Skip to main content

Love Poem To Myself

person writing in a notebook with a pen
Yes, I can, I surely can.
Reminding myself that I always have
and always will.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
no need to bite my nails,
nor lie awake, nor forget,
in clammy doubt wasting
sleep-time on negative imaginings.
I make positive probabilities
more certain and real.
I am calm, I am kind, I am fun,
brave and generous too.
Smiling more than most
I see the good in everything you do.
Deep breathing with a cheerful heart,
I’ll fight your corner, feel your pain, make you laugh.
I am a ‘doer’, a helper, a friend.
I align my thoughts to health.
I let go and I love, dancing in rain and on the edge of a cliff.
Silence is better than to deliver a curse,
I like to smile and to listen.
Encouraging others to be the best that
they can be. I am a mender,
a maker of things and
I am mindful of my consumption.
I plant trees,
sing songs, make tea and play
simply and fairly.
I will be as I am
the intuitive, the sorter, the lover of life, the mender of minds,
the ideas person, the performer, the woman of warmth, the
cooker of dreams and the giver of time.
Yes, I can,
so I will.

Sue Foster

 

Image by lilartsy via Unsplash

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Who Is Saving The World?

The recycler, bicycler, bio-masser and solar paneller, the sustainable developer, the charity worker, the medics (sans frontieres?), fundraisers and carers, givers and listeners, growers of organics, designers of biodegradables. Genetic engineers? Surgeons and researchers, forgivers and forgetters, Billy the bug hunter, Immy the mathematician, Troy the paratriathelete, Wendy the wigwam maker. The ones who go last, the ones who smile, the ones who don’t want to argue about it, the ones who give up their seat, the ones who calm a storm, the ones who cook up a feast, the ones who sing praises, the ones who shine, Auntie Gwen and Malala…… ….and I drink water from a glass bottle. Sue Foster Image by Fernando via Unsplash .
View Poem »

Bones on the Shore

We walk the shoreline down in that dark dip at year’s end, while life’s still slumbering. The beach is a graveyard. We clamber, beneath ominous skies, through cathedrals of bones. Beached giants, prone on the sand, gaunt skeletons, arms uplifted, feet still reluctant to leave. In the lifetime of my children, these dinosaurs, these mighty oaks have fallen, their forms sculpted by time and weather, yet even in death they hold such power. They lie, steadfast as ever, awesome, majestic, statuesque, garlanded with gifts from the river: soft green fronds, little crabs, bladder wrack decorating their fingers. For centuries they stood strong, hearing the river’s song: ebb, flow, winter, spring, tide and moon rising, falling, curlew calling, calling. We will walk the shorelines at that bright time of new beginnings, now we are awakening. Jan Armstrong Photo by Daniel Lincoln via Unsplash
View Poem »

Lichen a Plenty

Lichen a plenty,  With your crispy and crusty Foliose forms Lichen reveals the Hidden substrate beneath. Ashley
View Poem »

Erosion

Unerring yet erratic The weight of water never waits for readiness Sandstone is proven to be a two-faced liar a pretence of solidity written into the features of its rockface which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy and we wave goodbye to all we knew Lynne Nesbit
View Poem »

Survival

With a chromatic personality Bolder than a bull He strode his way into my life. Tweaked by unexpected darkness Descending into his rhythmic demands He made me feel unannounced. With a sinking feeling And crescendos of shadows I survived to leave by flight. Jill
View Poem »

Becalmed

I can no longer dot the i’s, nor cross the t’s. A pale haze, like Sunday afternoons, pleasant after a glass of wine too many, drifts across my day. I am at peace. I find myself disposed to acquiesce, content to live life at this gentle pace, content, it seems, with how life’s focus, now diminished, takes on the softened blur of evening light. Something sharp is lost. But the time for mourning it is done. The wind that swelled the sails has dropped, the tide recedes, the fierceness of the sun is quenched, leaving the sunshine’s golden glow that speaks the lateness of the hour. A taste of salt upon my lips - no call for worry or regrets - a bitter-sweet recall of what has gone. Julia Duke
View Poem »