poems – Letters For My Lovers

Becoming You

sometimes I wish
I could paint my feelings
like Picasso painted his portraits
inaccurate renditions of
something so beyond our reach
that mortal eyes falter
intricacies unbeknownst

to say “I love you”
would be an affront to the universe
for love, as a disarray of synapses
pales in the face of
the void of my feelings

a pull deeper than the tides,
a light, brighter than a harvest moon
a delicacy sweeter than honey;
reality infused with
more magic than witchcraft

days merge and blend
swirling into a steady lifetime
of morning smiles
and afternoon delights
your love, like a community garden
overflows with abundance
a cornucopia of simple being
upon which I gratefully feast

Strange Times

Dear readers,

No matter where you may be in the world, chances are, we can currently relate to each other’s feelings.

Let’s be blunt: this shit is scary. I can personally admit that having a global pandemic, with the rampant fear-mongering and misinformation that has accompanied it, is, for many many reasons, as close to my living nightmare as any situation could get.

The world is grinding to a halt, and hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people will die worldwide. Millions of people will lose their jobs, and world economies as we know them may very well collapse. The list goes on… Many things are going to change, and the truth is that we don’t really know what the post-pandemic world is going to look like; many people have predictions, some more realistic than others, but right now we’re helplessly floating around in the giant sea of the unknown, and I know many of us feel totally and utterly lost.

I can’t speak for what will change in the upcoming months and years, but I can surmise that one very real thing won’t change: Us. Humans, living, breathing members of the Homo sapiens sapiens species. The inherent elements that bind us together as a species and have kept our societies running since the dawn of our era: love, compassion, understanding, passion, curiosity, solidarity, and all them incredible things that make us so unique.

We will continue loving one another, appreciating the little things in life, like the ring of someone’s laughter in our ears, the warmth that we feel in another’s smile, the burning desire when we hold our lover close. We will continue inspiring one another to keep on keeping on, to continue creating and appreciating art, music, creativity in whatever form it takes on for you. We will continue being present for those who matter the most in our lives, because that’s what life is really about, love and friendship, and partnership, and appreciation, and sharing all of those incredible things we so often struggle to put into words.

I, for one, will keep on creating and sharing my poetry and stories with the world because it’s my way of staying sane and keeping my life moving forward without giving into the total and utter panic that washes over me in waves.

You are not alone, we are not alone. We can weather this storm together, as societies, and as a species, and come out wiser on the other side. So let’s all take a moment to appreciate the little things and share some love (within reasonable social distancing measures, of course 😉).

And if you would like me to write a poem about a specific topic, or have a fun writing exercise you’d like to try with me, please shoot me an email at info@lilithember.com, and I will be happy to oblige. I will be writing from the comfort of my Love Nest, featured as the image of this article.

In love, lust, and solidarity,

Lilith. 🖤

So you want Sexy Poems?

For you, my reader,
I spread the pages of my soul,
I dip the tip of my tongue
In the forbidden ink of divine intervention.
A lost soul longing for a set of lips,
To kiss, lick, suckle to my heart’s content.

A tickle of a button
So soft it could make a feather tremble,
A breath caught between two sheets;
One second, two, three?
A gasp!
Air rushing through inflamed lungs,
Tiny beads of sweat dangling
On skin as soft as lips
Caressing freshly painted nails.

For you, my reader,
I explore long lost caves
Forsaken by the gods;
Heathen sanctuaries
Of nymphs, sprites, and fairies
I penetrate sacred grounds,
Document my stories
With tale after tale,
Stroke after stroke
Of my pen on shaking parchment.

A trusting hand,
Curling inside forbidden fruit;
A pressure so pure
It parts the sky with its lust.
The surrender…
Sweet delight, like hydromel;
Nectar of the gods.
Even they are unworthy
Of the delicacy, that is you.

Bring Me Back

The perfect drizzle
defines the line between today and tomorrow
A morose specimen,
far too endearing to share with our peers
peers out of its receptacle;
a chill destroys its resolve
“if only pigs could fly,
then I’d get myself out of this darned mess.”
It thinks, unwillingly.

The home of a collector
is not to be taken lightly
on days where the sun’s power dwindles
and the comings of months of death
appear on the horizon.

One step at a time,
it creeps, occasionally lurching
towards a white cover of bliss.
Brought back to the silence
of a city’s breath drawn again
when a cloak of winter descends
leaving everything amiss.

At times, when the sea of stars seems
to lose itself in the vastness of the night
I’ve often longed to hear crisp footsteps,
ones I’ve dreamt of ad-nauseam;
despite the harsh and cruel winter,
they echo the sound of my love’s path
finally finding its way back
into the warmth of my tender embrace.

Fabricated Sorrow

What is it, about being a woman
that drives us, to feel lust
nay, neediness, longing, expectations
of the opposite sex
to WANT, to need, to succumb
to loving us?

It’s like taking the first hit;
wanting every moment
to inevitably feel like the next.
A drug of the heart, a survivalist’s wet dream,
suddenly the nightmare of the other.

I loathe the void I’ve created
within the absence you’ve brought;
the coward who parades around
as a hearty lion, navy suit astounding
the driver of slumber long deceased
brought back to life in a dusty dream.

Nothing is everything,
it all resonates like bass hitting a temple
wishing for change, but unwilling to understand;
the dance slowly dies
as the reality of one love lost
bites the dust, of poetic abstinence.

Heed a lonely cry, in the distance
a single ring on a finger
symbolism of something so untrue
it might as well be dead.

I’ll die too young
to see the fruition of your honesty.

Fishing in Cape Breton

Crisp
are the winds
that brought me to you
along the broken path
by the Ocean’s roar.
Jagged
were the rocks
that dangled beneath.
So close
to losing my footing
and slide
towards my demise.
Dangerous drops
rarely lead
to peaceful waters
and yet,
in all my meanderings
I failed to fall.
Rugged
was my resolve
in the hopes
that I too
could balance
on the fine line
that pushes
one foot
after the other
towards
the unknown.
Unfortunate
are those who strive
to maintain happiness
as a constant
instead of a rare pearl.
A thing
to be held close,
cherished
and observed
in moderation.
Happiness
isn’t a fish
you can catch,
but a fleeting moment.
Just breathe it in
and let it go.
Breathe me in…
And let me go.

A few short poems

A collection of short poems that will otherwise go unpublished, so I’m grouping them together here instead. Some of these have previously been posted to Twitter, so apologies if there is a bit of a repetition.

Half Moon Bay

The roar of the Ocean
Rules and narrow margins.
You stole my heart away
When we were in Half Moon Bay.

Morning Commute

Basic bitches in the back of the bus,
Shit sprawled all over the place.
I’ve never understood pumpkin spice lattes,
Maybe it’s the only spice they get in their lives
Future soccer moms and housewives.

(This was undeniably a morning rant)

Montreal

Ice in the night
Looks like latex
Brought to a shine
By an obedient little slave.

Submission

Subservient Subs
Surrendering Subconsciously
to Subliminal Subspace
like the Subspecies Subordinates
they long to be.

Succubus 1

Cry me your soul,
Let my hands slowly deprive you.
Oxygen fleeing, haggard existence
What does it feel like
To know that when you kiss me,
You are kissing death?

Montebello

A colourless day draws on
In cold observation of privilege
By the light of a dozen flames
Patagonia and Gucci abound
Wood, stone, and stained glass
The Succubus laughs silently
As loveless marriages melt away
On this crisp winter’s day

Melt

Time of spring
Icicles turned water
Frozen again
Time to slip

Bard Bits – Innocence

He marvelled at her innocence
Shining through in the darkness
An ethereal light amongst the shadows
Blissfully cradled in his arms
She was his angelic little slut.

Bee Mine

Darkness before dawn
A wasp flies up a mountain
Spread thighs await

Ode to a Fern

Leaning towards dying foliage
Desperate whispers part my lips
“I’ll cherish you forever.”
Fronds amiss, you sink into oblivion

Succubus 2

Create a void in me, so I lose sight
Embrace the upheaval of my thighs
Mountainous strength from beneath
As I erode myself into your world
Eager monster forsaking the gods
Devouring, until only the shell remains

Mind Over Matter

How does one love?

For is the love of love itself not a confusion,
A disarray of synapses, receiving tiny bolts of information
That make us believe a familiarity, of sorts, can give way
To a rumbling inside that can barely be contained.

But how can this be?

The intensity rises with every thought,
Mouth-watering passion, so thick in the air, you can taste it.
I can smell you, kiss you, taste you, breathe you, swallow you…
Surely this is not merely a figment, or a chemical imbalance.

Do we ever truly love?

The overwhelming need to bond, and retain our feet on solid ground,
Makes one forget that life is more than babbling babes and blue balls
It is adventure; the glance of a flame-haired beauty, across the bar
A piece of silk floating in the window of the forgotten hotel room.

So, what is love, love?

Love is the salty taste of your lips after a run.
It’s the gentle strength of your hand against my cheek.
The softness of your touch when you part my thighs.
It is the warmth of your smile when you lose yourself in thought.
The fullness of your laughter when you can’t contain your amusement.
It is the depth of our souls intertwining, time and time again.
But love is also knowing how to let go when our time is up,
Just to welcome you back in tender embrace, every time you return.
Love is knowing that I am yours, beyond convention and expectation.
It is knowing that you are mine, and that I hold the key to your heart.
Even if no one else will ever know, and we are forever worlds apart.

We are love, love.

Tiny Dancer

A thousand times I could die
Waiting for your love.
A wailing heart brings forth a song,
Of melancholy and mourning
For a love that only exists inside a box.
Unlatching, a tiny dancer turns
In melodic perfection, a pirouette of desire
What goes around, comes around, as they say.
She turns, again and again,
Always facing herself in the end.
Perfect imperfections splattered on a soul,
She’s there, at the tip of a tongue…
Little. Love. Lust. Lilith. Linger…
Never will her step falter,
For her puppeteer knows no other melody,
Save that of forgiveness and sorrow.
Alone, she turns, again and again,
Facing only but herself in the end.

February

Originally written on February 8, 2014

As the brisk cold caressed our faces,
On this slow Sunday on a Saturday.
The Universe came to a halt.

I watched through the window,
A statuesque passerby smiling.
The traits of their frozen face,
Speaking a language beyond words.

On slow Sundays on a Saturday,
It feels like I’m floating above the world.
Every step feels like I’m on the moon.
Maybe the moon looks down on me,
Envious of my lack of gravity.

Slow Sundays on Saturdays,
Make the winter nostalgia lessen.
The numbing cold becomes Lavender,
Or a rainbow of Spring flowers.
The sound of a jazz piano,
Amidst the deafening silence of this day.

Come take a walk with me,
On this slow Sunday on a Saturday.
Watch the world through the eyes of
A minstrel of the moon…

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Half Moon Bay

Morning Commute

Montreal

Submission

Succubus 1

Montebello

Melt

Bard Bits – Innocence

Bee Mine

Ode to a Fern

Succubus 2

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