Poem: Catharsis

Nothing like some Seax Prose first thing in the Morning.
Smells Like…Victory.

The Serpent's Loft

in the beckoning twilight I find the darkness

lax and lazy, complacent, satisfied

loose it reigns, a careless abandon

and I laugh, I laugh and cry

how I found God in a khlysti sermon

so soft and weak, so pale like moonlight

dough between my fingers

a pampered darkness scarcely bleak

gone and away the weight from my chest

the laughing, cawing turns to me

I see myself in me

every vein a hissing snake roaring

shrieking backwards up Yggdrasil’s spine

where there the stellar serpent lies

Nidhogg, swallower of all

keeper of all that dies

sweet dragon of my brood

and there I feel between my hands

there i feel the neck that hollers

pleading, bleeding into me

but i can squeeze now

fingers writhe and palpate

tender embrace of hate

gentle as the silent dawn

killing night with kindness

no more enthralled

the darkness held underneath my knees

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Call From The Crags

Call From The Crags

by Wisconsin Kraut


Will the inheritance of our people be put to grinding mill?


Where is my shining prince 

Steed tramping proud

Voice carried firm 

Blood flowing pure?

Where is my binded kilt

Pleats swirling quick

Tartan shining bright

Belt pulled snug?

Where is my faithful claymor

Blade chopping swift

Hilt woven stout

Scabbard empty apt

Have we stuffed such to forget our old chieftains

Have we been enlightened to scorn our fathers dress

Have we laid down our ancient broadswords

And invited a foreigner to our mother’s breast?

Do our eyes no more see charging stallions

Do our legs forget roads long past

Do our arms not recall clash and fire

Shall we spit upon what God gave to admire?

Are songs not sung of great heroes

Are badges of kinsfolk no more worn

Are bastions of nation now failed to build

Will the inheritance of our people be put to grinding mill?


My blood yet burns hotly

And fills my veins with razors

My mind still recalls our fallen kings

And dreams of what can be


My belt is pulled tight

And girds my loins in iron

My plaid is dyed brightly

And bears my family’s name


My broadsword is raised highly

And blade is keely worked

My targe is griped firm

And dirk carried sure.


The Farmer (Poem by Free Idealist)

The Farmer


Walking down the bloodied street,

I enjoy the dirt upon my feet,

That feeling that feels so sweet,

Of earthen dust so fine and neat.

I’m stared at by the men of town,

Their faces full of scowl and frown,

Who look so often always down,

So deep in debt they just might drown.

I laugh to myself at jokes in mind,

Jokes too rude for one to find,

In such a place like this, so kind,

Where all are woke, and yet so blind.

I travel here for a simple task:

To fill their pantry and their flask.

I’m given no thanks, and I do not ask,

In the goodness of this deed I bask.

I have no time for the fools of throne,

Whose songs are sung and horns are blown.

I care quite little for their walls of stone,

Instead I linger with the seeds I’ve sown.

Watching them grow from year to year,

Wiping away each and every tear,

Cultivating these souls so dear,

And teaching them to never fear.

While I’m in town I’ll just be polite,

Because I know full well I’ll be alright.

I’ll lay in bed with my wife tonight,

And fill her full of much delight.

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth



Say not the struggle nought availeth,

     The labour and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

     And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

     It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,

     And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking

     Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back through creeks and inlets making,

     Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,

     When daylight comes, comes in the light,

In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,

     But westward, look, the land is bright.