All Their Voices

Words and thoughts in devotion to the Divine

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Observation about the afterlife

You know…for all that I am fulltrui to Odin, I am not expecting to go to Valhalla when I die, and that is for the simple fact that I am not a warrior. The idea of fighting and dying every day only to get up the next day and do it all over again sounds like my definition of the Christian Hell. I’m a rapidly-approaching-elderly housewife with some poetic skill, and I’ll be just fine with a warm bench in one of Hela’s quieter halls.

Combat isn’t everything, and sometimes honor can be found places other than at the sharp end of a sword.


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Deity for August

According to the impressions I’ve gotten, and confirming those through divination, the deity for August will be Brân.

I don’t have much interaction with the Welsh gods at all. I did a poem for Blodeuwedd some time back, and another for Rhiannon, and I’ve done a lot of research on Manawydan back a few months, when I was writing so many poems for Manannan; I also recently re-read the different translations I have of the Mabinogion (I have the Gantz, the Sioned Davies, the Jones and Jones, and the Ford) because I was getting a LOT of hints that I was supposed to be paying more attention to the Welsh deities. I wanted to refamiliarize myself with the stories of Gwydion, Lleu, Dylan, Math, Arawn, Pwyll, and Arianrhod.

The hunter on the hill, then.

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Emptied out of echoes.

Let my inner furnace burn.

Serpents of air in the branches;
stag leaping in the torchflame.

See with new eyes.
Breathe with new lungs.
Feel with new heart.

What if I choose to break for good?

The secret of fire, the sorrow of rain.
The way the light shreds in the west at dusk.

Black mare, red mare,
carry me through the battles,
bear me through my struggles;
under me, your strength
bears up my strength.
Teach me to be stronger still.
I feel your heart pounding beneath me;
it leaps, it runs,
and it carries me onward —
not to safety,
but to the next challenge.

My grandmother’s house was yellow.


Every wound a lesson;
we learn from what we endure.


My soul is a song sung in service to You;
my heart is a prayer of praise just for You.


Sometimes, fate.