Bardic Tales

The Choosers

A tale I heard not long ago,

I'll trade you for a meal.

Throw in a horn or two of mead

To sweeten up the deal.

What's this my friend? You need to hear

Before you'll strike your hand.

I have a tale you've never heard,

Set in a far north land..

Some time ago, while laying low

And waiting out a gale.

I met a Northman in his cups,

Besotted with strong ale.

He told of battles won and lost.

He showed his scars with pride.

Still choosers hadn't chosen him,

And for this cause he cried.

“The Valkyries,” He said through tears,

“Have chosen I should live.

So stopped the hoped for after life

A warrior's death would give.”

The Valkyries are warrior maids,

Patrolling battlefields.

It's they who choose who lives, and who

Are carried out on shields.

Unrivaled in their beauty,

They've strength of will and arm.

Spectral horses carry them

Away from any harm.

They reap the battlefields of dead,

Dividing then the chosen.

Between the fields of Freyja's guard

And feasting hall of Odin.

Where food and drink are free for all,

Replenished every night,

Granting strength and healing

To those training for the fight.

'Tis heaven to the warriors there,

Their true and just reward.

The one they've all been dreaming of

While training with the sword.

Fair and blond or titian haired,

With eyes of fiery green.

Atlas strong but still such beauty

Few have ever seen.

As eager as they are for war

They also wish for love.

And when there's peace across the land,

They sweep down from above.

They find the smartest, strongest men

And cast a loving spell.

They help replenish warrior stock,

And really do it well.

The sons of men and Valkyries,

Show, oft, heroic zeal.

The stories of their battles may

Have a poetic feel.

The Northman drank his final brew

And dried his face of tears.

He spoke of home and family,

No more of lonely fears.

Of how his young Brunhilde wife,

Came to him after war,

Gave him a son to train up strong.

For him a happy chore.

It did not seem he understood

Who warmed his marriage bed.

Or maybe bits of battle lore

Had been stripped from his head.

Now if you think this story mete

To pay for my repast.

I'll offer you this one detail,

That really is the last.

The warrior was so focused in

On what he thought was lost.

He didn't know how blessed he was.

He hadn't paid that cost.

The red haired mother of his son,

Though to his friends so prim,

A chooser with so much to give,

Had truly chosen him.

Richard Higley © Sept. 20, 2013