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on a sudden storm

where once the sky broke bright now i only see claws and crows moving fast. Running with flags and ribbons herald dark the weather rushing upon the unsuspecting town. Bruised and Burn down the far off hills until it hold most of the sky it whispers words few are not scared to speak. Bringing a still that drives wings from the sky where they shudder and flop against a ground now dark. Birds scream and thrash calling forgiveness at airs that have rejected them. At last against sheltering glass comes the rain that drowns the day

On the traditional celebration of Leif Erikson's day

on the traditional celebration of Erikson's day.


The ninth of October the blackest day, for it is Erikson's day. Few hold the old ways but I speak them unto you. We wake to clean and brush out teeth as cleanliness has long been valued by the Nordic people. We hunger and so eat the tradition viking breakfast of Muslix harvest fruit, served cold in remembrance of the fjords. Again we brush our teeth, as stated above the Scandinavians are a very clean people. To finish our morning we dress. When choosing clothing denim and leather are especially esteemed fabrics, wrist guards or full leather bracers are considered core component of ones outfit. A broad sword or battle axe is the traditional compliment to ones outfit.

When performing ones duties during the day do not hesitate, mince or use caution; but be assured of yourself. Cut with a single stalwart chop. Take time to ponder the sea, gaze longingly upon it if you live near a port city. Fill your desires with excess and live this day to the full. Give but do not take, pay only with cash, coin or gold. Do not further or debts and pay them down if you can.


For the Norwegians and Swedes long connection to heavy metal, listen only to death or doom metal. Danes may consider listening to their kinsman King Diamond. Beat up your English friends a little unless they "God save us from the fury of the northmen!" Then buy them a mead. Give crude gestures to your local Columbus Day parade. At home decorated with two ravens placed by your door, not one not three not more. Cut ones hand and mark your door and windows with bloody runes. Burn a fish in offering to Thor. End the night in a drunken stupor after a metal show and call in sick the next morning.

These are the rites of Leif Erikson's day.

Aloysius Alone

It seemed night or near in the clouds and smoke to aloyisus perched above the city. lungs filled and failed; his watch wide eyed on flames wholey amazed. Soot encrusting his vision he wondered back to where it all start.

Some where long from friends aloyisus awoke on the road with little but himself. Full or fat he didnt need so he walked. In trackless seas of golden grasslands he strode or limped on tirelessly til night. Amid sunsets and now buzzing city lights Aloyisus watched Nicene's path ribbon through streets made perfect in her wake. Some days he would wander them for hours hoping; eyes gleamed full in melancholy on streets he dreamed she touched. Here held high watching ribbons slowly dissappear and the sublime sink into the real. If hours or weeks I could not say but Aloyisus beheld sorrow.

In these days Anglac was not found and even Haddibaugh lost, they would be about with time, but now Aloyisus alone. Nicene unseen he pitied and hated the city. Longing turned leaving again he was set to his feet. Down with the speed only weight pulls he stomped and galloped and ran until he was in the city and anonymus. Then just a shadow the people didnt want to see, he wandered til he found the creeks. Sunk low ebb and flow these veins of the city carried winter waters to a muddy sea but burnt dry they harbored Aloyisus and carried him on. Across his valley in meer breaths he stopped moments to set free things he loved and close up his home. Few things kept and again set upon the road.

R.I.P.E.G.G.

Now stop and remember and dream;
far from cynicism when you were young .
Who told us with wide wonder
The stories of the age?

Lives stronger, kinder, better,
you lived long nights bold
In tales a master weaving
That held off your own needing

Tomes now are silent
That once kindled all delight
Mourn with me old joys passing
and a masters passing light

In your age was he forsaken?
Mocked with selfward spite.
Now you wear sardonic guises
ill fit that always hang like a lie

Slip off this veil; return my friend to me
Drink in joy, foolishness and sorrow
Hold the old master up with honor
Relive again lives he taught us to dream

A Piebald Horse

Ribbons red, blue and gold sewn and wove through the mane of Anglac's courtiers steed. Here all slender and grace mulled in winter morning still fragile. Aloysius upon a piebald horse matted and awash with mud followed. These times little they spoke, each reading and read the other as if brothers. On pestilent vales this went hours into hours til eastward hills were well in sight. Southward on climbs that oversaw a smokey city watching with some scorn. Amid orchards the manors held by Aloysius family waited them and many more.

Grey and cold wanders in and unsure night somehow fleeting and uncommitted to the land. But with hours lamps are lite and strung in leaf barren trees. A wind would wash up driving branches like a fist shaking in the air. And the two road mindless of gales rattling windows on well wooded streets past in wordless hours. Anglac's hair wild rushed with the gusts and lashed, where it was always in place. Aloyisius's a mild mess as always smiled headlong into the weather. Now it would not be long.