War weary

Apparently apprehensive
and solemn in a Socratic spirit
Vigga the Voelva wanders
aimlessly anxious with her thoughts
to the brook near Yggdrasil
and the little twig which
is no longer so little
proudly sprouting its branches
over the musing markedly somber
searching wisdom of her own silence.

Unlike the Greek philosopher
who ran around among the people
of Athens and platonic poems
the wondering Voelva seeks to question
neither the young nor the old
she but strengthens her whys
in the wild woodlands
among wild beast and rooted trees.
She and her better half,
her wise and well-born sister Sophia,
are often telecommuting
in a siblingly sort - a trip
of tried old mellowly way
transporting her anxieties
to the high-born noblesse.

Again the world is in
testosterone turmoil
and the Voelva is weighing
why man cannot live
without killing maiming
and not subjugating
his fellow man - and woman.
Democracy or the sheen thereof
needs not demagogy nor death.
Alas, there seems to be
nothing that will stop
religious racism mixed with
mindsets of blinded beliefs.
As long as one sex grounds
the other into no value other
than for proverbial procreation
and, of course, wanton voluptuousness
there will be no - peace.

Sophia, high-born sister,
telesports her thorough thoughts
to the weatherbeaten Voelva
soberingly saying,
when the world stops admiring
the muscular, manly testes
and start regaining respect
for the feminine fertile
gynocentrism of yesteryear
then mayhap in balance
there would be less wars.

The meandering musing Voelva
thought for a moment
and added her own sense
of being buckled by the burdens
of the warring world
Humor, humility and human
understanding and tolerance
would not be so utterly
unacceptable in tandem
with the wildly thought
of giving up some of the macho
medieval warmongering ways
of the menfolks in the Middle East
and the male-dominated
war hungry profiteers
of Wall Street and the West.

The trees around Vigga the Voelva
and the vernal tide of the air
posed a lovely picture
of glad times to come
mother Earth was still fecund
and her tidings well-worn
respect me and yourself
and you will do fine
but the Ygdrasil was less spouting
this year and the fairies
fluttered around its roots
and was trying to tend to it
more than ever, it was
gasping for fresher air
and cleaner rainwater from the sky.
The Voelva was very worried.