Poetic Philosophy

This poetry collection holds the poems submitted for the 7th Poetic Philosophy Gathering.

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

Event details

Event Details

2026 7th POETIC PHILOSOPHY GATHERING

Date: Saturday, 26 September· 6:00 – 7:00 pm
Time Zone: Europe/Athens
Google Meet link: https://meet.google.com/qpm-usvj-xqz

Facebook Event to register: https://fb.me/e/4IYH5buyV

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

Submitted Poems

If my mind could speak

How pleasant would it be if my mind could speak.

A world of creative thought’s unfold.

The glorious moments of life revived in a second untold.

Caution you might say but how much we play at time’s when the world stood still?

Our minds are a cast in itself grounded in a woven web of time.
Can we be brave enough to play the league of trying?

Or are we just thinking of our minds dying?

Think straight and easy but prepare your thoughts for some stressful moments uneasy.

The mind is a wonderful chess don’t let it rest too long before you regress.

If my mind could only speak.

I’d reap that game of success.

Never mind defeat or regress.

~ Eulalee Boddington

Churchyard

There’s a
ramekin glass dish
on the bench
in the churchyard

pink blossom
from the tree above
scattered around it
like confetti.

It catches the light,
casts a shadow
across the bench
and it is full
of cigarette
butts.

A small devotion
to tidiness
as the petals fall.

The pink
blossom drifts
to the edges
of the stone path.

The daffodils
are fading now,
their heads bowed
to their imaginary
reflection

And the bench
early morning
is usually taken
by a solitary man
with a can of beer
and a careful thirst.

He lifts the can
like a quiet hymn

The blossom falls.
The light moves on.
The bowl fills slowly

No sermon,
no hand on the shoulder
just the day beginning again
for the solitary man.

~ Tim Boardman

The Sound Of Silence

Sometimes the silence speaks
louder than the words,
louder than the music
as loud as the sounds
inside my head.
Sometimes the silence shouts
and I turn on the radio
and open the window
and block up my ears
to shut it out.
Once it was a welcome guest
entering as others left.
Once it was a time of peace,
a quiet time alone,
a rare time alone.
Now it’s all there is,

that deafening silence.

~ Lynn White

Untitled

Voice: You throw the arrow of peace
Shade: You settle the limits of force
Capacity: You put order to the sound..
Your feelings explore the universe.
Your mind grows the petals on earth.
And you become the wisdom in the variety of the words.

~ Athina Styliani Michou

Silence

Silence is not an empty space,
But architecture carved from thought,
A monument of all we feel,
And all the truths we never taught.

It rings louder than a thousand cries
A hum of truths too grand to speak,
The quiet realm where answers rest
For all the questions that we seek.

It carries whispers of the past,
The echoes of a soul’s desire,
A stillness burning in the dark
With cold, invisible fire.

So listen close to what is still,
Where unsaid promises belong
For in the depths of total peace,
The quietest heart sings the loudest song…

A timeless breath we leave behind,
When words surrender to the mind…

~ Cecilia Cotovan

Untitled

Let me pull at the war-torn
edges of our quarrelsome present
to find an intact thread
of who we are
beneath
the black ink sea
of the church chronicles
old laws and written history
beneath
the castles palaces and monuments
of the kingdoms
that have been constantly shifting
changing their names and shapes
beneath
the burial mounds
and the fragments of broken pottery
in the silence of ancient forests
and the wispers of the oldest words
that we still speak
our long forgotten past
is patiently waiting for us

~ Vanda Martins

Untitled

The edges of the sky
are turning red
the sun
behind the venerable oaks
is rising –
a crimson bloody sacrifice
to ancient goods
I find it frightening
though somewhat
mesmerizing
I wonder
how those pagan goods
were fighting back
and how the narrow path
for Christ
through swamps
was long and tragic
I think
it lingers still
this puzzling
silva haired world
that breathes days of yore
and pure magic

~ Vanda Martins

Untitled

We are used
to walking on eggshells
and inquiring
how to breath
we inherited
from our forbears
acquiescence
and martyr’s wreath
on brutality’s
fruitful soil
grew servility’s
bitter crop
how exacting it is
to milk out
our slavishness
drop by drop
on the senseless
though torturous fears
we’ll perform
exorcisory rite
let the phantoms
of dread disappear
our souls
let be
light and bright

~ Vanda Martins

Untitled

You can not lose your soul
try as hard as you might
unseen surveyor scrolls
your every deed and rite
some people’s wider way
or bluer deeper sky
can lure you astray
without a hue and cry
are you a lazybones
or restless army brat
that distant cities roams
continually but
beyond remote Cape Wrath
with waters pouder blue
your real soul and path
are coming back to you

~ Vanda Martins

Untitled

It was so real
now it’s done and gone
fragile and tender
slipping through my fingers
a subtle hint
a secret overtone
that inconspicuous
in the air lingers
It cannot be
constrained or caught in nets
it cannot be
invoked into attendance
you wait ashore
and rainbow trouts of words
will swim to you
and form into a sentence

~ Vanda Martins

Untitled

You have to shout
to show the world
you’re still alive
the likes
of Tiger Pistol Shrimp
are those
who thrive
in seven seas
they are
left right and center
spread
unlike the children
often
hardly seen
but heard
and so
those tiny creatures
fecund and diverse
instruct me daily
how to read
my verse

~ Vanda Martins

Untitled

Calling out
your name.
Wind will whisper
it around.
Only you can hear it,
calling out with
the moon angles.
Shout it loud
again.
Will you hear
it out there
on the other
side
of the moon?

~ Dessy Tsvetkova

Invitation

On a tender winter evening,
amid the remnants of Roman civilization,
the Leaning Tower of Pisa
smiles beneath the weight of wonder,
holding within its tilted silhouette
one of the world’s strangest marvels.
And I, lost in a quiet beer bar,
gazing across the Bay of Pisa,
search for the reflections
of poets I have loved.
I wonder—
perhaps even now,
my extraordinary poem of love
is still being engraved
in the ocean’s secret womb
beneath the Bay of Pisa.
A flock of skylarks arrives,
carrying an invitation
of love and harmony.
Nightingales, welcoming me,
scatter flowers along the path.
And so, I must journey
towards an ancient Protestant church.
On that Friday evening,
the bells begin to ring—
a summons to prayer.
One by one,
they awaken from their graves.
The prayer begins.
Yet, deep within my heart,
the sacred melody
of Pashupatinath’s evening aarti
continues to echo.
And the tender voices
rising from the Rigmo Monastery
send a shiver through my soul,
awakening within me
the ancient fragrance
of Hindu spirituality.
Now I stand
between those two graves,
while they embrace
one another, turn by turn.
Our eyes have grown moist;
our hearts have dissolved.
Together,
we have broken down
the walls of language and geography.
And answering their invitation,
many miles away,
beside the ancient pyramids
and the Aurelian Walls of Rome,
in the courtyard
of an old church,
I stand without fear
among my beloved friends.
P. B. Shelley, these days,
writes his poems upon water;
John Keats
hums his songs of love
upon the wandering wind.
Hearing of the grandeur
of Everest and Lumbini,
they smile in quiet wonder.
With the Leaning Tower of Pisa
standing witness,
we have made a solemn vow:
to transform this age
into an age of love and harmony,
and to write upon the pages of time
a new history
of universal brotherhood.

~ Himodh Pahadi