Freyja! War Dancing On The Plains Poem by Captain Cur

These words I humbly write inspired to describe
a golden-haired goddess with blue Icelandic eyes.
Against these two colors mountainous scenes unfold
upon the farthest ledge these unsung spirit's roam.
Small flecks of forest green weave through the melting snow
where the strong North winds sing and Viking horns still blow;
invigorating life with sweeping surly blasts
poignant frozen tundra's appearing from the past,
startling tall silver firs exposing tufts of green
with sprightly dreams of May reclaiming winter seas.

Her warm breath slowly traced, by the crystalline mist
surrounding first flowers in springtime's perfumed kiss;
heralding this woman of renowned Viking lore
long sveltely figured and stemmed like a native rose.
Blossoming fresh petals with lovely bodied stealth
reaching out for the light with arms of satin flesh;
poised, delicately ribbed, impassioned with Norse blood
though estranged from the warmth, of a bright but stingy sun.
Bred in empty lands marginalized and thin,
bubbling from deep below hot steaming geysers swim.
Gracious are those waters; sweet pluton vapors swell
rising from the narrow depths of magma heated wells.
She soaks in vaporous bliss bathing at her ease
enjoying warming balms, towel dried by the trolling breeze.

The gods named her Freyja, momentous is her birth
in days sorcery ruled compliant mystic earth!
Deemed goddess of the North, besieging noble land;
yet, amorous pleasure, was said to tame her hand.
Behold! those eyes of ice! How many hearts they slew,
swept by a frigid sea beneath waves of patterned blue.
Standing in her presence, one feels oneself alive,
engaged in naked combat beneath untoward skies.
Gold sculpted lightning bolts, dress, a headband that she wears
gleaming stands in Northern lands as if blessed with elfish ears.

Baring twin breast plates, spear and leather shield,
weaving fertile magic in unloved barren fields;
feinting in the moonlight, caught practicing her art,
dancing with warlike grace immobilizing hearts.
Strings of silver bracelets adorn her armored wrists;
jumping high foot to foot, she pirouettes and twists.
Her driving spear attacks a grim-faced witching tree
with a quick sudden jab; starts shaking off its leaves.
She gives a pointed look, quite sorry for her act,
then with the sweetest laugh continues her attack!
Oh! Beautiful Freyja! War dancing on the plains
when the cold moonlight fades one single beam remains;
gliding round perspiring flesh resting on her lips
and to that witching tree imparts a moonlit kiss!