seeking to authentically touch hearts and inspire rethinking our every decision in life, especially the ones we never thought of as a decision

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  • bethinkful 78w


    The deadness eventually set in, like it always did. She felt fully and enormously, empathetic to a paralyzing degree, like the time she saw the bird survive the motion of a car, only to fly off to certainly die later, alone, in pain.

    Well, cars are our wings, aren't they...? Justifiable, surely...? She held back a wave of nausea.

    The silence of emotions had to be her coping mechanism. But she believed and doubted simultaneously. Some of the deadness had gone on so long that she was left with serious doubts about her own compassion. Who was she, if not compassionate? How could she live with herself?

    Oh no, more of those thoughts... The kind that crept in when ordinary consciousness overwhelmed her and she didn't like the world or what she was doing in it. She screamed so loud she drowned out her thoughts. It didn't feel good at all.

    The Chinese needles helped her regain some balance, but even more than that - her breath, fresh air. Breathe...breathe. Gratitude that she still could. What happens in a life, from youthful imagining to overwhelming deadness? How could a soul burn so bright and dim so hard?

    It felt good to write. To liven up her grief again. She was human after all. Reviving was something she was just starting to experience...

    Who knows which way the path will go.


  • bethinkful 79w


    Is it better to exist
    In a deadened state
    Or not to exist
    At all?

  • bethinkful 82w

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod

    It's time to renew those tender vows,
    The ones you once took seriously:

    America! You may kiss your bride!

    Democracy shines white; her veil is raised,
    she is poised for death do us part.
    But already, too many have had too much to drink
    (who invited those demons for commitment cake?)

    The grandmothers sip their lavender tea,
    afraid to look up, red-faced, chagrined by their kin.

    Enough is enough,
    is it not enough...?
    Didn't your mother teach you anything?

    Time to sit down, napkins in laps,
    drink your purple tea (yes, blend the red and blue)...
    Talk - and listen - to the estranged & distant ones;
    (you know, there really is no "Other")

    And let's make this year different from last -
    sweet as the icing, slow as the tea,
    thoughtful as a teary-eyed vow.

    Let's cross our tables, annul the gossip,
    and soften both our
    black and white frontiers

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  • bethinkful 84w

    The notes of yesterday
    Hang in the present
    Dropping, lilting, spiraling,
    Out to the setting sun
    Into the vast beyond...
    Yet somehow, they reach
    The moon, and yes, even
    The sun himself's rising
    And He and She,
    Past and future,
    Are joined together
    In the soft chords,
    The echoes within, and without,
    Our "selves"
    Image courtesy of Nick Bondarev (Pexels)

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  • bethinkful 84w


    The fires of difference
    have never burned so long
    as the Wild falls, thundering,
    to waves and flames of rage,
    beaches battered, along with
    cities that have already, in past lives,
    had to succumb to potent winds.

    A Greek alphabet brings hurricanes
    of change (for aren't we all tired
    of burnout, tired of our collective,
    hibernative sleep?) while pandemic reveals
    the energy of shadows that worked stealthily
    behind closed corporate, church, townhall
    doors, the domination that once was
    unrealized, but has now been released
    upon the awareness of the masses.

    Oh, America:

    the novelist writes us a new edition
    of our worn out, tattered story, since
    we have not the ears to listen to it
    read aloud, told to us, any longer.

    She - novelist, poet, creatrix - begs
    her audience, her nation: please,
    let me make of you a story; it can emerge
    in you as a blinking face of change,
    but you, dear ones, my natives, you settlers,
    must help me write it, new...

    Help me, please, to join together
    our reflective shards of struggle
    with the fire, the water, the loss and building,
    the merging and fusion and amalgamation -
    so that what reflects is something
    we long to see

  • bethinkful 96w


    "Poetry is the act of surprising yourself with things you didn't know you knew..."

    -David Whyte -

  • bethinkful 97w

    today's feminine is indeed a rose, but
    not a blossoming one of exquisite beauty.
    she cries her petals into her womb,
    where all her pain awaits release.
    her black mascara stains her face, but
    she has no desire to wash it clean:
    take her stained or leave her, you man,
    proud and taking.

    today's woman ventures out alone,
    listening, talking, craving the fangs of
    the rattlesnake, which she - in desperation -
    hopes will make her connect, and feel again,
    that which she has lost, had taken
    from her without consent, which she
    gave over to the shift that pushed in an
    unbalanced rift.

    today's feminine can bring him inside to
    unlock what lies in wait to birth a new,
    longing consciousness. she washes the
    newborn child with the falling of tears,
    wipes it clean with her hair, while the Earth
    and her spirits nurse it full, plump and radiant
    under the rising sunbeams, where it will grow,
    and dance later

    under the reflective,
    overwhelming night sky

    © bethinkful / image by Duncan Sanchez (Unsplash)
    #pod @mirakee @writersnetwork @writerstolli

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  • bethinkful 98w

    today, She - the wind -
    danced with Beloved.
    She - the breeze -
    cried on his shoulder,
    wiped her nose
    in his sleeve,
    allowed him to smile
    into her eyes,
    kiss her lips
    with his gentle goodbye.
    today, She - the sun -
    poured her warmth into
    Beloved. She - the rays -
    opened her void, which
    previously, in ignorance,
    had been closed.
    They danced, and
    she led, and freed
    from constraint
    She gave, and took,
    took back Beloved.
    tonight, She - the moon -
    She - the ground -
    will walk herself home,
    despite his offer,
    yet she will touch
    his fingertips
    under her breath
    until the last possible
    moment, when she
    walks off to the dark,
    breathing him in
    with a breath out
    of adieu

    © / image by Ruvim (Pexels)
    #fridayfun @mirakee

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  • bethinkful 99w

    It's pretty sad to
    that it never even
    entered my mind
    that my blemished
    skin, asymmetry
    could be touched
    with your tenderness,
    that you could reach
    between my fragments
    to fill yourself up
    with my fire,
    pull out from me
    something that
    you've named respect
    and, because
    I see it, I
    actually do
    believe you

    © / image by Maria Eduarda Tavares (Pexels)
    #aesthetec2 #aesthetec @writersbay

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    between my fragments
    to fill yourself up
    with my fire


  • bethinkful 99w

    You can't force a thought, my gut tells me
    as I attempt to throw a stone in the exact
    place my eyes fixate upon, as my mind
    attempts to direct the wispy clouds
    into a shape of my own choosing,
    a shape that holds my purpose.

    You can't force a thought, a state
    of mind, just like you can't force
    wisdom, openness, or stop
    the judgment, stop wanting
    to find ways to convince yourself
    you've done it right...


    But perhaps that's not right,
    perhaps it's more nuanced, and
    the better (better? - ahem, wiser)
    way of saying it is, it can't be forced
    on anyone, but it can be reeled in
    little by little, word by word,

    line by line
    from the stardust
    of soul

    by your

    #stardust @mirakee
    © / image by cottonbro (Pexels)

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    line by line
    from the stardust
    of soul