The Good God’s Staff

“I am Aedh Abaid of Ess Ruad, also Ruad Rofhessa and Eochaid Ollathair. These are my names. I am the Good God of druidry of the Tuatha Dé Danann. An Dagda.”

And there he was, with Cermait Milbél, one of his sons, on his back. Now, Cermait had fallen in combat to the frenzy of Lugh, son of Cian, High King of Erin, for the sake of a woman’s embrace. Buach, who was the daughter of Daire Donn, was the wife of Lugh. As it often happens with the wives of great men, she endured much loneliness and turned often in the dark hours to her husband’s pillow, only to find it cold and bare. Well, Cermait the Dagda’s son, lay with her, wherefore Cermait was slain by Lugh. The Dagda considered his vast horde of knowledge and learning, then surrounded Cermait’s body with frankincense and myrrh and herbs and took to chanting such spells as he knew. This done, he lifted Cermait, and bearing the body of his son upon his back he searched the world until they came to the far eastern realms of the Earth.

In that strange and distant land he met three men going along road bearing their father’s treasures. The Dagda conversed with them and they said “We three are the sons of one father and mother, and we are sharing our father’s treasures, as is right for sons to do.”

“What treasures have ye?” asked the Dagda.

“A great shirt and a staff and a cloak.” said they.

“What virtues have these to be considered treasures?” said the Dagda.

“This great staff here,” said the eldest of them, “has a smooth end and a rough end. The rough slays the living, and the smooth revives the dead.”

“What of the shirt and the cloak?” said the Dagda, “What are their virtues?”

“He who wears the cloak may wear any shape, form, figure, or colour that he chooses. As for the one who wears the shirt, grief or sickness can never touch the skin that it covers.”

“Truly?” Said he.

“Very truly.” said they.

“Put the staff in my hand.” said the Dagda. Then the youngest of them lent him the staff, for he had been good company, and with great speed he put the rough end upon them thrice, and they fell dead in the road. Then he pressed the smooth end upon his son, and the lad arose in the fullness of his strength and health. Cermait put his hands on his face like one waking early from a dream, then rose up and looked at the three dead men that lay before him.

“Who are these three dead men in our path?” said Cermait to his father.

“Three men that I met,” said the Dagda, “sharing their father’s treasures. They lent me the staff and I slew them with one end and I brought yourself to life with the other end.”

“It would be a sad story to tell at our feasting,” said Cermait, “that they should not be given back their lives by that which caused me to live.”

The Dagda agreed and put the smooth end of the staff upon them, and the three brothers arose in the fullness of their health and strength.

“Know ye now that ye had been slain,” said he, “with your father’s staff?”

“We know it,” said they, “and you have taken an unfair advantage of us.”

“I have knowledge of your staff and its virtues,” said the Dagda, “and I have given you your three lives when I might have held them. Lend me the staff to take to Erin far to the west of this land.”

“What bonds have we that our father’s staff will ever come back to us?”

“The sun and moon, land and sea, provided that I might slay foes and give life to friends with its magic.”
Under that condition a loan of the staff was given to him.

“How shall we share the treasures we have?” said they. “For we are three and now only two remain to us.”

“Two of you will bear the treasures and one without any, until his turn come round at some predetermined interval.”

Then he brought that staff away to Erin, and his son, and with it he slew his foes and brought his friends to life. In time he took the kingship of Erin by means of that staff. However, the days of the Dagda’s kingship were numbered, as are the days of all things, and the time would come where the Dagda’s kingship would be ended, and indeed time has been so cruel to the Dagda and his sons and all of that fair Tribe, that we now living would hardly ever know that they lived at all were it not for the old tales that we tell.

Hail Caesar

“Hail Caesar” called noble Brutus,

Then he pierced him with his blade.

And many grey haired Roman men

Did smile at Caesar slain,

And many Gallic mothers wept

With joy to hear the word

That Caesar soaked the senate floor

Full red with Roman blood.

For in the woods which made men mad

Were mounds of Gallic skulls

Who’d spoken with Caesar in

The only tongue he understood.

What gallant blood did soak the soil

In far Gaul’s ancient groves,

Now paid in kind these bitter Ides

When Caesar died in Rome.

Far to the north across the seas

Upon white chalky cliffs

There burned full high a funeral pyre

Of wood from Caesar’s ships.

And to the south beneath

A cruel sun that never slept,

There wept behind high palace walls

A maid with babe at breast.

In years to come men whispered

Caesar’s name with Roman pride.

But as a man is born to rise

He’s also born to die.

Ides of March MMXVII

Mogh Roth: The Techno-God

It’s been awhile since I’ve published any new content, but rest assured that the creative process hasn’t stopped. Since publishing the book I’ve been writing articles, designing apparel, and writing songs that I plan to record.

You can find my latest article on the Operation Werewolf website at the link below.

Original Shirts Now Available.

I am not exactly what you might call an artist, at least not in any visual capacity. My primary art has always been words and ideas, which is why I wrote a book

But recently I have begun to experiment with some graphic design and I’ve found it to be a really cool and cathartic experience. I’m no Da Vinci, but I’m working on it.

I’ve recently released some shirts of my own design that have been met with some favorable reviews. I began designing shirts primarily because I couldn’t find any comfortable and stylish gym-gear that wasn’t plastered with ridiculous “Snatch” and “Jerk” jokes. So I designed my own. 

The first of my designs to hit the market is entitled:


Physical training is a serious business. Men have always been defined by physical strength, and it is often the strength of prepared men that makes the difference between determined survival and a soft death.

The shirts are available in Shortsleeve Bella and Canvas Triblend in 3 colours.

Also available is an American Apparel 3/4 sleeve shirt. 

These are some of the most comfortable shirts I’ve ever worn and each of the brands has a history of high-quality merchandise.

Buy yours at:

Buy the Book.

Unchaining The Titan: Collected Essays is now available in both eBook and Printed format. It can be bought for Kindle directly from Amazon, or it can be purchased on Smashwords which is compatible with practically every available E-Reader.

Printed Copies:





Smashwords(multiple formats and devices):

To purchase a signed and personalized copy, order at:

Alternatively, email me at or on Faceook Messenger.


“The great Gaels of Ireland

Are the men God made mad,

For their wars are always merry,

And their songs are always sad.”



Ireland has a long history of tribal warrior culture. While the legions of Rome were “civilizing” the native cultures of Europe at the point of a gladius, Ireland remained forested and wild. When the Romans later fled from Britain to defend their homeland as it was invaded and burned by Germanic tribes, leaving the Romanized Britons defenseless and impoverished, the Irish were raiding their former territories for plunder, slaves, and tribute. While the Norse invaders were founding walled towns and trading outposts in Ireland at Dublin, Waterford, Limerick, and Wexford, the native Gaelic population continued to live as they always had done; rural and tribal and free. The Gaels did not build towns or large settlements, preferring to live in small closely-knit communities that farmed and raided for what they needed.


The Viking settlers built what are now our major cities upon the burned out remains of Gaelic communities. Eventually, the Norse who settled here were “Gaelicized” and adopted many of the customs of the native Irish, including Gaelic names. I have my theories as to why the way of life of these people was so difficult to eradicate over thousands of years. Tribalism is the natural state of mankind and has been since the very infancy of our species. We band together in small communities with people who are like ourselves in order to cooperate towards the achievement of some shared goal or vision. I could write ad nausium about the many intricacies and benefits of tribal culture, but others have done so who are far more qualified than I, and this is not an essay about Tribe. This is an essay about Woodkern.


Throughout the long, turbulent history of this island there have always been those who forsake the fickle world of civilized society and take to the woods. The wild places have a certain indescribable allure that draws out a certain kind of man and grabs hold of his soul. I believe the descendants of the Gael have always lived tribally because we have always lived very close to the land and the untamed earth. When the sun (seldom) shines this is the most beautiful country in the world and it is a common sight on a sunny day to see people head for the mountains and the forests in great hordes. We are still captivated by the trees and the realms that lie beyond the boundary of civilization. But what we now pursue in leisure was once a way of life for those men who were known as Woodkern.
The word Kern is an anglicized version of the Gaelic word “Ceithern” which translates roughly as “a warlike group”. Woodkern can thus be described as “bands of warlike men who dwell in the woods”. Continue reading

Crom Cruach: The Dark God of the Burial Mound.


A better man than I has said elsewhere:

“Crom is my god…Crom is the god I need because he is the opposite of the interventionist gods who care about the petty details of men’s lives. You don’t pray to him, because he probably won’t listen, and if he hears you, he probably won’t even pretend to care.” -Jack Donovan, A Sky Without Eagles.

The Crom in question is of course the God of the Cimmerian tribes in Robert E.Howards fictional tales of Conan the Barbarian. We are told of Crom:

“He dwells on a great mountain. What use to call on him? Little he cares if men live or die. Better to be silent than to call his attention to you; he will send you dooms, not fortune! He is grim and loveless, but at birth he breathes power to strive and slay into a man’s soul. What else shall men ask of the gods?”

This is the Crom that we men of the modern world are familiar with. Popularized by the stories of Robert Howard, the Conan The Barbarian movie, and the articles of Jack Donovan, Crom has become a symbol for men who strive to stand on their own legs and take what’s theirs by the right of conquest. Men who do not ask the gods for anything more than the strength to fight their own battles. In times past a significant symbolic representation of some metaphysical concept would have been passed on in the form of a story or myth, but today they are reduced to hashtags such as #cromlaughsatyourfourwinds. Typically we see the name of Crom being invoked on social media by men who are too busy about their business to pray to some made-up deity who pretends to give a shit about us. Rather than that, they invoke the name of a made-up deity who very clearly doesn’t care about us, then they get back to the work of pursuing their goals. Isn’t that the whole point of a god? To give you some reason to keep living and striving and slaying your weakness in the pursuit of your higher self? If not that, then what? Continue reading

To The Seas She Bids Us Go.

Once as I was a young man

To soldier I did go

And wore the flag and banner

And slept in earthen holes

I walked beneath the banner

Of the star emblazoned sky

And kept my silent vigil

As the world did pass me by

Ne’er sparing thoughts on money

I opened my poor hand

And drained the glass that passed

Unto me and to the lads

Though not all my days were jolly

All my nights not soundly slept

I ne’er thought myself unworthy

Never thought myself inept


I stared out o’er the ocean

Stood transfixed by stormy tides

That crash and toss the sailor

Far away from land and bride

I longed to cross the border

And soar upon the air

Down to crash and sink forever

In the silence of the depths

When they dragged me from my haven

Bore my body back to land

To the places that torment me

I’d have wept were I not dead

For its long since land smiled on me

Long now since life was fair

But the stars still sprawl the heavens

O’er the mountains where I slept


Let me not be long forgotten

Cast me not upon the pile

On the growing mound of bodies

Of young men who end their lives

For this island long has bore me

But she never loved me so

No this island hates her children

To the seas she bids us go


21st of April 2016. Dublin.

Glorious Madness: Revisiting the Easter Rising of 1916.

It has been a year since I wrote and published the following article, but considering it’s that time of year again I think it fitting that I update and publish it once more. We are fast approaching the centenary anniversary of the Easter Rising, which stands proudly over the annals of Irish history as one of our most significant and glorious and yet also disastrous events. For some reason, this was the second most successful article I’ve written in terms of views and shares. According to my website statistics, as many Americans read this post as did Irishmen. Probably more. From what I learn during my occasional conversations with Americans, they seem to be a people who have a greater understanding and respect for symbolic and patriotic acts of sacrifice and courage in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds than my fellow Irishmen. The modern Irishman has been disconnected from his history for so long that many of them sneer and ridicule the members of the Easter Rising as selfish fools. But more tragically, the majority of us know little and care even less about this monumental event that inspired an entire generation of men and women to face the wrath of the mighty British Empire with little more than some old rifles, few bullets, and many songs. Continue reading

The Shades of Greater Men.


And what shall we say who but keep the publican afloat?

What shall we say who slither home when our work is done, 

to while away our lives in amusement and decay?

What shall we say of men like them?

Who now would charge through storms of lead

To topple the machine gun and the order? 

To die in some gutter, and write his epitaph in red.

And what prosperous man would sacrifice his garden to the use of militarized amateurs,

In training for some bloody slog?

Who would house and feed these violent men in the well-dressed rooms of his fathers?

But men like this once walked our streets and cared not for your jibes.

They heeded not the talk and sneer of poets, salesmen and young brides.

But they were slain by foreign shells, and by slow degrees we have also been slain, but not by steel.

We are slain and yet we we tarry. 

Unlike the dead we cling to the world and refuse to bow to nature, to heel. 

Unlike the dead, we walk upright.

Unlike their ghosts, we do not wail.

We do not howl though the moon shines light upon our shame, on manhood failed.

Unlike the dead, yet dead to all that makes a life. 

Dead to all that makes a man.

We are the dead. See how well we endure our sorrow.

We are the herd. Yoke us or we break.
We are the dead. See how we walk.
What shall we say of the glorious dead?Of the shades of greater men.

November 11th, 2015. Hibernia.

*Feature image is the property of Ken Williams of