The Poetry Marathon

When my final day comes,

my long walk upon this Earth ends,

I will not dread.

Life is a dream,

a dream from which all must wake.

Whatever reward lay on the other side,

whatever judgement awaits me,

I will face it tall and proud.

Maimed in life I have been.

Maimed of body,

not mind or soul.

If Odin awaits,

or cursed Hela in her halls of the damned,

or a vast emptiness left in the throws of Ragnarök,

I go forth bodly.

My race finished.

My battle done.

Lost or won,

I gave my best.

Cursing the night with my final breath.

Bring me eternity.

My soul is prepared.

Up sails!

Our oars!

The next adventure is come!

The sun rise once again has come.

Our watch through the long night has not been in vain.

Hope rises as the golden rays meet our eyes.

The gods might not be good,

nor may they be merciful,

but there is goodness in the world.

The rising sun gives evidence.

The sweetly singing song birds raise their voice.

Men of the worlds rejoice!

A new day is come.

A day to work.

A day to live.

A day to right the wrongs and change what is.

Bless the rising sun and the life it brings.

Let us labor while the sun is on the world.

Let us work while we can.

All the while knowing that night will come again.

And one night will come, that will have no end.

Thor give me guidance.

Odin bless my day.

I travel the unknown way.

Dangers surround me.

Enemies wait eagerly for me to fail.

I will not,

I cannot.

While there is life in my veins.

I will not flag.

I will not fail.

On and on I go.

On and on I go.

The weary traveler presses on

through unending miles of sinks and bogs.

The road is dangerous to travel at night.

But the dangers are below his sight.

He does not fear wrath or gale.

For his goal is behind the veil of night deep and long.

And so he must travel on.

Until he comes to the final place of rest

and he can sleep the sleep of the blessed.

The tragedy of life is not that it is short,

nor that it is frail.

Rather, tragedy comes when hope of meaning ends,

and life must endure.

How long must the wounded warrior suffer in vain?

How long will the pain of loss endure?

Tragedy is death without honor.

All men must die,

it has been decreed.

But what of those who live without purpose?

Where do we find hope?.

Where does our salvation lay?

I pine for reason as I search for meaning.

For what is life without meaning?

My shield arm is gone,

as is my purpose.

Yet life endures.

Are the gods so cruel.

Can a man find life divorced of meaning?

Time will teach

and time will tell.

But time stretches on too well.

I seek the reason.

I seek the rhyme.

And all I find is time.

May whatever gods remain hear my plea.

And find a meaningful life for me.

I love a maiden who’s skin is fair as fresh milk.

Her hair is spun gold.

Her eyes are a sea during a storm.

She is more than an ornament,

a fruit to be picked in its true time.

Her tongue is sharp.

Her wits the sharper.

Her temper, a roaring fire.

Thrūd warrior goddess,

Thor’s true daughter

has been made flesh in this maiden’s guise.

Not even the queen of Valkyries could be more lovely.

Thor’s own child would not be as strong.

I go to court a woman

of beauty, strength, and skill,

may I find favor in her will.

It hangs beneath my eyes

catching stray food better than flies.

I wash it with mead

and soak it with ale.

It is the very picture of my zeal.

With age come strength.

And strength bows its head to gray wisdom.

Its glory grows the greater.

As it lengthens each day,

it becomes harder to keep the maidens away.

A shield maid

loves a strongly bearded man.

Of the bearded ones

among my tribe,

none can stand by my side.

Its glory is my song.

Its color, though the color of good steel,

will better younger men

no matter their zeal.

My beard is the greatest that can be.

Just touch it and see.

What is left when a man’s soul is fled?

Hi body burned,

cold ashes on damp ground.

The memory remains.

His arms and shield will hang in the hall.

Till none can recall

the sign or sigil.

Still, his memory remains.

The legacy of the man he was  is alive in those he touched.

Let a man live in such a way,

that his legacy grows day by day.

To go to Valhalla where the victorious dead feast

would be joy to fill the soul,

but it is no comfort to those left here below.

Let a man leave a part of himself

with those who knew him best.

For it is not axe, sword, or shield that bring warmth in the Long Night,

but memory forged while the sun still stood high.

Let his labors be remembered.

Each word and deed inscribed on hearts forever.

For the dead have not truly flown

until their memory is left al alone,

when the world is nothing but bone.

I wish to sleep,

to lay my head at rest,

to allow my soul to flee to realms that none can see.

But my road is long,

and the voyage not yet done.

Though it has been hours since last I’ve seen the sun.

So on I go

with weary tread

until at last my goals are met.

The sleep of peace

will overtake me then.

And dreams of maidens wait to comfort tired men.

A choice is given to every man it seems.

A choice to rise.

A choice to flee.

Even a choice to bend the knee.

But my choice was taken from me,

on that long ago day beside the sea.

The final thrust of my enemy’s blade,

proved more than my body could take.

I blame my Thane,

but he did not strike the blow.

I blame my luck,

too fickle a thing to reliably flow.

I blame the gods,

but they are all dead, their souls lost below.

Without choice I make my way in this world.

Wondering if the god’s were alive,

would they notice me here below.

A lowly man with a limp and one arm.

Surely I could do no harm.

But the gods are dead,

and my luck is fled.

And I must suffer on till I find a place to rest my head.