Not really.

Thanks. Working in images is the tough part of trying to write these.
So much relies upon the words.

<moved into is proper sequence below>

An Axe Age, A Sword Age

Men have it, steel hard. Our self importance
builds a fortress reenforced with bragging
for acceptance, to be in accordance

with brutish ideals. A thoughtless lagging
guides us to entomb ourselves. Our loathing
builds a fortress reenforced with bragging.

We can wear only one type of clothing:
the thick armor that drowns our inner child,
guides us to entomb ourselves. Our loathing

prevents the silent expansions, the mild
white-armed maidens in our thoughts. They're behind
the thick armor that drowns our inner child

osmosed in amnioic id. Mankind
brings winter of the mind, which will not thaw
white-armed maidens. In our thoughts, they're behind

us, whispering conscience for civil law.
Men have it. Steel hard, our self importance
brings winter of the mind, which will not thaw
for acceptance, to be in accordance.

Hamartia

There's a target, barn wide, I keep missing.
Marksmenship be damned, it's a self blinding
going on here, a con, reminiscing

the hard-fought victory and reminding
it is never anything that I've done.
Marksmenship be damned, it's a self-blinding

delusion, and I hurt even the gun.
This kind of democracy wants its shot.
It is never anything that I've done

but undone. It defines by what it's not.
No matter who pulls the trigger, life is
this kind of democracy, wants its shot

and tries to ignore everything that says
"I'm the ordnance." But it's a homicide
no matter who pulls the trigger. Life is

stolen, treaties ignored and compromised.
There's a target, barn wide. I keep missing
I'm the ordnance. But it's a homicide
going on here—a con reminiscing.

How Not to Get 13% of My Income

They're brand new carts, but the wheels are squeaking
clockwork thump and thump on the smooth concrete
between gondolas and products shrieking

to me, wanting to be on my receipt.
They wear insincerity, shrink-wrapped smiles.
Clockwork thump and thump on the smooth concrete

keeps it all honest. I love these aisles
to be clean, free of helpless employees.
They wear insincerity, shrink-wrapped smiles

smocked and aproned. These people make a noise
that eats my appetite. I want to purge
to be clean, free of helpless employees

or cut them to soup meat. I'm on the verge.
They mock Clarence Saunders, a loud refrain
that eats my appetite. I want to purge

on their trainers just to show my disdain.
They're brand new carts, but the wheels are squeaking.
They mock Clarence Saunders, a loud refrain
—between gondolas and products—shrieking.

1. The Hel-skór Linden

We hope to see compassion on display,
the truthful garments of the inner form.
At the beginning of the thorny way,

we'll gather at the gate, a growing storm
set to depart along the common path.
The truthful garments of the inner form,

our soul possessions, represent the math
of life, and always it's flimsy to those
set to depart. Along the common path,

we'll lot with a doom prepared to foreclose
based upon who's stood with us at the end
of life (and always). It's flimsy to those

who rely just on the gift of a friend
dangling there from the tree extending
based upon who's stood with us. At the end,

as the gate yawns to dark dales descending,
we hope to see compassion on display
dangling there from the tree extending
at the beginning of the thorny way.

2. The Waters Before Gjallarbrú

Beyond the wasteland of elk-sedge and heath,
the departed reach a river rushing
venom cold with edged iron underneath.

It mangles the merciless, blood gushing
from wounds equal to those we've inflicted.
The departed reach a river rushing

in search of the floating planks predicted
to convey safe passage. But all must bleed
from wounds equal to those we've inflicted

while living. Only then may we proceed
upon a fourteen-foot board, which steadies
to convey safe passage. But all must bleed

enough as we wade through bladed eddies.
Anguish measures our own validity
upon a fourteen-foot board, which steadies

us for judgment of our morbidity.
Beyond the wasteland of elk-sedge and heath,
anguish measures our own validity
venom cold with edged iron underneath.

3. The Deficiency Beneath The Precious

This covered bridge reflects our golden mean:
the divine ride over darker forces
as dawn lights life upon meadows in green,

it resounds the footfalls of proud horses,
challenges us, spans beyond our belief.
The divine ride over. Darker forces

are waiting, wanting untrimmed nails and grief
they can sail when the twilight of the gods
challenges us, spans beyond our belief

we cannot be strong. Instinct is at odds
with our conscience. A fear blows through our lungs
they can sail. When the twilight of the gods

encroaches, our mouths are cold with stiff tongues
unable to voice for ourselves. We wait
with our conscience. A fear blows through our lungs.

As we're passing beneath each gilded plate,
this covered bridge reflects our golden mean.
Unable to voice for ourselves, we wait
as dawn lights life upon meadows in green.

4. Happened, Happening, Ought To Be

The road forks from our birth toward mysteries
woven into roots as time unravels.
A man's shadow holds fast his histories

until that shade is measured. Our travels
will end here within a circle of stones
woven into roots. As time unravels,

the benches populate before the thrones.
When final judgment is pronounced, mankind
will end here. Within a circle of stones,

our life's attorney speaks her mind—our mind
she has followed, and, as psychopomp, serves
when final judgment is pronounced. Mankind

best listen to this vestige. She preserves,
where we illuminate the future. While
she has followed, and, as psychopomp, serves

as guide, she's also our innermost smile.
The road forks from our birth toward mysteries
where we illuminate the future, while
a man's shadow holds fast his histories.

5. The Aurochs Horn Forged In Gold

The doomed swallow poisonous rescission
of spirit and image, and leave their soul
draining. The horn with serpent's incison

harbors the drink of strengths, which may console
the mind from sorrow, gain an uplifting
of spirit and image, and leave the soul

able to sing. The doomed will sink, drifting
to Niflhel where they cannot divorce
the mind from sorrow, gain an uplifting

pause, nor feel anything that is not coarse.
They'll parade through paradise in the sun
to Niflhel where they cannot divorce

their appearance from the wrongs they have done.
Yet those judged for bliss will be united.
They'll parade through paradise in the sun,

bathe in cool sea, be always delighted.
The doomed swallow poisonous rescission,
yet those judged for bliss will be united
draining the horn with serpent's incison.

6. Wells Within Us

Bubbling cauldron, cold breath of the ghost,
mingles with soul, conciliation's Son.
The Wyrd is blood, blooming hue for the host,

a pool of consequence from actions spun.
The intuitive know truth of the self
mingles with soul. Conciliation's Son

accepts a body of teaching yourself
control, an emotional acceptance
the intuitive know truth. Of the self,

our fair complexion reflects song and dance,
a creator's appetite. Our desires
control an emotional acceptance

tempered by intellectual fires.
Shivering within, our poetry knows
a creator's appetite. Our desires

are the mill of the world, whose walls enclose
bubbling cauldron. Cold breath of the ghost,
shivering within our poetry, knows
the Wyrd is blood, blooming hue for the host.

7. Son and Sacrifice

Monsoons of magma meet the rimy sea.
Howling, whining, tearing free from the womb,
this monstrous moment births all that will be.

Then, torrid tongue licks ice, opens the bloom,
the soul of the tree encloded by eight winds
howling, whining, ripping free from the womb

of pledges, where great sacrifice rescinds.
Veiled future is shown to the one who rides
the soul of a tree enclosed by eight winds.

Memory comes from giant sweat, provides
council at the well wreathed in bulrushes.
Veiled future is shown to the one who rides

deep, ungraves a seeress, and she thrushes
terrible lyrics stirring up evil
council. At the well, wreathed in bulrushes,

payment is learned for murder primeval.
Monsoons of magma meet the rimy sea:
terrible lyrics stirring up evil.
This monstrous moment births all that will be.

8. Hoddmimir's Holt

Raging flame devours the limbs, the bark, leaves
deepest root (untouched by murderous ways)
to safeguard and store pure sugar from thieves.

Here, there's a kingdom, sheltered from the blaze,
a broad gleaming on the glittering plains.
Deepest root (untouched by murderous ways)

holds life longing life, where the bright god reigns.
Each spring, the whole of the world weeps for him,
a broad gleaming on the glittering plains.

A father's eye has seen beyond the grim:
lost mortality wakes when winters melt
each spring. The whole of the world weeps for him

but none know grief nor wanting in the veldt-
forever, the rosy dawn of Gimlé.
Lost mortality wakes when winters melt.

Baldur lives! Heaven's made good on the fee.
Raging flame devours the limbs, the bark, leaves
forever the rosy dawn of Gimlé,
a safeguard to store pure sugar from thieves.

9. Heimdallr Ponders Mothers Day

Nine I recall—at home, nine witches
turn the universe, turbid and roil,
set friction afire, grind out riches.

They mill ettin suet into soil
(carried by waves to the barren shore),
turn the universe turbid, and roil

life to the surface. It's such a chore
you have, mothers. I'm grateful I was
carried by waves to the barren shore

to bring wheat and tools and a just cause:
plough and bake, craft and forge. Remember
you have mothers. I'm grateful I was

so blessed, to be their burning ember,
birthed an idea: warden the world!
Plough and bake, craft and forge, remember

their embrace upon you, tightly curled.
Nine I recall—at home, nine witches
birthed an idea: warden the world,
set friction afire, grind out riches.

10. The Mouth Before the Nine Caves

A stone clockwork, the grinding of the mill,
juices corpses. Second-death souls ooze through
craggy depressions to cavernous rill.

Dark, slimy streams convulse, puking this stew
ever thick. A black fume rises rich in
juices, corpses, second-death. Souls ooze through

teeth, descend stairs to the realm of Leikin
just beyond a dark, precipitous wall.
Ever thick, a black fume rises rich in

sick, fills the forecourt of her sleet-cold hall.
Hunger is cut by famine, while dogs howl
just beyond a dark, precipitous wall.

Their queen is half-warm flesh on top, while foul,
blue-black seepage churns below. Eroding
hunger is cut by famine, while dogs howl

for blooded morsels clinging and coating
a stone clockwork. The grinding of the mill,
blue-black seepage, churns below, eroding
craggy depressions to cavernous rill.

11. Bilröst

A moment spans the thunderous rivers,
connects heaven and a bridgehead of gold
atop Heimdall's mountain. This path quivers,

flames flicker as we cross its narrow wold.
Our spirit echoes back from deep inside,
connects heaven. And a bridgehead of gold

refracts the murky storm's gigantic stride.
Until breath leaves him, he will sound the horn.
Our spirit echos back from deep inside

Valhöll. We will ride as warriors born
again and again into the melee
until breath leaves him. He will sound the horn

that pours us out. The bridge will not give way
until gods blink, and the shinning goes dark.
Again and again into the melee

our swords will reflect the dying sun's spark.
A moment spans the thunderous rivers.
Until gods blink, and the shinning goes dark
atop Heimdall's mountain, this path quivers.

12. The Hall Beyond Glasir

Chosen by Odin and his valkyrjur
(cold-breath breathing down the Sons of Muspel),
we rise forever, the bold Einherjar,

the fire that warms and wards off Niflhel.
Ever vigilant, we stand true, holding
cold-breath breathing down the Sons of Muspel,

the shattering bridge, and all foreboding
when the battle comes. Clawing and biting,
ever vigilant, we stand true. Holding

sword in hand, let us die: worthy, fighting.
And, of immortality, skalds shall sing
when the battle comes clawing and biting,

it will find us knuckle white, set to swing.
A well of wisdom ever renewing
(and of immortality), skalds shall sing

of the deeds we have done and are doing.
Chosen by Odin and his valkyrjur:
a well of wisdom ever renewing,
we rise forever—the bold Einherjar.

12 of the Norse Poems collected in free ebook:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/216026

I love this one. Written by a TRUE grocer's son.

That was a good rant. Heh. But seriously, those were brand new carts,
and the wheels were already bad. People really make crap products these
days.

Get off my lawn.

Hey, I'd appreciate it if any of you reading this thread would pick up my eBook of poetry:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/216914

and post a review of it on smashwords.com. eBooks with reviews tend to get a few more
Web hits and 20% sample downloads. The book's 99¢ and available in a number of formats
including ePub, .mobi, .pdf, and even .txt files.

You'd just need to sign up for a free account. I can even gift you a copy if need be, but that
shows up as a "Review of a Free Book." Still, a review is a review. PM me your email address
and I can send you a link for a free copy.