Sommersonnen

Brocken shelves, Watchtowers called

A tithe by oak, ov smoke to croft.  

Washing hands to cleanse the year

Stamping mirth as oxeye's wilt

Pressing steps upon the West 

Droving bands through the maypole dancers.

Shucking, cleaning, tossing, dried,

Bell jar, ribbon, salting, driver,

Sounding, being, Alpine mauer, 

Lithan light by Beltane pyres. 

The Rhine, the vine, the fruit so sour,

Wine from head. Fuck Saint John's Fire!!

A rolling wheel 

Poisons Well 

An Orpin welcome

At thresholds protected,

Seven flowers, pillowed dreams,

Gazing nude for their future kings

Reflecting suitors on whose subject formed 

A cycle vital for life to flourish.

Seed in palm—blessings bloom,

Midsummer swings by magical movement

A skill by craft betwixt illusion

Wreathing wheat for the next bride chosen.

Burn the VVitch for celebrating

A christian pastime from pagan pages.

Following orb from ferns born

Along eternal bog where pupils snore.

Carnelian rings ornately shine

Cabalistic Wars may never douse these fires

The birch, the limbs, the log, the sticks..

A canopy of ash sundered embers sent.

Torches stand by Yeshua's hold 

Kneel to the cross 

As solstice is stolen

Are the old gods here? Nay! they live no more.

They've all died censored by Vatican lore.

This devil feeds on a field once sewn

By the Harz in their burning

from the cinders they float. 

Lord of the Forest, Hunter by bow, 

Sol feasts with Áine & Demeter, Theros & Apollo.

Lugh of the green, the Horned God of stook straw, 

Caroling the carnyx belting a bellicose roar.

Aos sí sparks nab mortal thrones

Mischievous grabs for their lies on soil.

The price to pay: ov Fire & Void

To the defiers and believers

And those shunned from earth

By this rite, they name, as The Sun Reborn.

To reclaim in force, so no dragon soars,

In the seiðr spinnings to have their gods dethroned

A dream everlasting on blood und bone

Carved from slate peaks of mountainous shoals

Should the etchings be washed

Will they be passed down by tongue?

Those marching sheep, 

Whom observe crucian fables

Put knees to the ground, 

Face-first in prayer.

Their lord could not construct 

A table nor shelter

Over Maiden and my Mother

For thy Crone is thy Maker!

Oft we offered bread, & left the leavening for specters 

Turning Dysis from a day by a candle from Vesta

Yarrow sidh clovers protected by Æsir

Feastings for the dead, as the mound is the taker. 

In the month of Juno 

Freyan neck ignites heather 

Brewing idleness-in-love, 

Welding it's charm as a weapon

Meadows turned folly 

When Holly's crowned the Victor

Minutes morph into seconds 

When cast by a sentence.

Mugwort at the Louvre

Strokes the hours into swimmers

Midnight on the Rock, 

Painting glances from a lake bed.