In Darkened Times

It’s hard to believe in darkened times
But one day this world will end
And we shall break free of the dusk
Unbound, free and transcend
It’s hard to believe in candle flames
When blackness is all around
But it’s in the most tenebrous climes
That fires yield their brightest shine
And if we just keep them burning
Through all our fortunes’ turning
They will lead us one day
Through this seemingly unceasing night
Into a new dawn of eternal light
Where the darkness can never touch us again

The Few

The few are mocked by the many
For that they are not more
And to our shame some of our own
Join in the scorn
And criticise
Because how can their low numbers be legitimate
In the many’s eyes?
But the few understand
That to succeed
They must first at least try
And if the other fews were to heed their call
And join their ranks no matter what might befall
The few could become the more, the many, the most
And eventually the all

Among Stars

In a long-distant future
Removed from the woes of today
In which we’ve shed our burdens
And our mental restraints
When again we are free
To pursue our dreams
With our evolution reclaimed
Our pioneer spirit
Draws us upwards again
To explore terra nova
On distant globes
Questing strange ground
Light years away
Our essence unbound
Civilising anew
Once more what we are
Building glistening cities
Among the stars


Us few out here on our own
In the fields, far away
Unmolested, alone
Where we can build
Begin again
A place for ourselves
Free from the world
That cast us out
A redoubt
We will defend
Until the end
And beyond
Our home

Fra Norden

A poem about the Nordic Resistance Movement.

Men and women march
Under the sign of Tyr
By shield bearers flanked
Resolute, ranked
Undeterred, unashamed
An ideology untamed
Their dedication, unending
Their will, unbending
An inspiration to us all
A green parade
Like nature teeming forth
Bringing new hope from the north

Remembering Adrian Firth

A very short short story I wrote earlier in the year and also originally posted on Stormfront.

I was scrolling down the news feed on my computer when I saw that Adrian Firth had died. Adrian Firth… I recognised that name. He’d been a local organiser for the British Party. The southwest region, I think. Yes, the link went to the BP’s homepage. I right-clicked and opened it in a new tab, then continued scrolling down the feed. Nothing but the usual horror stories: ‘Man jailed for displaying “racist” St. George’s flag.’ ‘Woman gang-raped in South London.’ ‘Whites now a minority in the majority of UK cities.’ I could only look at so many at a time. It was too depressing, too infuriating. Adrian Firth, I thought. He’d only been thirty- or forty-something, hadn’t he? That’s all he looked like in his picture that was always used on the BP website. Only a few years older than I am. It makes you think. We could all go at any time. I wonder what he’d died of… I’d have to read the article and s…

The List

A short story I posted on Stormfront earlier this year.

Harold Rice was mortified when he first saw his name on the list. And not just his name, but his address, telephone number and email address. At first he couldn’t believe it, but there it was, in black and white, two-thirds of the way down the roster of some eight thousand names, right between a Mr Steven Raynor and a Mrs Sharon Rowlandson. So that nationalist forum post he’d read had been correct: someone had leaked the details of all the members of the British Party, and now they had been published on the internet, for the entire world to see. Harold sat there in the morning light his living room, stunned, staring at his computer screen. After reading the forum post, he did a quick web search and found a ream of newspaper articles about the leak. He clicked on the first result. ‘British Party members list revealed!’its headline gleefully announced, followed by the triumphant sub-title, ‘Over 8,000 racists’ details laid bare.’ His ho…