Saturday, 6 September 2014

A Love Song


I am birthing woman,

Birthing Woman.

I am 

A million years

Of words

Unwritten.

Hidden.

I am ancient

Breath.

I am your birth

I am your death.


I speak with body,

Not with tongue,

for this is how 

Herstory's sung,

With bent knees
Spread deep, 
and wide
I lean back
between 
her angel thighs
and hear the empathetic sighs
of sisters
since the start of time.
Alive.

The full moon
Of my belly
descends,
whilst you 
navigate
the spiral seas
towards me.

Like softly
splitting wood
the hood
lifts
and my clitoris
is
The Gateway.
Pomegranate lips
peel back
to reveal
the fresh fig top
of your
Crown.

Secret smile
open,
round,
bulging.
Full,
ripe seed
swells 
from within.
Pushing.
I
stretch
a mile wide
inside
out.
Cavernous mouth
surrounds
wet, warm
mound.
Soft like
ripe
peach
as I reach
down
into the space
between,
Un-seen,
to draw you
out.

We are two vessels
a-float 
On heaving tide.
Our guide:
An earthly tone,
The low-moan
anchor
of my birth song, 
our love song
calls us home.

Base drum
gushing
Deep hum
Rising… 

I am birthing woman,

Birthing Woman.

I am birthing

you 

are birthing 

me,

we

are birthing 

me  

as Woman

Our
syncopated
hearts beat
as we
breathe
on the edge
of this beginning:
we have been here before
riding on the crest
of a red
wave
as it crashes
into shore
and your
slippery form
swims
into
your father’s hands.

Suddenly, 
one becomes two becomes three,
as we
meet
for the first time.
We are new-born
Mother, Father,
Child;
and you climb
up ancient line
toward my breast.

Wise eyes
and familiar mouth
seeking
sweet liquid
Love
flows
between us
along pulsing
intertwined life-line:
Our Bloodline,
and we 
are 
outside of time.

We have arrived.

Floating
upon a river of milk
and blood
and we are 


in love.

For my Mother

She
missed
a bleed
and so,
the seed
was sown.

Nestled
alone
in a bed
of love
and blood
She,
the Constant Gardener
Warm Womb
Incubator
willed this life
to grow
and there,
Low
in her belly
swelled
a soft whisper
of hummingbird wings...

She begins
to connect
to moving limbs
pushing at
her skin
as within
the fertile
soil
of her
center,
this sapling prepares
to enter
a world beyond
this
crysilis
Sapling arms, legs and head
pulled through
blanket of red,
then latched to breast
a bond
of blood red thread
fed
from Mother
now woven to other
on the patchwork quilt of time.

With her
gardening gloves
of love
She tended
this Lily Rose,
and watched her grow
with gently
guiding hands.
Standing
witness
this
evolving bloom
soon
strong enough
to flourish.

And she
in pragmatic
clogs of love,
remembered
the covers
for the frost,
the water,
and the light.

She would delight
in this flower's
ever-changing form,
as the Lily rose
in gardens
far from home,
grown in the soil
of far-off lands
but always still
with the gentle touch
of her Mother's
Constant Gardener hands.

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

Bloodline

For Grandma... (1919-2012)

There is a thin
blood-red thread
that connects
my Grandmother's
heart
to mine;
a line
of love
unbound
by time,
or life's last breath,
or,
her death.

In the
warp and weft
of our family
tapestry,
what's left 
of her
lives on
through me,
in memories...

The way 
she bathed
me
in two inches 
of luke-warm water,
her daughter's daughter.
Then dried me,
vigorously.

Her love:
hidden in 
a powder puff,
a yellow ball
of fairy dust,
bruskly
coating child-thin skin
from tiny foot to head,
before bed.

Grandma's 
ablutions
were an institution:
A vanity case,
taken from place,
to place,
a silver-backed brush,
lush
lotions and potions
applied to the face...

I asked her once
how
she maintained
her velveteen 
skin,
and she
patted,
and tapped
each
peach-like cheek,
and beneath
her chin.

With a taste for
fine deserts,
cream teas,
and sweet sherry,
Mary
dressed
with the glamour
of a movie star:
Hairdresser
once a week,
and, 
behind this veneer,
she would keep
emotions,
neatly
tucked away,
and, you could say
that she spoke her mind,
but still...

Still
I find
a thin,
blood-red line,
woven through time,
a deep
and loving connection
and affection
for that soft sparkle
in her eyes,
and the light,
that she kept
locked
in a quietly closed box.

And, I believe
that 
when she died
she tied
the keys onto that 
blood-red thread,
and left
them 
to me,
with a story
about how to
unlock
the box,
and set 
the light
free.

Lily Laloba 23/11/12

Monday, 28 May 2012

Huachuma


I am inside
the roots of a tree
my
ethereal body
rises above
me
the heat
extracts warm liquid
from my skin
as within
the belly of my body
a universe explodes
showering rainbow colours
accross my vision,
this drink has made an inscission,
a gap,
through which
my mind
can find
what is usually hidden.
These strange limbs
don´t feel like mine
as I slip outside of time
and dance
kundalini snake charmer
the drum beats harder
and my force field floats
I concieve
an expanding spiral
of roots and leaves
weave through
this throbbing womb space
and encase
this crysalis.
Imaginal cells converge
as I emerge
pulling back the membrane
born again,
crawling.
Cool air on
bare skin,
the sky,
folding into
moon vortex.
white light
whispers through
curling mists
dew drop stars drip
from the sky
and I
can touch
each one
because there is
no here or there,
just spaces in between...
there is no time
as my eyes align
with my lover´s face
fresh and full of youth,
I see the truth
as he morphs
into an old man
and takes my hand...

We are suspended in space
timeless and full of grace
this moment
is a layer
of present, future and past,
my first, my last,
love.
San Pedro´s key
has opened me
this exquisite reality
runs bittersweet
salt rivers
from my eyes
as cosmic streams
flow
between
like sighs,
and I ascend
into new dimensions,
as blades of grass
unravel irredesent ribbons
phospheresent
showers of light
this night
is alive...
Engorged with blood,
my senses flood
an orchestra errupts
serrenading forrest
sounds
electric hum
surrounds me
as I takes flight
into this heavenly night.

cool earth meets feet
they seek
the heat
of the fire
burning
embers glow
and show
the underside
of this ride
where
the thick ash of death
has exhaled his breath
accross the ground.
Skin,
charred with sin
and bodies writhe
in this pit of shame
backs turned in blame
scenes of war and
sordid desperation
seep out of the flames
television stations
showing pornographic images
of women with their legs spread
selling sex
to soldiers with machine guns
making bets
in smoke filled rooms
darkness looms
whilst life´s
perversions
ooze up from the floor
and I witness them all
as I lie in the dirt
feeling earth´s hurt
at the cross roads of heaven and hell
confronted with
a prison cell of truth.
Shivers slither down my back
and through the crack,
slides
My lover´s arm
and calm
voice
softly wrap around me:
"you can choose your reality"
and suddenly,
the star studded sky
engulfs me,
images repeat,
and I´m back again
in a rain
shower of light
and i feel like
a survivor of the appocolypse
as the veil lifts
and night gently slips,
into day.


Hand in hand,
we stumble accross the wasteland
of memories,
past insect, leaf and tree
life vibrating
infinitely
waiting
patiently.
We are home,
but the shift
of the cactus spirit sits
inside us now.
lilylaloba May 2012

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

La paz

Expansive green folds,
thighs, lips and hips
projected onto infinite sky.
Flat planes reach up
to touch
mountain tips,
river-washing-people,
villiage life slips
across the window frame.
water-colour lake
makes
cloud carpets
melt into
snow caps.
Streams of green fields,
unraveling
endless space,
soft face
reflected on glass.
metal tin
thunders past
shapes like
open arms
and wide smiles
whisper on for miles
until...

A cage-shaped claw
closes in
clamped accross
hill-song throat
thick cloak
of burning oil
searing green skin
grey slabs
slam down
forcing air
from chest
parasite
latched onto
mother´s breast
rigid lines
define
space
in a race
to control.
Tape worm
intestine
constipated
jerking
cries
stop. Go. Stop. Go.
Writhe over hillside
and slide
into putrid guts
cut open,
exposed
spilling emptiness.
Searing
metallic taste
burning eyes
as snow caps
drip down
soft cheeks
helpless and gasping
for air,
she is there
laid bare,
where
this tumor grows
a twisted mess
of desires
and accidental death,
a sea of squirming
babies cry out
for love
this mother´s milk is not enough.
Searching, hungry hands
grabbing onto plastic bags,
whilst there, she stands
10,000 feet high,
her gentle sigh
drowned out
by the buzz
of electric wires
tied accross
clenched jaws
and dark corridors
leading only
to neon light,
and the sharp bite
of empty promises.
In this sunken city,
scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces
sit,
unable to fit,
once whole,
now sliced into bits
by some cruel trick
of mirrors and smoke
and voices that spoke
of progress,
and told us

Yes,
this is growth.


Lily Laloba May 2012

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Confession

I have a confession
to make
so, for my sake
and your own,
let it be known.

It feels somehow
uncomfortable,
awkward...
Like that silence,
between old friends
trying to make amends,
but not sure
where to start
because that’s the hardest part:
where to start?

As I sit here
trying to find the words,
it’s like extracting teeth,
pulling at my beliefs,
because I realise
that my eyes
only see
what they want to,
and that my idea
of me
is only
partially
in view,
and you know it,
too,
but we don’t talk about it,
do we?

We are dolphins,
caught on a line
with the tuna in brine
hook, line and sinker
hoodwinked and blinkered.

This perversion of truth
that invaded my youth
sinking in
it’s ugly claws,
tearing into
my so-called flaws.
This vicious, jealous,
spiteful beast,
that likes to feast
on what’s real,
smothering
our true beauty
with
false perception...
and we call it what?
Perfection?!
This revolting,
self-constructed thing
that keeps us in
a box,
like Pandora
and her locks.

We build a perfect
prison
and we sit in it.
What
a
pile of shit.
and the best bit?
It doesn’t even exist!

So, my confession?
I am
riddled
with imperfections.
So...
I've developed
a false identity
a perception
of ‘me’,
a partial reality.

I’ve built walls
so high,
that I
cannot be fully seen,
only behind the
sheen
of a few
well-placed windows
showing just half
of my face.
And, on the other side,
I hide
the cuts,
like ruts,
Repeated attempts
to self-destruct.
self-berating,
self-hating,
so angry that I’m angry,
so ashamed of being ashamed,
a sense of blame,
silencing pain.

Can’t find the words to communicate,
I hate
to be seen as weak.
I am afraid
of being
exposed
unclothed
in my distortions
of proportions.
I am cowering
in the dark,
constricted
by the restrictive
parameters
of perfection.

So...
my confession?
I am learning to dance
with the devil,
I’ve found
that this is fertile ground -
for there is no such thing
as sin;
That every bit
of shit
is an opportunity to grow,
and I know
that I can open the window
to let light in
so, the dark
is just another part
of my soul,
it makes me whole.
And, the wall
can fall,
and I can reach out my hand
because you
will understand
because you’ve been hiding, too.
Let’s Connect
to that old friend;
make amends,
start a dialogue
inside.
Accept the dark side.
Let us start with the
uncomfortable
awkward part;
the part that’s
imperfectly real,
the part we feel.
Let us start
to talk about
the self-doubt.

Undo the locks,
Open the box,
Kick down
the wall,
Be willing
to fall.
Let us tear
the blinkers
from our eyes,
for the treasure lies
in truth.

Lily Laloba 23rd March 2012

Saturday, 18 February 2012

Enough

Enough.
Enough of this stuff.
Enough of this negativity,
fatalistic apathy
I´m alright Jack mentality,
all about me activity.

Look after your own.
Build a home,
with windows, walls…
locked up alone,
this technological zone,
connect to me by mobile phone,
meet me on the plasma screen,
make everything clean.
Shiny.
New.
Define yourself by what you do,
not who
you
are.

I once was lost but now I´m found,
I´ve started digging
underground.
Pushing my fingers
into the ground.
I´m launching an investigation,
an examination.

Enough.
Enough misinformation,
as I embark on a path
of observation…
Questions,
Not answers,
drip-fed
to my head.
Enough said.

You,
fine dining
on a straight line,
flat lining.
You, 
never said enough.

This infatuation,
with calculation,
and numbers, and profit, and growth.
Exponential fucking growth.
Statistics.  Figures. Facts.
Fuck that.
I´m taking it back.

I´m learning,
with this deep yearning,
that, for what it´s worth-
the longest night
gives birth,
to light.
For the end, my friend,
is also a beginning.

Yes, you can gorge on your flat line,
because my time
has no straight lines.
Only curves
and bumps,
and lumps,
and it jumps,
like the beat of my heart,
from the end,
right back to the start.
My time is round -
it slides

again and again
from mountain top
to sub-terrain,
it´s beneath my skin,
within.
It connects 
my heart to yours.
It ignores
Laws.
It flows
from my belly
to the land.
I understand
it´s rhythms,
repetitions,
repetition,
repetition,
repetition.
Blue, green,
brown, red...
I´m nestled
between the legs
of my mother,
brother,
sister,
see?
I am you am me.
We feed
from the same watering hole.
We are whole.
Beneath this
tangled pile
of stuff,
there´s us.

Get out your spade;
start digging.
Don´t be afraid;
start digging.
Peel back
the crap,
and start looking.
Stop standing on
the truth.
Sit down,
and let it grow.
Get to know,
take the time,
there´s no me or mine,
no straight line.
You are a spiral tribe,
you are alive,
you are round,
you are sun, sky and ground.
Look around,
start asking questions,
start making suggestions,
let negativity
embrace possibility.

For dark,
becomes light,
and provides insight,
permission -
Open your vision,
let us be the seeds, trees, flowers, leaves,
pushing up through the crust of the earth,
let us be mother,
let us give birth,
for this is not the end,
my friend,

but the beginning.

©Lily Laloba 2012