The Choosers (A Bard's Tale) Poem by Richard Higley

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 have 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