On Nature ~ Poem by Basho

I am one
Who eats his breakfast,
Gazing at the morning-glories.

– Basho

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I Am Me ~ Poem by Virginia Satir

I Am Me

In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me
Everything that comes out of me is authentically me
Because I alone chose it – I own everything about me
My body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all my actions,
Whether they be to others or to myself – I own my fantasies,
My dreams, my hopes, my fears – I own all my triumphs and
Successes, all my failures and mistakes Because I own all of
Me, I can become intimately acquainted with me – by so doing
I can love me and be friendly with me in all my parts – I know
There are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other
Aspects that I do not know – but as long as I am
Friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously
And hopefully look for solutions to the puzzles
And for ways to find out more about me – However I
Look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever
I think and feel at a given moment in time is authentically
Me – If later some parts of how I looked, sounded, thought
And felt turn out to be unfitting, I can discard that which is
Unfitting, keep the rest, and invent something new for that
Which I discarded – I can see, hear, feel, think, say, and do
I have the tools to survive, to be close to others, to be
Productive to make sense and order out of the world of
People and things outside of me – I own me, and
therefore I can engineer me – I am me and
I AM OKAY

My Life Has Been the Poem ~ Poem by Henry David Thoreau

My Life Has Been the Poem

My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.

By: Henry David Thoreau

The Poet’s Song ~ Poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Poet’s Song.

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
⁠He pass’d by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
⁠And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,
⁠And chanted a melody loud and sweet,

That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
⁠And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly,
⁠The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
⁠And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, “I have sung many songs,
⁠But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
⁠When the years have died away.”