Your breath’s
a little strained,
foggily moves through
a strange new room
with your last cigarette.
Wisps of ragged imagination
your calling
to disclose
to testify
and midnights’ morphine melt your dreams.
A familiar pulse pushing
as you’re drawn in
by fresh compositions
whispering for a revolution.
The craving caught in your throat
just who do you think you are?
Questions of worth
(flown south)
solidify unkind letters
demanding you toss and turn inside
the unknown.
Rusted trust bruising valence.
Words of love, topple tarot towers
trapping trigger happy memories of
the one who broke you
tore you
left for dead
then stitched again
in a misty afternoon rain.
Misguided horripilations awaken
shaking the frantic monkeys scaring your back
as they chew on these discussions
of majestic visions
tucked in a too small trunk
bursting to be seen.
You’ve been trapped in a room full of clowns with guns
pretending they’re sane
as the bullets are reloaded.
The tales re told by a jealous noms de guerre.
A mute wordsmith burdened with
the festering wounds of a father,
called to the edge of sanity,
walled in maternal vanity,
climbing the bars of your sisters crib
to remember what it feels like to be safe.
into the knowing of true Love
as a rush of inspiration
re awaken
an ancient wish
which warm a wicked winter wind
like a holiday gift could
like being spooned by your best friend should
like the taste of a first kiss
on this impatient valentine.
Let these fists unclench
crimson ink on cream sheets
deleting the rules of Their game.
Who are They anyway?
Projected reflections
of those with ill intentions
who make decisions on
altered conditions,
warped by the brush of time.
Happiness feels
like the sudden joy in a summer game,
won just as sycophantic players
jeer your name
and dare you to take
soon found frozen in a purple dawn
waiting to exhale
through smouldering
ideas veiled,
choked by years of
wanting but not doing something more.

Mira Black

My Voice

I heard my voice joking with the woman who served me coffee this morning. I heard my voice laugh and it surprised me. I heard my voice like it was some old friend I’d forgotten. I heard my voice like a spectre moving through me from some memory of this warrior I watched stride from room to room holding space for hearts witnessing my voice. I heard my voice forgive me for the stuttering stumbling sounds I have hated myself for when I wake screaming in the middle of the night. I heard my voice disappear as I walked out of the cafe wondering if I’ll ever hear my voice again. Smiling to myself, in the sunshine, walking near the ocean by my new home, I thought of my voice and all the things it’s said, never said, has yet to say. Maybe there will be a new voice, she and I. Maybe not. In the meantime, I’ll be listening.

Be well sister

when I see a woman
walking down the street,
I think I can feel her sadness.
in that
I close my eyes,
open my heart
to tenderly, silently say,
“Be well sister.”
It seems small
though full of love
and a little bit of colour
and little more of power
What ever I may have to share at this
We need you awake and alive
in this matriarch
because our men
are so tired
our leaders confounded
they need us to stand up
need us to show up
and be grounded.
The patriarch is pained and afraid.
Our little boys shown sensuality as porn
while little girls learn of love through
His eyes
looking at Her.
If all I can do is love her
silently as I drive by
it is a
of another
then another
begets more.
I am awake and shining through Divinity
then another.
Then two more minutes
begets more.
And if by any chance she can feel our
as we love her in the places
she’s forgotten how to love herself.
“Be well sister.”
Mira Black

I am loved

I can feel vignetted edges

of broken promises

claw and climb out from my mouth.
They leap like little larks 
needing nourishment

craving ease from this punishment
of separation from my Divinity.

I am wrapped in a hunger I don’t fully comprehend
but fly around the fairy tales I thought I’d eventually find.

Wake up this time!

No need to make up reasons,

shut out the raging tease i
n your belly

deeper in the trauma
of addicted connection.

These juicy moments distract me fully
even though you could never really love me.
There are fantasies clinging to these
 clotted heart beats

hidden in the closet of my older brothers room.

That’s a story Im pushing through.

I thought he hurt me because he hated me but I can see

in these reforming memories,

it was his way of
he did not understand but needed none the less.
So he basked freely
in the golden Light,
once pure presence,
shining from my eyes
without my permission.

Stories of my King held me upright through years of lies.
I stand on broken limbs, here, wanting something I have not yet earned
and yet yearned for from those moments of safety usually conditioned daily as a baby
but my father kept forgetting where he set me down.

believe me,
where ever you are,
I’m fighting to be the best of Me.
Giving to this Life all I can be,
, relentless

towards the sunrise

each time the moon’s trickery
did some pretty shitty things to me.
I will still fall in love,
just in case.

It takes a powerful heart to stay in these moments of grace.
Sunset trusting,
this time,
that reflecting globe shining Light mercilessly
on my skin,
can heal the half of me whole.
Here, in this moment
as my realities destiny unfolds
and I open to the unknown,
what I I do know,

I am Love.
I am Lovable.
I am Loved.

Inside this firing line

This moment,
the one crept up from behind the rear
drop kicked me
through my fate
finger painted by the child
inside my mind.

I notice some kind of
faded memory
stealing real affections
serving left over predictions
of betrayal
and though my heart’s
overcooked and spoilt
the gorging is unavoidable now.
This is an echo of an ancient wound
personified by the depth of
love songs
sung from
across oceans of awareness,
blocked by the multitude of stars
failing their wishes
hidden in dark shadow of light.

But I won’t stop wishing
for You tonight.

Inside this firing line
the only witness
blind men who say everything’s just fine,
scraping rabidly behind their eyes
at the beauty of remembered connection.
Their writhing weeping a Truth of loneliness
in the middle of the night,
only rise with the fakery of lies
bought on credit.

My longing’s laughing at
these ridiculous tears
of imagined loss
searching the sky for God
screaming of my broken bones
burning like phantom pain.

I have no evidence of injury
only the memory of hearing my name
once called across our home
with Real

I’ll put my pen down here
with that sound
blissfully near
before I remember
just what it was I fear.

Mira Black
June 1st 4:09pm

“What do you want in a long term partner Ms. Black?”

Someone recently ask me about my needs in a long term partner. It took me off guard. Not the question itself of course but my long pause that came after. If asked, do you know what you want in a long term partner, I would have heartily laughed replying of course I do. But when asked for specifics I was surprised at the blank nothing in my mind. I know now, after much consideration, the reason is because those things of which I was so very sure were qualities vital to my long term partner have drastically changed. I had to inquire deeply. Requirements that were once centred on how he made me *feel* have now changed to his philosophies, how he behaves, what choices he makes and what he inspires in me. And I in him.

1. Trust: we trust each other. This is not about never making mistakes but rather to know with certainty that we tell each other the truth, even when it’s difficult to do so. I wish to live with confidence that my partner is doing his own contemplations and introspections so that there is in him a capacity to live from a foundation of honesty, with himself and then with me. He can rely on me and know that I too am doing my inner work, hold a safe space for him to communicate with sincerity just as he does for me even in times of struggle.

2. Respect: we may not always agree and in fact that would bore me but we will take pride in and be readily able to support the actions and choices of the other. We can speak about different philosophies and varied understanding such that we might learn from and evolve. We listen and consider and remain teachable even as we can hold strong and steady to what we believe in. I need to be proud of my Man. And he proud of me.

3. Safe: now hang on all you staunch feminists, this isn’t about my being frail and needing a knight in shiny armour or daddy figure (*respect to all the good daddies out there), this is about solid, conscious devotion to each other. Taking care of each other isn’t bad when does with mutually supportive and conscious temperaments. Co dependant is a thing, I get it, but there is also a place where you have someone you can count on. The yang to my yin. I want to be part of a team and build a home and that takes a deep commitment because life can be chaotic so I need my choice in partner to be a safe haven where I can rest in the storms. Support. Comfort. Dedication. Sacred space where I may lay my head down between battles. It would be a bonus if he makes me laugh. Maybe he would feel stronger knowing that I love him truly.

4. Sexy. As a monogamist and one who is entirely turned on by intelligent, revolutionary, awakened beings, it’s not easy to find one who is like minded but I have decided to wait for that One….to inspire and manifest space for that One. I’m an odd duck in this world of swans. And that’s okay. I prefer him to be like me. I know opposites attract but they’re really hard to live with! Healthy physical choices. Mature mental choices. Playful heart. Kinky nature. Open minded adventurer. Musically discerning….please let him listen to the lyrics. Ambitious and passionate are a must though I accept some of that is subjective. Bar fights: over it. Mama’s boy: over it. Porn: over it. Conforming to the status quo: done and done. He need not be a poet but love my poetry. He need not be romantic but he must romance me…sometimes. We will fight because it’s worth it. We will dance because we must. We will play. The best of friends. We will talk all day into the night and still want to talk some more first thing in the morning. We will revel in the juicy silence of good books and a dark roast on a sunny porch. And he will fuck me with gratitude and consciousness like it’s the last time he has the honour of holding me in his arms.

5. Spirit. This is a tricky one because once again..odd duck…pond of swans. I thought maybe I could let this one go but each time I tried I found it kept coming back to it’s importance. He need not be rich. He need not be tall. There is no requirement from me that he play an instrument or play sports or be popular or suave. His mother doesn’t have to like me and my friends have to requirement to understand. Ethnicity matters not. Bald, bearded, pierced or tattooed none of that matters. But we must speak the same Spiritual language. Communication is vital. His relationship with Divinity matters greatly to me.

I do not expect He will be perfect just as I do expect he will accept my imperfections. External beauty fades and we all screw up. Perfection is a fallacy. And yet, there must be a clear understanding of needs and desires. Can we be pointed in the same direction on this crazy journey? Support and inspire each other on the places where that path forks? We will fall down and do our best to listen in difficult times reaching out a hand to help each other up. Where there is honesty and sincere commitment there is capacity to flow through dark times with grace. And if not grace then with forgiveness. And if not forgiveness then compassion. But always, always Love.

So mote it be and blessed be. <3

Cheeky showmanship

I can feel the “old” cheeky showmanship returning yet the costume is not as I remembered;
the hat too tight
the dress too loose
and those colours clash with my skin.
There’s something new here,
changed so near the aftermath of battle, shattered in the false chatter of addiction
I am remembering something which fed my ego in a tantalizing mirage on which to I attache.
Dust off the little black dress
and highest of high heels
those little girls I shoved to the very back of my closet
They help me shine on the dance floor of my femininity dashingly familiar, the music fills my mind with times of triumph. I will her to smile above the roar of insecurities.
And yet,
these newly found moments of elder and Crone call to my maiden
and be in the reality of what you’ve seen.
Tell the Truth of these gritty school girl dreams as they collide with what has been and now arrived.
Open your eyes.
Will I pass this test passed down through the lines of my sisters?
Sung praises of mercy for the passion and chaos of my brothers?
Forgive my Father and Mother for what they did to me?
Yes. In this moment until the next.
So, I am learning to dance barefoot on the floor of my own Life.
Love begotten from the barrels of the heart beating too fast in my chest,
pointing me home.

Mira Black

Wake Up You Slumbering Life

wake up,
you slumbering Life
too accustomed to the status quo!
Like the first time your lover smiles
so alive, allowing the affair to unfold
shuddering souls
between tender words
and sacred space.

i taste the sound of your voice
between my lips
as if
you might finally
kiss me.
make a wish of me,
make a choice
make a move
make mention and prove
me wrong for believing I am unlovable,
as if you could.
yet it’s in the trying that we find the
delicacy of connection.

we can confine the screaming muscles of a mind
which work through muzzles
to unravel thoughts
we find
caught in a
confusing conscious efforts
for some
with a quest for The Truth.

empty hands reach to a sky
misunderstanding why
that early morning moment makes us cry out
for new love
when the one in front of you lay,
a true love,
nestled on your chest.
when will the present
be enough to salve your wounded heart?

but those eyes that doubt and shroud belief
really don’t want to be seen
and so focus on the bloody contrast between
what is
and the way we think it should be.

the changeable pulse runs amok
rattling teeth
until the next mirage bequeaths hope.
grasp to the last procession that pokes
a deep lumbering state,
drop kicked into the fire of

don’t mistake a fantasy for beauty
or play the fool when it comes to duty.
let the truth be reflected and bred,
un-mute the song you hear in your head
and sing out so loud even
God begins to dance.

at least your feet know what to do
one and then the next in front of you
one more test of passion
a lesson
too few have the courage to
breath in.
there is only this.

the quest to know just what to do
distracts the mind cursing through
doldrums days denied dreams we don’t need.
still the loss keeps us weeping for a savour
and all we know for certain,
and this I know for certain,
is you can know nothing
for certain.

Mira Black
May 14th 2017