We See PINK~Life is much Happier~When You LOOK for the HAPPY

Thinkingpinkx2 tonight…

thinkingpinkx2

photo by Jeanne Marie/art by MichelleMarie photo by Jeanne Marie/art by MichelleMarie

Life is much happier
≧◔◡◔≦

When You LOOK for the HAPPY

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LOOK for the sunshine

≧◔◡◔≦

LOOK for the good things

≧◔◡◔≦

LOOK for the peace

≧◔◡◔≦

LOOK for the AWESOME YOU

≧◔◡◔≦

I SEE YOUR AWESOMENESS

≧◔◡◔≦

Let’s be HAPPY TOGETHER

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The Fire

Luna

I am the fire
I am the stone
Searing flesh
And charring bone
Choking smoke
Aching tears
Evaporate
Extinguish fears
Steam rising
Power fierce
A mother’s sword
The world to pierce
I am the fury
Knuckles crack
Skin full of scars
Rippling back
Flaming arrow
Archers hold
Roaring blaze
Green eyes bold
Let fly the wind
Lightning flash
Berserker charge
Shields clash
If I need it
I will build it
My cup is full
For I have filled it
I am the soldier
Upon the field
I am the blade
To me, all yield
I am the fortress
All I desire
Black as night
I am the fire

About me:  Ekadevi is a single mother, raising a radiant ‘little flame’ and living a simple country life in Australia. She enjoys writing poetry about the wisdom that grows from facing life’s challenges.

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If you would like to have…

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The Hobby Horse I Ride (Billy Collins, too!)

Elizabeth Gauffreau

When I was in graduate school, there were two types of people in the English Department: Lit People and Writing People. The Lit People breathed the rarefied air of theory, while the Writing People were pretty much viewed as the idiot savants of the department:

Awww, isn’t that sweet. You wrote a lit-tle po-em. Bless your heart. Now, step aside while I tell you what it REALLY means and why, in point of fact, you felt compelled to write it. No, better yet, I shall deconstruct it into meaninglessness. And if that is not enough to send you sniveling back to your misbegotten scribblings, I shall prove that your poem does not even EXIST until I read it!

All right, I may be exaggerating just a wee bit.

However, I do believe that poetry is meant to be experienced, not used as an exercise in sociocultural and phenomenological theorizing.  Interpretation…

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PINK~Cotton Candy

Feels like a good night for pink cotton candy to me.💗💗💗

thinkingpinkx2

Cotton candy
PINK~Cotton Candy
reminds me when I was 6 my baby sister was just born and my Momma took my brother and I the country fair. It started to rain and there my Momma stood with my brand new baby sister, under the covered pavilion, holding PINK~Cotton Candy and she was smiling. My Momma never smiled much, but when I see PINK~Cotton Candy I think of that day, in the rain, My Momma smiled and the taste of that PINK~Cotton Candy tasted like love to me.
I’m smiling just thinking of it!

Does this bring back memories for you too?

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Momma I met a boy…

I love this one from my thinkingpinkx2@wordpress.com partner, Michelle Marie.

thinkingpinkx2

mommaImetaboy

Momma I met a boy
he’s so cute and sweet
and if you wait till summer
I think you will meet
the boy of my dreams
cause Momma
he makes me feel safe
he laughs at all my jokes
but mostly Momma
he holds me when I cry
he steals kisses
like sugar candy
in the sun
he warms my heart
he’s so much fun
but mostly Momma
he asks baby girl
how do you feel
just like you do
he takes care of me
like you do Momma
Oh Momma
I met a boy

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A Note From Grace (My Mom)

Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

grace garden sit

A NOTE FROM GRACE (My Mom)
When my children were growing up and got into their “teenage problem” years, I’d become exasperated with them. I’d think, “They’re just like their father!”
Then, one day the light dawned on me, (Marblehead) because after taking a hard, honest look at myself, I realized; they were just like me. The me I had suppressed and hidden deep inside, where no one else could see. I was as wild and rebellious as they, but I had put up a shield of adult perfection, striving to become the perfect mother that everyone expected me to be.
I have now learned that I need to let this child in me come out to play, or the adult becomes a cold hard shell. I must confess, now that I’m older, I have to do this through my books, and old TV movies.
My mind wants to run…

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All Poetry Contest.

Lucy's Works

Hello everyone.

I am currently hosting a contest through All Poetry, and it is centered around writing poetry inspired by Wallace Stevens. This is the first poetry contest I am doing through there and if anyone would like to participate, you must submit your entry through All Poetry.

The contest ends on December 3rd, 2020 where I will then judge the pieces received. You can read more about it here, if you would like. You can write in any style you want, there are no restrictions. Further more, please nothing discriminatory, sexist, or racist–your piece will not be accepted if that is the case.

A minimum of 20 lines is allowed (but I’m not strict on this part of the rule). Maximum is the sky. Prose and prose-poetry will also be accepted.

Profanity is allowed, just label your piece under the “Adult” tag. Your piece must be related…

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Making Changes

Source of Inspiration

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What will it take
to make you see your’re
at the edge right now?
Like an angry bull
you kick and buck
never seeing that
what you’re doing
makes things worse.

There are times in our lives
when we must stop
this forward crash course
we’ve set, and think
about what we can
do instead. Too often
we blame others, even God
unwilling to see what role
we play, always
the victim to the end.

Start by being quiet
still, in expectation.
Think of one thing
you can change to turn
the situation around.
Each time you do this
you take control of your life
creating it as you wish it to be.

Take time each day
to go within, to ask for
guidance, to be grateful
for what you have.
In time, you will find
a better way
to live a life
of serenity.

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I Won’t Grow Up!

Visit Pat’s blog for more great posts.
https://patcegan.wordpress.com/2013/07/10/i-wont-grow-up/

Source of Inspiration

Looking under mushrooms
Gazing at the stars
Twirling spaghetti strands
Flying on dragons
I am a 70-year-old Peter Pat
who still knows that a child’s
world has more reality than
that occupied by adults.

Hey! Where’s Tinkerbell?

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Lost To Sleep

blackrose
Sleep eats my hours
Devours my moments
I awaken to find 
Years and years 
Were sacrificed
Lost to sleep.
Lost in a fog
Of numbness
I hide myself 
Inside each day
Veiled by darkness
I embrace each night.

Devotional Battlegrounds

Heartstring Eulogies

“Surviving isn’t just about
learning its price and paying for it.
It’s about fighting through it,
even when all hope is lost.”

Maybe the most interesting part about us is how devoted we are to each other. Not because we aren’t kindred spirits with hearts that still know how to bleed and fill up with a limitless supply of love. But like we were forged on the ground of a battlefield, still simmering with smoke and the coppery scent of blood lingering in the air. And I suppose in some ways, that’s exactly what happened. We learned to fight for our lives when we were supposed to be children, laughing and playing beneath the sunlight. We learned the price of survival early. It wasn’t pretty. Surviving never is. But a little agony is worth it if it means we will pull through. And that is what keeps me going.

©…

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Still Beating

I love Sarah’s writing.❤https://thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/2020/10/28/still-beating-2/

Heartstring Eulogies

“I still feel you in my heart.
And I know, my heart still beats for you.”

Maybe, when we are finally
beneath the same moon,
the cards will change
in our favor.
Maybe, when the timing
is right, we’ll find our way
back to one another.
And maybe. Just maybe,
when we move beyond
this life, we will still
find each other.
But most of all, for now,
I just wish your life
is filled with happiness
in my absence.
Because even on the
blackest of nights,
I still feel you in my heart.
And I know, my heart
still beats for you.

Maybe it’s the maybes
that are eating me alive.

© Sarah Doughty
2019

Perhaps one day,
this wall between us
will crumble beneath
its foundation.

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Whispers

Michelle Marie paints broad strokes of mama love with her words and her art. Her art, poetry, words and photos are incredibly moving. She always grabs my heart and her pictures evoke a rainbow of emotions.
https://tellmeaboutit.co/2020/10/02/whispers/

Tell Me About It

Childhood is but a whisper…then comes the living. I wanted you to know I’m here cheering you on. 💕 Whispering prayers, I hope you feel them. 💕

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Darkness Swallowed Me Whole and Spit Me Back Out Again

The Bipolar Writer Mental Health Blog

September is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Month

I will be writing a post a day about suicide prevention and awareness on my blog

My Loud Bipolar Whispers

for my campaign

Remember in September.

Prevent Suicide Yesterday.

Today May Be Too Late.

This is a post on my blog describing the meaning behind the title of my campaign.

 Back to my current post…

Darkness Swallowed Me Whole and Spit Me Back Out Again 

Because I started researching information about suicide prevention awareness and looking at old posts I wrote, it awakened thoughts and feelings of the past causing me to become more in touch with my past emotions and feelings of depression and severe mental illness pain.

Those feelings will always be a part of me. I will never forget what I have survived over many years of my life. This is not a bad thing, but is a blessing instead. It is always a…

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Bewildered: Gray Walls with Boxes

lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

Gray Walls with Boxes

Once I knew words that fit together.
Now my mind still has the answers,
but rarely lets me in to find them.

People who seem to know me
bring pizza in a box
and we eat it in front of another box I’ve forgotten the name for––
a small world with other people moving in it that I don’t know.
Sometimes words appear in a ribbon on the bottom edge of that box
and I wonder if I understood them
if they ‘d tell me what I’m supposed to do.

On the walls are other flat boxes
with people frozen in them
and I think it is my fault.
There is something I am supposed to be doing.
There is something I am supposed to be doing.
“They are your pictures, Mother.
They’re there for decoration—
for you to enjoy,”
a woman tells me
when I…

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