I don’t usually post my own art here on this blog, but I’m making an exception today because I’m really happy with how the first piece came out.
I was recently invited to participate in an Australian show titled “Post-cards from the Hudson Valley.” That will be in March and then later this year, Australian artists will have a show at a gallery in Beacon. The images have to be six by eight inches — much, much smaller than I normally work. Because one poor artist is schlepping all the art over in her luggage, she asked that we work on paper rather than canvas, so I gessoed up two pieces of Arches watercolor paper and got to work (the third, she’s printing for me since it’s a photograph).
The first is titled “Beacon Shaman 2019”, acrylic on paper (it already sold):
The second, a weird little abstract landscape titled “Beacon Lights”, also acrylic on paper (I was coming home late at night and saw the lights of the city twinkling across Fishkill River…it looks better in person — the texture didn’t really come out in the photo):
and finally, the third is a photograph of a military memorial in London titled “Lest We Forget”:
I do take commissions — in fact, I just finished one for an etsy customer so if you’re interested, contact me here.
beautiful prayer for Sigyn from thehouseofvines:
She sits on a rock while a cold wind blows her knotted hair
and the tattered, filthy remnants of her once lovely gown.
Before she was the fairest of all the Ásynjur;
now hardly anyone would recognize her for the lines of sorrow
and ache that etch her pale face like cracks in stone,
like threads of a spider’s web.
Before there was feasting and song and gay laughter
while her flame-haired husband poked fun at the gods
and said the things they most needed but least wanted to hear
– now all she knows is the cup of bone she holds in her strong hands,
a cup carved from the skull of her son Nari.
She hasn’t had time to mourn him properly,
he who was mauled by his brother,
he whose heart was devoured by wolfish Váli,
he whose guts bind the son of Laufey beneath the venom-dripping…
View original post 113 more words
Beloved in the Arts of War
Serene and elegant,
let no one misunderstand:
You are the power-broker of Asgard.
Even more than Your Husband,
You weave strategies and plans,
owning the field of combat,
whatever it might be.
Victory has already formed in Your mind.
You have woven it into wyrd,
before any conflict ensues.
None may challenge Your mastery.
You must. It is Your duty:
to guard Your territory,
to protect those within.
One Who loves Her people,
does what She must
to ensure Their safety.
You are nourished
on the thunderous joy of winning,
especially against Your husband;
when You clash wits, the worlds tremble.
Clever Goddess, You are fire and ice
and everything in between,
and You hold the worlds in Your hands.
May we always honor You,
in the fullness of Your being.
Let us always celebrate Your glory.
Hail to You, Beloved Frigga.
(by G. Krasskova)
I’m extending Morpheus’s Agon until the end of February. The winner will receive a copy of “Devotional Polytheism” and six Morpheus prayer cards.
He who gives me what I rarely remember
Morpheus, Great God of Dreams, I have a question to ask of you:
Why do I so rarely remember my dreams?
I know that I do dream; all humans do, even my kind.
And yet, I so rarely remember mine.
And what I do remember is so tantalizing, it draws me back to sleep,
To trade the mundane of waking life for the majesty of dream.
Perhaps that is why Morpheus, in His Divine wisdom,
does not allow me to remember my dreams.
For the Gods are above us, and their gifts are Theirs to parcel out as needed.
And that has always been the way of things; though our society refuses to acknowledge it.
I understand that truth – I learned it a dream I do remember.
And now I hail He who gives me what I rarely remember.
My Dead, of whom I can always dream
Perhaps someone who does not live the veneration of the Dead,
Might naively believe that those who do never feel the pain of loss.
Sadly, that is not the case.
Indeed, some days – in my opinion – it is even worse;
We talk as though face to face, with those who have traveled to that undiscovered country,
And that makes it all the more terrible when we cannot feel their comforting touch again,
When their presence is spiritual, rather than physical,
When their voices are the muffled moans of the buried Dead.
But all praise be, to the Great God of Dreams.
For Morpheus, so noble is He,
He who allows us mortals the gift of dreams.
And we can always meet our Dead in our dreams.
And feel their touch again. And smell their smell again.
And hear their voices with our ears, not just our hearts.
Musing on Morpheus, Mnemosyne, and Mortality
The God of Dreams and the Goddess of Memories – what is the connection?
And why do thoughts of both come into my mind in connection with my Dead?
The Author of the dreams that drive us,
The Mother of the Muses who inspire us;
What is the connection?
To sleep, perchance to dream, now, that is the question;
But what is the connection?
As I ponder this, another question enters my mind:
Do the Dead dream?
The answer is, most likely, known only to the Dead themselves.
But the living are at least allowed to speculate.
And when I speculate, I feel another question enter my mind:
Are those who dream, not dead to this world while they dream?
For what is a dream, but one of two things:
A vision sent onto the sleeping by the Holy Powers;
The brain’s attempt to process random electrical discharges within it during sleep,
as influenced by the memories it contains.
And thus – the Connection.
Morpheus, the God of Dream. Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Memory.
Both are Deities of the Mind.
Both are tangentially connected to Mortality.
When we dream with the dead, we must thank Morpheus.
When we dream of the dead, we must thank Mnemosyne.
My praise to Morpheus!
Hail He who allows us to dream with our dead.
My praise to Mnemosyne!
Sing for She who allows us to remember our dead.
To the Keeper of the House
In the morning before Her household wakes
She sits in silence, taking counsel from the dead.
She reads the passage of stars, patterns in the wind,
listens to the voices of the fire dancing in the hearth.
She is wise this Lady, Maintainer of Her Home,
a fierce Defender with blade and spear,
an Equally fierce manager at wheel and loom.
There is no equal to Her quiet force,
and it is She Who orders Asgard,
ensuring its bounties flow.
Before Sunna streaks across the sky,
relieving Her brother to His daily work,
the Queen of Asgard, whispers with the Moon,
and Mani tells Her of things He has seen far and wide.
There is no secret hidden from Her keen eyes,
no power She does not understand,
though She holds Her knowledge secure in Her breast,
shared only with a trusted sister, perhaps,
and never with the man Who shares Her bed.
(by G. Krasskova)
To He who is Glad-of-War
War is Your delight, Oh Tester of Men.
It is Your sacrament, a sacred sieve,
where fire and ice meet anew.
Our ancestors knew Your voice,
howling, terrible, a thousand winds,
raging and fighting in Your song,
runes spat forth, ferocious,
wiping generations clean.
Raw and raging like a bear,
with the viscera of prey
between its jaws, You come.
Visage rust-red, bright and bloody,
adorned with scars of victory,
Ash spear hungry, gleaming razor bright
in the oozing mire of war, Oh You come.
Shield-shaker, Attacking rider,
thighs grip fast the gallows horse
as You ride, and there is no prey
You cannot find. No place
for Your enemies to run.
Bring the world to heel,
with the maelstrom of Your battle cry,
and may Your Valkyries feast.
May we too feast fast in the knowledge,
that there is nothing greater than You,
and nothing we need ever fear,
with You at our backs.
Hail, Haptabeiðir, Roaring God,
Hail the Father of Hosts.
(by G. Krasskova)
Sannion has finished a beautiful set of hymns for Freya. There is one for each day of the week. Check them out at his site.
Here is the complete set of Daily Hymns for Freyja.
Day I. To the Mistress of the Silver Distaff
I call upon Freyja who tends the graves of the ancestors
and joins her deep, rich voice to theirs
in the ancient songs that stir life’s currents
and cause brightly hued flowers to unfurl,
branches to bend under the weight of swollen fruit,
animals to fatten and beget plentiful offspring
and fields of golden wheat to rise high
as the thigh of a thickly-muscled thrall;
Freyja who dances in darkest night
as bear-stars and waggon-stars
and stars of the hunt circle and shine overhead
and fey figures leap and laugh
in the leafy trees that surround her;
Freyja, whose delicate, knowing fingers tease
and twine, twist and untangle the fateful thread.
Oh gracious Goddess, hear our prayers
and bless the dead who are dear to us
that our entire line together…
View original post 1,353 more words