Et tu Brute?

Walking the dog as usual -
trash can day in the neighborhood
glimpsed a proud container
with the name BRUTE.
Philosophized over the name -
everything is now mega
or giga or monster in the US
not nano, minute, BRUTE.
Do the namers of this can
knows where it comes from
murder, treason, hate, con, hon,
glorifying the raw Brutal power.
What an ungentle way to start
a trash can day's walk with the dog.
Instead of naming it BRUTE
how about MOTHER?

The Rape's progress

Brushing off her tattered cape
from the snowy wintry day
the Völva Vigga looked forlorn
on the stark barren meadow
just outside her naked forest
she shivered - it was a chill.
Inside her bear-lined coat
with beaver boots on her feet
she melted and felt comfortable.
Her morning perambulations
took her out in her faraway world,
from Yggdrasil slowly growing
to the tinselled town close by
she looked at the two worlds
musing melodiously that they
would never really to become one.
The town with its timbered roofs
and its glorified glowing shops
the streets lined with green laces
in form of garlands and light bulbs
compared to the quiescent quietude
of her wide forest filled with morass
moss, ditches, depressions, brooks,
only the hinterland animals to be heard.
Her world shone beautifully ,
chillingly and she willingly admitted
that unless you were fay
or of the animal kingdom
it would be hard to survive - but
humans had been done so for millennial
they survived surely -
she emphatically surmised,
they progressed fantastically.
In spite of their hateful,
warmongering ways
she willingly admitted
that they had evolved.
It was just that Nature - needs to be
nurtured and natured much more
than humans seemed to grasp
- only the few seers, the vital visualists
should be given the power
to roadmap the preservation
of ...... her hands were grabbed
she was thrown down -
on the hard soil unceremoniously.
Her hood covered her face,
and she barely could breathe.
Listening for signs of what was to come
was a white noise, her brains
her ears registered naught and all.
The male, for th'is was a human male
was strong and told her that he
was going to take her by force.
He lifted up her coat and her skirt
ripped off her bottoms spun by the
finest cotton and sewn by elfish hands
not protecting her now.
He fumbled at his breaches and she could
hear him swearing and saying bitch
you bloody bickering bitch
you are nothing to me - but a hole.
He started entering her, tearing her
brutally - pumping up and down,
she finally found her voice and screamed,
only to hear the forest noises so far away
she was in his power and he forced himself
vigorously and victoriously on her.
He kept at it pinning her down only
by sheer will force she tried to fight him off.
He hit her on the side of her head
yelled, you will lie still, you vixen.
He came suddenly - the humping stopped.
He hit her again, you did not cooperate, slut.
I want you to work with me, you are powerless.
You will make me hard again. He stuck his manhood
in her mouth, and started to work at it.
She gagged and threw up. Nothing helped,
nobody came to her rescue, no human, no fay.
The Völva Vigga felt absolutely alone.
He grew big in her mouth
and he came in her mouth,
She threw up again.
He turned her around, twisting her arms,
so that she had to cooperate. He lifted her skirt
so that her bottom stood out - bare - freezing,
she could feel him look at her, she tried not to give
him the satisfaction of showing her utter fear, but
showed no sign of life. He harrumphed
and started pushing his penis in from behind.
She felt herself bleeding even more
but did he care - no.... he just kept at his task.
This time it took so long for him to come and
her insides bled profusely and hurt so.
Finishing for the third time he finally released her
wrists and got up, drew up his breeches, looked
at her and just said nothing. She huddled
herself in her cape, blood running down her thighs
- she finally looked at him with such
hatred - he jumped away, because she had dug out
the knife she always carried with her.
Lithe she jumped as best as she could,
but fell over a stone,
because she could barely stand,
he laughed and grabbed
the knife from her, looked curiously at it,
because it had a unique design
on its silvery shaft and on the blade
he smiled and said,
"Th's payment for my labors."
He turned and left as fast as he could.

Völva Vigga slumped down on the forest floor,
weeping silently, the knife was a symbol of fay
she had inherited it from her great grandmother
who had been raped when she was just a girl,
thereafter swore she would always carry a knife.
Her granny's assailant was one of the elves
of the faraway land of Tintangel,
and her great great grandmother had procured
the knife for her daughter dear to her.
It had killed, that knife, because a child's rape
enraged the völvae so much and
the elf had to pay with his life.
The elf was half human. His name inscribed
on the tip caught the eye of the volva's rapist.
The knife was made in Valencia,
iron blade, silver shaft, enchiseled
in ancient script on the shaft
"Protect the bearer, never hurt unjustly."
"Grosswolf" - the elf's name was on it's tip.
Vigga swore she would trace the knife,
and get it back somehow, someday.

Screaming her anguish and anger away
her throat scratched terribly
and she knew she needed to
go and have herself taken care of.
Willow bark and St John's worth as
well as calming soothing creams for the
scratches and her inner pathways
so she embarked on the rambling road
to the healing woman of the woodland's spring.
Tumbling fast along the woodsy ways
caring naught for the ways of the world,
but only concentrating on survival, the völva
finally arrived at the healing woman's place.
Knocking on the door the wise woman peeked
out and nodded to Vigga, "Come in my child,
you are hurt and need healing hands."
Vigga gratefully accepted, but explained
that she had nothing to pay the wise woman with.
Your healing, my Völva, will be my reward.
Vigga the Völva had begun her purification.

To lose

Player plays
parlaying
with great elan
player loses
finagling
with sad splinter.

Playing around

Player plays
parlaying
with great elan
player lays
role playing
with counterplan.

Missing vitamin-d?

Protracted the weeping
willows of dying cells
of mental capacities -
bleak mushy outlook
losing teeth - bent back -
only if memories serves us
will we smile on a dark day.

Expatriates

Ever-seeking the left known
the initial memories crown'd
a feeling lost in the new world.
Our kids adapt easily swirl'd
in their own childhood theatre
elders by nature are opiniatre.
For ego defense into escapism
expatriates lacks cradle prism.

Habitual u?

Habits of recognition
bents towards the known
confirms coziness.
Routines of remembrance
slants towards the norm
fortifies familiar.
Break out - burst away
from the bland, bleak blob
called everyday essence.
Be unique once, then ...
become addicted to being
.... uniquely you.