Tag: Norse

A collection of poems inspired by Norse mythology.

Norse, Poetry

The Children of Loki

The Royal Octopus

Three children born beneath the stars,
Marked by fate and battle scars.
Not monsters, no, but souls denied,
By gods who feared what they’d not tried.

First came Fenrir, wild and bold,
A wolf pup with a heart of gold.
He played with Tyr and chased the light,
But gods grew pale at signs of might.
They fed him lies, they forged a chain,
They bound him fast in fear and shame.
He howled not rage, but loss and grief,
Betrayed by hands that swore relief.

Then Jörmungandr, born of sea,
A serpent child, long, strange, and free.
He coiled through oceans, calm and vast,
No threat, until the verdict passed.
Cast out to depths, alone to grow,
With none to teach, and none to know.
They called him beast, a foe, a blight,
For daring just to be, not fight.

And Hel, the girl with silent grace,
Half in death, and half in place.
They saw her skin, one side so pale,
And called her cursed, and doomed her tale.
They banished her to rule the dead,
A crown of bones upon her head.
But never cruel, she kept the gate,
And held the lost with quiet fate.

Three children not of wrath, but wronged,
By gods whose hearts grew cold and strong.
Who feared the shape of what might be,
And punished them for prophecy.

But time turns slow, and tales return,
And fires rise, and oceans churn.
At Ragnarök, they rise not just
To fight, but to reclaim their trust.

Fenrir runs, the bindings break,
Not just for rage, but for love’s sake.
Jörmungandr coils, the world to brace,
To show the gods what they displaced.
And Hel stands calm as all things end,
The keeper of both foe and friend.

The gods will fall, as all things must,
And learn too late what’s fair and just.
For monsters come from fear, not birth—
And even outcasts can shake the earth.

©️ 2025

Norse, Poetry

The Trickster’s Song

The Royal Octopus

In Asgard’s halls of shining gold,
Where tales of gods and might are told,
There walks a shadow, ply and sly,
With laughter curled and clever eye.

Not born to throne nor praised in song,
Yet all have known his pull so strong.
The weaver of the web unseen,
The silver tongue, the shifting mien.

Loki, child of frost and flame,
Of shifting face and changing name.
One moment friend, the next a foe,
Where he may lead, none truly know.

He danced through lies like stepping stones,
He broke the peace, he rattled thrones.
Yet in his jest, a hidden cry,
A pain too deep for gods to spy.

A brother once to thunder’s might,
He laughed beside the god of light.
Yet fate and fire would split the thread,
Till bonds of blood and trust were shed.

He wore a grin none could unmask,
A thousand truths behind each task.
Yet who has seen the tear he hides,
When silence falls and rage subsides?

He birthed the wolf, the serpent’s tide,
The death of gods he did not guide.
But still the blame fell on his name,
The trickster caught in fate’s cruel game.

So curse him, praise him, fear his flame,
But know he played a deeper game.
Not just a jester born to fall,
But one who dared to challenge all.

For chaos walks where order sleeps,
And in the dark, the trickster weeps.
A god of masks, of wounds, of lore—
And still, he’ll knock on every door.

© 2025

Poetry

Loki

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the sky of shifting gray,
Where twilight dances, night meets day,
There spins a tale of guile and flame,
A trickster’s art, a whisper’s name.

Loki, born of frost and fire,
Weaver of schemes, unquenched desire,
With honeyed tongue and quickened mind,
He bends the fate of gods and time.

He walks the line ’twixt jest and spite,
A thief of truth, a shadowed light.
With silver lies and cunning art,
He sows discord in every heart.

A serpent sly, a fox’s grin,
His chaos spreads where he has been.
Yet in his tricks, a lesson lies—
To see the truth through veiled disguise.

For though his deeds may shatter peace,
And sow confusion without cease,
His clever hands reshape the way,
A spark that births another day.

Oh, Loki, wily, sharp, and sly,
A fire that flickers, never dies.
Your cunning path, both curse and boon,
A dance beneath the shifting moon.

2025 ©️

Poetry

The Petition of Hel.

The Royal Octopus

Through the veil of mist, she treads,
Where all light fades and shadows wed.
Across the fjords of jagged stone,
A mother walks, but not alone.

For grief, her constant guide and ghost,
Has led her where all lost souls coast.
To Helheim’s gates, dark and grim,
She prays the Goddess will hear her hymn.

Her heart, a vessel made of flame,
Burns with her lost child’s given name.
With every step, her body shakes,
But her love for him will never break.

The air is cold, the winds are wild,
Yet nothing chills like death of child.
The ancient gates of Helheim groan, But still she calls, though all alone.

“Hel, great Goddess of the dead,
Return my child,” the mother pled.
“Take my life, my breath, my days,
But let him walk in the sun’s warm rays.”

The silence lingers, thick and still,
As if the earth absorbs her will.
From shadows deep, Hel makes her way,
Her face half-pale as winter’s day.

“I cannot give what fate has sealed,
For death is a truth that can’t be repealed.
But mother, strong with heart so true,
I will grant one gift to you.”

The child appeared, a fleeting spark,
His eyes aglow in the endless dark.
One moment more, one final kiss,
Hel’s precious gift, a fleeting bliss.

Then darkness wrapped him in its shroud,
And silence fell, so harsh and loud.
The mother wept, but rose again,
She had held her child in Helheim’s den.

She turned and left that shadowed realm,
Her heart a bruised and battered helm.
But though she walks through life alone,
She carries him—her flesh, her bone.

2024 ©️