The vølva’s paradox

The voelva was weaving again
not in her usual wayward way -
she could not and would not
abide by the laws of the land
she wanted to be free -
free to move to her own paradise
free to be herself - her wild voelva -
even though she actually acknowledged
woolenly and woodsily
that her own husband her helper
was part of the reason she had become
so incredibly free - and fearless
but she had clearly changed
was no longer the one she was
the times were diversely different
and her lived life versus her future
if death allowed her to become
an old and more sage voelva
then she would dance dearly
every day from now on - sing
and do silly subjects that before
inspired her  not - newly found
interests with the help of
wholeheartedly wholesome tech
that would claim she became modern
an international intensive inner
wheel of fate and fortunes - no -
again it was the lure of lustre
from  medieval moments
nonetheless and albeit all
that was known to her -images
from her little locale  was luring
lurking lovingly in her mind
no longer seen every  minute
but was a flaming figment.
The wanting voelva Vigga
vowed that she would have
to make her move ere it was
too late for her to lovingly
enjoy her fearless fucks
her wondrous wanderlust
in that speck of space
she called her petite paradise
her eden had given her
every kind of freedom from
her own mediocre self
and had turned her tuning
her innards and her outer world
with grace and good humor
to love her wonderful world
totally and too much- really.
The only oily thing that
could indeed have an impact
and change her determination
her choice of freedom
was her daughter’s dauntingly
difficulty of mothering
her hubby’s technical tenacity
or her own body’s building
which was not as strong
and straight as the wishful voelva
pretended it to be - but
but she swore she would
try her utmost to taste
that feckless freedom state
of mind that her earthly
petite paradise had given her.


Thanks to Erica Jong and Louis Armstrong
and Hieronymus Bosch