Poetic Philosophy

This poetry collection holds the poems submitted for the 6th Poetic Philosophy Gathering.

To submit a poem for this collection, use the Submit Poem form.

Event details

Event Details

2026 6th POETIC PHILOSOPHY GATHERING

Date: Saturday, 29 August· 6:00 – 7:00 pm
Time Zone: Europe/Athens
Link: https://meet.google.com/yhs-etvm-wnm

Submit your poems with DM, comment here, or via the Poetic Philosophy Contact Us page!

Submitted poems to be published at the ongoing poetry collection “Cold Sun” at https://poeticphilosophy.com/…/07/07/cold-sun-august-2026/

Facebook event: https://fb.me/e/7RUxTKxWN

Submitted Poems

How can death be?

In a cosmos full of everything how can change be?
In a cosmos full of nothing, how can we exist?
What other proof do you need?
A cosmos full of nothingness.
Full of you and me.
An ever changing cosmos.
Why do we seek stability in such a world?
Ask the simple questions…
And the cosmos will disappear…
In a world of possibilities, there is nothing that cannot exist.
In a World full of nothing, there is nothing that can Be.
Except the simplest things that we still seek.
Me. You. He. She.
In a world full of everything I still cannot know how I came to be.
And I still seek for answers.
Refusing to accept what the universe whispers to me.
(What can die, could never live…)

~ Spyridon Kakos

In the field

I can see you
flower in the field,
again.
I have come here
to name you again.
Your heart and your hope,
your feet,
and your toes,
your rain and your roots.

We chose
to make a time,
a place,
to put this flicker and fluctuation,
into body and clothes,
stems and petals,
Again,
Again.

There is always nothing.
There is only everything,
waiting to be played.
A silent song,
waiting for a call,
to be heard
again.

And you will
always be.
And in the blossom
of your birth,
the spiral arms will
encompass me.

And in the
forgiveness of your
decay,
You will let me
always be
free.
Again.

I came
fragile and futile,
to ask you to
rake this dance,
to spin our
failing bodies.
To sing
into the void
again.

I came
to breath time
with you,
to kiss light
from the shadow,
to Lift our memories
in leaf fall
again.

I came
to watch you leave
droplets never falling,
an echo always calling,
a flower
In the field,
again.

~ Daniel Plackett

Bus

I’m on
the top deck
of a double-decker
bus

Sitting
front right

pretending
to drive

Cyclists look
vulnerable
from up here

I’m never cycling
again

Car drivers
sticking the noses
of their cars
out of crossroads

The gentleman
beside me

is going to a
bereavement meeting

He misses his wife
every day

How long have you
been going?
I ask

‘Two years,’
he replies

Silence
between us

I’ve read up
about it

Any conclusions?

‘Well,’ he says,

‘Page one hundred
could just say

‘Life is too short.’

We laugh

and silently cry

Have you noticed
the shape of trees
on bus routes?

I used to think
that’s how they grew

But as the top deck
hits a branch

I realise not

~ Tim Boardman

SEA AND SUN

In Greek lands I surely once have been,
Within the boundless depths of the sea.
With Aphrodite here I was born in,

From white, foam-crested waves that carried me.

With Zeus up high upon the mountain crest,
I cast the lightning like a flying spear.
And he, in turn, allowed me as a gift
To roam through fairy lands both far and near.

In Socrates I found true ethics grown
Through knowledge—knowing means I will not stray.
Plato revealed the sacred truth alone:
That man is body bound with soul’s own way.

With Aristotle, truths are understood
Through logic clear and proofs that firmly stand.
The gods show no compassion, nor are moved
By pleading words or flattery well-planned.

With Pythagoras I drew the hypotenuse,
Discovered squares of catheti aligned.
Erat—this ancient, faithful guiding muse
Inspired these verses, brief yet well-defined.

Sea and sun, and people fair and wise,
From ancient times to those who live today.
With philosophers I’ll still debate and rise—
What more does man require, anyway?

The bouzouki and the ouzo charm the soul,
Inviting all the world to join in cheer.
In Greece I’m truly happy, wholly whole,
For here I found true love, sincere and clear.

~ Radka Lyulyakova, Bulgaria

Connectivity

Intention sets the compass 

Connectivity the path to spring 

To formulate the plan  

That gives our purpose wings

Somewhere in the unseen thread 

A connection has been made

Perhaps initially unsuccessful 

The outcome has been saved 

Consider L Frank Baum

Wrote The Wizard of Oz

Coat in random second hand store

Ten years before ‘is’ became ‘was’

He died those years before 

The actor donned his coat 

Found name in pocket in the film

Acted just as he wrote

Similar to Anthony Hopkins

Playing in ‘Girl from Petrovka’

Searched all over for that book

Written by one George Feifer

He searched bookshops in vain

Sat weary in a park

Found the book aside him

Providence formed the arc

It was even the author’s copy

His notes in annotation

What led Antony to that park

To complete this formation?

Perhaps intention is the spark 

Not always the road we tread

We set our compass to the aim

And let the pathways spread

Each failure in life 

We presume closing of the door 

While connectivity

Opening up so many more

So we chose to plan

To go towards our peace

Though the journey often blocked 

Such wonders never cease 

The search may fail

It seems seeking never flowed 

Yet if we watch 

It simply takes a different type of road

And in that search

Hardly fully known

Yet arriving at the place 

We have fully grown 

We mistake delay for absence 

When we are just gleaning

Patience wisdom love and healing

Are towards us ever leaning 

The universe is filled with light

Our eyes do not perceive 

Darkness not the opposite of light

It’s all just make believe 

As Olbar demonstrated 

The light has not reached you

Have faith -it will arrive

Just not on the date you did subscribe 

So thus the mission for something 

Despite how so far keening 

Is a nudge to us all

There is more in search for meaning 

It may arrive unbidden

Having begun with a thought 

By mysterious connections 

The outcome will be wrought

So knowing this happens 

Whatever circumvention

Always remember karma

Be careful your intention

It is written 

Certainly could not be clearer 

You only see God’s will

In your rear-view mirror 

~ Peter Hanlon

midway

the object
on the stairs
had been there forever
no one moved it
it had become
part of the
furniture
part of the stairs

i picked it up
a dust ring
had gathered around
where it sat
and the carpeted stairs
looked lighter
where the object
had been

it was warm
from sunlight
holding onto heat
like old things do
silent and steady
as we walked by
we never spoke of it

this object
though we stepped past it
daily
it had presence
an invisible presence
midway on the stairs

i turned it
in my hand
something once useful
now orphaned
by context
and yet still
claiming space

it smelled faintly
of time
and old conversations

i didn’t know
what to do
now that it was gone
from its spot
i held its weight

and for a moment
the stairs felt
too open
too empty
too bare

i placed it back
exactly
where it had been
let the dust ring
resume
like nothing had changed

~ Tim Boardman

Untitled

Their market rings with heavy cries
of polished truth and sacred lies.

They wrap a shadow, label it deep …
And sell you secrets you cannot keep.

“Awaken your mind!”-
the barkers shout,
trading your coins for elegant doubt.

They pack up a feeling, tie it with string,
but leave you without a tangible thing …

I pull no veils before your eyes.
No clever trap, no grand disguise.

You get no magic,
no smoke, no sacred rings …
just the hard weight that honesty brings.

Let them hawk the wind and lease the sky …
And charge a fee for a curated sigh.

I hand you the facts,
exact and plain …
And put the true change
in your hand again

~ Andriana Andreeva

The Weeping Gods of Manipur

If I were to die, don’t burn me,
Give me a proper fire burial
And my ashes, scatter them
In the turbulent waters of Irang,
Or the snaking flows of Iril.

And in my second burial,
Take my remains to Sugnu.
The confluence of Chakpi and Imphal.
Make me a mound,
Bury me there on the banks.
So the deities can see
With their searching eyes.
From the hills of Chandel and Phiral.

Then, shall my soul in peace,
Make the coo-ing sounds,
Like the ones in stories.
Along with the spirits,
Forever becoming whispers,
Voices trapped in crystals and stones.
Among the hills and valleys,
Between the blind pine trees,
And their humming.
With no one to care,
Innocence so red,

It’s beautiful and sacred.
And my cries, they become,
The shimmering tales of Manipur.
Along with the spirits,
From the hills I’ll see.
My rape and desecration.
And along with the pine trees,
I’ll hum when the winds they blow,
To forget and erase,
The pain and memories.

And when my eyes they can take no more,
I’ll tell the blind pine trees my tales.
And gouge my own eyes,
To be together with them.
For it is too much,
For my little Manipuri heart and soul.
Silent and cold, the hills they watch,
And my tales, the God’s they weep,
And from their hearts its springs,
Lilies and orchids.

~ Hijam Monarsingh Dallo Rihmo

Simple Pleasures

Caught up in paying mortgage,
And the Netflix monthly spike,
Yet choose a simpler route –
Perhaps go for a hike.

Hear the whistle of the worker,
The laughter of a child,
Old men in friendly comradeship,
Drinking pints of mild.

A cliff walk with your dog,
A view across the sea,
White thistles by a lighthouse –
All of this is free.

Wilderness has a healing light,
Through tree, wind and shoal,
Shining through your higher self,
Elevating soul.

If fed up – avoid the bankers
Who process plastic cards;
They have hearts of rock –
Always be on guard.

Go where land is leafy,
And babbling brooks do flow;
It’s forever in your heart,
And just outside your door.

So get onto God’s earth,
Take photos with your phone;
Let outdoors be your helper,
And sit on nature’s throne

~ Peter Hanlon

Voice and Hunger

Voice and hunger rise from the same cavern.
A voice can unfasten the universe,
chip a fragment from the sun.
It can fall silent too-
become sunken ships below the tide,
the anxious grind of a key
that will never fit a door again.

Hunger builds its castle
in the sand of no-time, no-place,
wraps itself in peasant cloth,
presses coal into its eyes,
and sets off
across the white crags,
with handfuls of laughter
turned inward.

~ Petra Bauman

Sign

There is a mistake in everything.

Grease and a tear on the gift wrap.
Yesterday’s curse within a kiss.
Bubbled mouths, burnt tongues, and damp hands on tavern cups.
A quarrel of man and woman in a child’s smile.
A stolen loaf of bread in the sharing to the poor.
Many naked bodies in a pupil.
The roofer’s death within the roof.
The weeping of the outcast
in the glow of new streetlights.
The body sold in the breadline.
The body with a hidden heart note
to someone in the nightly crossing of bodies.
Mother – cyclops in the boy’s first release,
scraped knees marked with the sign of the cross
on the skirt where the beloved sits.

~ Petra Bauman

Rehearsal for Death

Tonight the poem is drowning
beneath the stone I carry
around my neck,
sinking into the dark depths,
refusing to breathe,
refusing to be saved.

I no longer know how to awaken
the wildness of the night;
it imprisons me for life
whenever you are gone.

Because you are not here
to paint my day
with chrysanthemums,
because you are not here
and my sun does not rise.

You are a black horse;
upon your back I gallop,
hanging there.

I think I have died,
though this is only
a rehearsal
for death.

~ Maria Politou

The range of common voices

A choir of whispers, a sweet symphony
on the winding street of life,
the same guiding lights
voices of wisdom,
truths that echo on high notes
In harmony, they speak as one
a common intuition,
that repeats itself in me, in you, in us
a gentle breeze that soothes the soul
illuminating our paths throughout.

Through sounds heard or just felt
the range gives out, a clear signal
a multitude of hearts that hear
the same resonance, the same vibrations
a universal voice that brings us closer
in unison, they rise to the sky
a symphony of love,
a range of common voices, pure and strong
guiding us forward, through our common voices.

~ Cecilia Cotovan

Flowers and gratitude

Is Zarathustra still walking the rope
Are our higher selves all Übermenschen
Is comfort really just a slippery slope
And how much power has intention
.
How new are new schools of thought
How useful are visions on a board
Does armour protect us and how is it forged
What have we gained
When the nature of chaos
Can never be reined.
.
It’s all flowers for monsters
And gratitude for joy
She said, don’t identify with your trauma
Or it will grow as your golden boy.

~ Tina Heber

Philip

I sit inconsolably
with a bent back
looking at you.
Now you’ve grown up
you keep company with the Teenager.
You look at me with surprise:
“What’s the name of my friend
that you instilled in me, father?
Life, you told me.”

These little eyes, the open ones
sown in the tamarisk
in the indomitable stone
with the blood of our ancestors
salted shamelessly
full of questions.
These little eyes
like the toil of the radish
that climbs a Pine
or the sunset of a myrtle
buried in the sand dune
you generously gave them to me
you kissed me a dignity.

But I, my God,
still stand in panic
windy and anxious .
A big storm inside me
thinking what to do with it .
I look at you in confusion
looking at my life with a question .

What can I answer you
I am empty, unprepared and alone
with half a look at the decision .
What can I advise you my love
in the ruins of a bloody country .
I can only talk to you
about jasmine
love affairs of the sand
with the half moon .

Did you meet the cicada
that I brought you ?

~ Alexis Spanellis, Greece

Smokers

Everyone wants a cigarette.
Everyone needs a light.
Quietly in the endless heat.
We wait for lost baggage.
Hear other languages.
The tongues of travellers.
Unraveled as they spin.
Stories of lost fingers.
amputated arms,
still swing like ghosts,
still hold rifles,
still hide knives,
between their lips.
Roses bleed, red fires.
The battles flood.
We talk of rage.
Yet the wheat struggles.
We all wait for rain.
Share a smoke.
Exhale a few words.

~ Ellie Csepregi, July 5th, 2026

Untitled

Yellow like light

like a lemon or a tortilla

like a sunflower or

the gold in the key of happiness

When the rainflower comes

and you see the clouds of grey 

may the likes of yellow

live you through the gardens of shadows 

~ Vasiliki Papadopoulou

I Travel

I travel in a strange, solitary boat,
across the quivering silk-blue sea.
I surrender myself to the caress of the meltemi,
to the companionship of the seagull,
to the sun’s warm kiss.
My gaze flirts with the white,
with the deep crimson of the lava,
then comes to rest upon the shore beneath the tamarisks.
My fingers tremble at the water’s touch.
My lips bleed from the salt
as I converse with the light—
ancient beyond memory, relentless beyond mercy.
It floods the soul’s dark chambers with radiance
and gives birth to beautiful tales
dripping with the Aegean and with Greece,
like those once sung by Homer.

~ Afrodite Diamantopoulou