Dahlia

The heart of Dahlia
was a palace and a garden
her dreams of him
swollen by rain
as storms brewed in the sky
horses fled
a plague swept
across the land
many dead.

Dahlia was a princess
daughter of a king
Alone and fragmented
her heart twisted by tears
dark trees
ravens by the towers
graves upturned by wind
brave men long gone.

Dahlia wanted to kill
the ones who broke her
and release herself from turmoil
and despite that
she carried her gold-handled knife.
In a gown of white silk
cold and shivering
she, Dahlia, wept and felt
unnerved by her untrained skills.

Fire burned on the hill
and her dream came true.
She put down her knife and drew
deep breaths so as not
to feel afraid.
Now she would not kill
herself
or
her pain.
The man of her wants came
and lifted her away
carrying her to
somewhere clear and full.

Dahlia wanted to know
why all the suffering
what was it for?
Her lover said:
"To build your strength."
In all women are the stones
and metals of anger and rage
but intelligence and bravery
found first in pain
whether it be
childbirth or loss.
Sometimes joy makes it glow.
As always, that is a gift.

(This was a poem I wrote last year.)

Othala

Call of the breeze.
Horses flee.
The sky shouts huge,
thunder new.
Come into view,
an army spread,
fierce and dark
boiling red!!!

Fury swords,
Backs of metal
helmets horned
.. some..
not manufactured!
Made by the hand,
By young and old men.
Gold and silver, running belt
shouting men... wearing pelts.

Dead are burning
smoke riding high
black collumns plough the sky.
The dragons and woodcraft,
gleaming rich,
cooking barley and animal meat.
Hungry, starving, chewing raw
some like it that way
and falling seasonal days.

Night is near,
dreadful start,
look to the West...
watchout for the stars.
They make masters
and lords they do,
taking plenty in rivers
sleep is over for you.

He pulled my hair.
He bit my neck,
the angry lover
of the big broad chest!
You've never seen
so much mean...
vicious warrior men
around the princesses
Vikings came
tearing strength.
I am a Saxon woman,
at their mercy, yes.

My home, my family, my land...
blood, graves, war and children ground,
Its where I belong,
where I belong..
where I die.
In the fire,
follow my dead husband,
at his pyre funeral.
A warrior's sight.
A warriors sigh.
The ravens fly...
They fly.

by
Ragna.

I originally called this "Othala" to talk about land and what it means really. I wrote this a year ago after recovering a severe illness, after having been through a tough period and also when I was at my most vulnerable. I'd been wrong about things. This poem was inspired by little except expression so it's anger or fear.