

Oh where did Father Sun go?

Now Grandmother winter also brings
One or two pleasant things
Hot apple pie and holy-day dreams
And warm scented fires
A promise of spring.

Beneath cold blankets her grandchild sleeps.
Oh father of summer, her promise she keeps.
Through the long frigid nights forget all your fear.
For Grandmother Winter has come to help finish the year.

A.R. Forsgren

October Poems

More poems written in the month of October. Notice the same themes run through them.


All hail the cold Winter-Queen.
Here pale knife the Sun-King has slain.
Now she in her cycle turns away.
Smiling no more
with her love in the grave.
(2008)

Now is the time for the dead.
See the grinning gourds alight?
Calling them from their bed
Where they, mistaken
thought they could finally rest.

Hear the silent chill,
in the still wind of winter.
Last years fruit now ripe.
The bitter cold to kill.

The hands of skeletal trees
on the harp.
Play The Storm-Kings part.
While we in our turn fall to our knees
and pray for The Sun-Queens' Spark.

As you think of your grandpa
your mother your friends
and all of your kin-folk.
Dead in the end.

Remember.
In darkness, in winter
Her love begins.
And Her love knows no season.
And His love rises again.
(2008)

The Crone exhales
Her cold breathe.
The dieing time
Again.

Old man opens his eyes.
His white beard a blanket.
Hiding the sunlight away.
He takes in her cold breathe.

And they wait
For fertile springs lips
To raise their son
Flowers in his steps.
(2007)

So pumpkins grin.
And the hunter-moon spins bright
Across the sky.
And the fire-eye
Sits in the stinging-house.
As the old new-year
Draws nigh.

Happy Hallowe'en

(2007)

 

Soon, lost-souls come to play.

Strange beasts from nether realms roam free.

Pale full-moon green, spells the land.

 All wise beings settle in to sleep.

Cold breath, rattling old bones,

Through cutting wind.

The song of December-man.

Sings early again.

The heart numb.

Hallowed things

In the grave.

And naught but a bitter taste

Guiding the true-soul way.

(2007)

 

 

 

A Collection of Norse Inspired Verse.

Longest day of the year.

Ever spurring the firy eye
Sol flees Skoll
And thus the judgement day.
To Ragnorok
The wyrd-winds blow.
Nott holds no sway.

 

 

Thunor makes his hammer sing.
Striking jotuns, his ancient foe.
Forging from the ever-ring
Mid-gards gardens,
Ash-kins brutal home.

Hear now!
The battle maidens ride tonight.
Odin-rage dripping from there blades.
The Valkyrie on fearful steads do stride.
The spear-brides bearing the warriors prize.
A place at the end-all fight.

Stout be your hearts!
Axes ring sharp.
The grim howl of the Val-hal harp.
Calls the hero home tonight
Only to dine with ol Garm-feast bright.
And wait for the Gjalarhorns-plight.

Old Odin sat in his one-eye hall.
The two who knew
Past and present flew.
Dire-times the blood-path soaked.
Haunting hollow hill and dale.
Mid-gard-men frail, pale
Die like wheat on the reapers nail.

Transceived now home in Val-hal light.
The spear-groom suffers
The kiss of his wife.
The worm-taste heavy
Clay-hole full.
But the corpse home is not
Where the spirit now roams.

Red-rain showers warriors brave,
Foe men fall.
The Iron-grass has its Gore-water
One-eye blesses his battle slaves

Life-drink slick the shining plane
Raven thick, feasting away,
No care who won the day
The last Wound-dead groans in pain
Val-hall has it's pay.

 

Don't Summon Storms With Anger.

Is that a friendly storm
watering the flowers
where you walk?

Or is it of malice born
striking your enemies
with a brutal spark?

The angry djin
Summoned in ire.
Will eat you within
A wrathful liar.

While the gentle rain
From a loving sylph
Will your garden reclaim
And brighten your realm

The Trolls are Coming

I have a fascination with trolls and giants and the old faery folk especially the northern type. This one is a rather silly series of verses. It is on going and I will most likely add to it in the future.
When I started writing this I was amazed at how many different type of trolls I came up with. Their are even a few that do not have verses yet.
Do you know any trolls? I would love to hear about them.

The trolls are coming.

The trolls are coming!

It’s a big one in front.

A King of the Trolls

By the size of his gut.

He has a long beard

That drags in the mud

It’s tangled and snarled

A home for stray bugs

And he is drinking swill

From a huge oaken mug

Next we see the mountain trolls

Each of them juggling

Large heavy stones

There is moss on their toes

And strength in their bones

Best ye respect these hearty folk

And let them be in their earthly home.

Oh a rare sight indeed!

Are these book-trolls I see?

Each with long fingers

Leafing through pages and pages

Of stories of ages

Their large pale eyes

Well suited to read

The books they have

Pilfered from you and from me

Even the lazy trolls have mustered.

Look how they posture and bluster.

With drooling jaws

And greedy snatching claws

All day they dream of plunder.

Ask them to fetch their own dinner

They'll wine and they'll whimper

And cry and simper

Until their bellies are full

Then insist it be you

To wash out the bowl!

Now comes a common breed

They guard things,

Like bridges and crossroads.

The weird neighbors abode

All shapes and sizes

With clever disguises

Masters of riddles

They collect tolls

Be it a tune on a fiddle

Your flesh or your gold

If this sort of troll

You never meet

You will be lucky indeed!

Now let your eye stray

To these beautiful maids

The troll-wives are fair

Beyond compare

See how the sun sparkles

And plays in their hair?

Their lissome, long legs

Lithe in the grass

Oh for the love of a buxom

Troll lass!

An Irish troll I see

Not the Chuan of the glen

But an ancient fir-bolg

Hoary and grim

With one eye like Balor

Bearing a harp and a drum

An old spirit of Eyre

Who rumbles and plays

As he comes

In dirty red hats

With cruel knives

And empty sacks

Beware! Stay back.

The vicious red-caps

Will take you away

Unless your mother

You obey.

And what have we here?

With eye-brows arched

And ugly, pinched faces

Cold hearted, critical trolls,

Never liked, always hated.

But you’re wrong

And they’re right

Despite

What you know

And they don’t.

Don’t be a wretched,

Critical troll,

A know it all creature

With no friends at all.

Stinky trolls never good!

Tuck your nose

Away in your hood

You can see how they reek

Grimy skin

Moldy old feet

Foul breathe

Unbrushed teeth

Some even smell

Like warm rotten meat.

The old snow Trolls
They let their drums roll.
And the cold blows
Into your armour holes.
Let it snow....let it snow.
The old winter trolls
Are coming to freeze your bones.

A Well Fed Troll

Once there were three brothers. They were unfortunate and mis-shaped.
    The first brother was very tall with enormous hands and feet. He was so clumsy that he broke things every where he went.
   The second brother was of average height but he was a hump-back and tended to let his hair grow long and unruly, he never combed it or washed it. He was not hire able.
   Third brother was well enough in body but he had great big ears, and bulging eyes that were yellow with sickness, and when he had a beard on he was quite frightening indeed. No maid would look at him.

  
   Rather than lament their unfortunate states, the brothers decided amongst them selves to make their abode far away in the high mountains. Taking what tools and supplies they could gather, and a few goats for meat and milk they removed themselves from other folk and were content to live a life of seclusion.

   Now first brother, though he was clumsy was rather clever at certain things, and fishing was one of them.  Often he spent his days snatching salmon and gronling from the mountain streams and lakes to smoke for the winter.
  Third brother favored long walks in the woods where he could forage for mushrooms and sweet onions and smell the fragrance of the earth.
  Second brother was happy to tend the goats all through the lazy day, and became good at making cheese and kefir. He kept bees and could make a  fine mead as well.
  In this way the brothers survived and were happy.

   As progress is ever the way of human-folk, a small village soon appeared not far from the brothers’ secret home-stead. Eventually the folk of the village began to discover signs left by the brothers.
   The first evidence was foot prints, twice as big as any normal person down the valley on the shore of the lovely lake. 'It has to be a large creature' thought the villagers.
 
   One day third bother was ambling through the dark forest early in the morning just before dawn finding fresh morals and savoring the mist rising from the rotten forest floor, never noticing the drunken farmer stumbling home in the early morning fog.

   "It has bulging eyes and huge ears and digs in the earth" cried the peasant when he woke up that same afternoon.


   And then second brother was spotted by a small girl one evening just after sunset. He was carrying a large Billy-goat over his already humped shoulders and the horns curved sharply, tangling in his shock of messy hair. He must have been a frightening sight for such a small child.

   Now the village counsel thought long about what to do with a troll in the mountains near their ever expanding farmland.
   No one wished to fight it. Every one agreed that trying to slay a troll was folly. And the best thing would be to try and keep it's belly full so it had no need to gobble up poor stringy peasant folk.
   So it was decreed that every one should leave what extra they had each week down near the lovely lake by a tall pile of stones for the troll.

   The three misfigured brothers knowing how they frightened regular folk remained hidden as well they could, deep in the high mountains and gratefully stowed away the strange offerings that the villagers left each Freya's-day.  In this way they were able to live in the way simple folk imagine kings do, never suffering the pain of hunger or the lack of decent drink.


Alternate ending:


If one wishes for an even happier ending it could be supposed that during one particularly cold and hard winter the brothers decide to share the large store of food and goods collected from the frightened villagers. There by saving the village in a time of great need.

October Poem 2010

Each time the wheel turns I try to write an October poem to remember the end of the old Celtic year. Here is the one I wrote this year.

October Poem

 

 

Again the dying of the year

When goblins appear

With wicked grins

And the veil thins

Arousing mortal fear.

 

What dread creatures haunt the night

To give your weary soul a fright?

Monsters hidden in the deep

With the weakend sun can creep

Into the pale light.

 

 

A skeleton hangs from a tree

A muffled moan reminds me

The turning leaves are falling

And ancient spirits

Are roaming free.

 

Listen.

Hear the quiet sighing breeze

A gentle lament sung for thee.

A hint of spring

In the sun lights dying gleam?

 

A Sonnet For My Beloved.

     Well lets get down to it then. Most of what I write is poetry. I do on occasion like to write the odd short story. Most of my poems are poems of adoration or gratitude with some silly stuff of the fantastic nature thrown in, and a dark streak where it seems I wrote quite a bit about suffering. (I confess it is a mystery to me what was so terrible,  I can only blame it on certain betrayal's of my love and trust, of which I am not entirely innocent of in my own right.) With out further ado, let us begin with a sonnet written for a certain girl.

R.

Thy sweet tongue need not compose poetry.
Each precious kiss from you gives voice to mine
Thy embrace a poetic place, and holy
Every sweet journey filled with verse and rhyme.

Golden autumn turns to brittle winter

And these chilly bones crave your warm respite.

A lonely inside voice cries “I miss her.

I long to be wrapped in her love tonight.”

Oh Venus, Calm the fit full sleepers dream.

Drench this fierce thirst with the memory of fire.

Keep well my immortal beloved queen.

Mother of Light, Lady of Love and Desire.

And murderous Fate, stay your cruel plan!

Bear me swiftly, and often unto her hand.

Vin-Golf

Here we have a drinking hall not unlike how one would imagine Herot in the epic verses of Beowulf.
Great timbers carved with fabulous grotesques support the golden walls and brace the high a-frame ceiling. A series of large fire trenches run the length of center, to a slightly raised platform that might serve as a stage for skalds or perhaps a high-seat for kings. Along either side short moveable benches just long enough for a drunk or two to pass out on are pushed against the walls. The walls, polished golden pine are adorned with shields of all shapes and colors and a sturdy rack for swords, spears, and axes is built right into the structure near the great copper banded oak door.


Well met all!
I have created this place so I would have some where to write. If you would like to read what I have have written and leave a comment or three, please do.

With gratitude,
A. R. Forsgren
Fentyr The Wandering Drunk from DragonsMarche
Shadow