So blessed to have an amazing friend and writer – Sebastien Woolf. Here is a collaboration piece from Twisted Hand of Fate.
High treason has calcified my pituitary
Third eye blind from shards of deceit
Fate has left me as the Empress, naked
Believing I am clothed in love
Regicide has revealed technicolour darkness
Third eye blind I revel in untethered fulfilment
Fate has left me as the King, naked
Believing love has forsaken me
So I had to come up with something to add to the new edition of Twisted Hand of Fate zine. Draft version of Forged Fate
Oh Kismet, your poison cup stains my heart
Our memory taints my soul.
your scent deep in my lungs,
such beauty seared in each blink.
I ache for nights when I looked at the stars
and did not see your name
when the breeze did not moan our tortured song.
Oh Kismet you’re a tsunami swept ocean
yet you deny my destruction
I must settle for second best
a mere ripple on a mirrored lake.
Forever I wander without purpose
to search for warmth from another galaxy’s sun
and drown in day-breaks eternal ember.
Picture by JP Valderrama.
I’ve been a bit lapse at writing a blog item for a few weeks now. The weather here has been phenomenal, and yes I am even talking about the oppressive humidity. Oppression and all things dark seem to fine fodder for writers and poets. You only have to scroll through Facebook to find quotes and poems about loss, darkness, depression and heartbreak. Me? I’m using the time to look at my website more objectively, tidy up some poems and short stories and pen some new work. The humidity if nothing else means when I can’t sleep I write. So watch out for more work on here.
Brightest blessings, Lillith.
2017 has ended – at least for the “working aspect” of my life. Today is the last day I am in the office until the New Year.
It is not easy being a full-time employed working writer; and as I clean my desk for the final time this year I have discovered in my office desk (third draw down) a host of writing prompts, attempted poetry and thoughts. Mainly documented on phone messages, meeting agendas and budget documents. Hopefully I will be able to use these over the holiday break to put into something more concrete – and understandable.
I have learnt one hell of a lot this year. Taking two creative writing papers has ignited the passion I have in writing and I have two E-Zines that will be ready for publishing in January. Short Stories that I hope you will enjoy. I have already signed up for another paper but in something completely different that I hope will colour my work in a different direction.
I envy those who have the fortitude and faith to write full-time. I believe that you need to be disciplined; something my personality is not cut out for. (Note: this also goes with dieting and exercise) I write when an idea comes into my head, or when, as Michael Chabon in his book The Wonder Boys puts it, the midnight disease keeps me from doing anything else. I need the door open to the outside regardless of the weather and I now cruise Spotify daily for host of instrumental writing inspiration playlists. I love the feel of actually writing pen on paper before editing it into the pixelated form you get to enjoy. I try to write neatly, double spaced for the first red pen edits. I will have black coffee rapidly cooling, or tea during the day. A spirit (tequila, whiskey, bourbon) on ice at night.
For now, blessed with the early December summer I am going to finish my Christmas shopping, set up the sun umbrella, my large outside lounge chair, the ice bucket, a superb bottle of Marlborough sauvignon blanc and a relax with a couple of books. Then when it feels right I will open up my new writing journal, check the ink in my worn Parker and sort through these office prompts.
The scent of you on your pillowcase has gone
I am loath to wash it
just in case like you
it might return.
This place has too many memories.
I am trying to scrape them together
scrapbook them into some sort of tag eared worn diary
My mind will not still
will not focus
and will not remember
just the good times.
The tracing of your fingertips on my face
soft words of love spoken in passionate moments of bliss.
All I remember is the front door was in desperate need of a paint
and I only noticed as you left.