Poetic Philosophy

This poetry collection holds the poems submitted for the 4th Poetic Philosophy Gathering.

Event Details

2026 4th POETIC PHILOSOPHY GATHERING

Date: Saturday, May 30, 2026
Time: 18:00–19:00 Greece time
Location: Online (Google Meet)

Link: Google Meet: https://meet.google.com/tmo-wqga-gpg

Facebook link: https://fb.me/e/bybSWDmcJ

Submission methods

Submit your poems with comment here, or via the Poetic Philosophy Contact Us page! You can also send an email to harmonia-philosophica@hotmail.com.

Submissions

LITTLE WAVES

Small waves sing their song to the night.

They enchant the black sky and the silence beguile.

They tell another story of other shores,

of other martyrs, of lives too short.

Of prayers sailing to the wind,

of mothers who their chorus sing

for sons who will not return

for those who will leave no more.

Listen to them with your eyes closed

and perhaps they will tell on what shore

the light of wisdom runs aground.

Only a few know if not none:

The sea tells it to the wind,

the wind tells it to the man

who still knows how to stand

at the wave’s deep adagio.

~ Stefania Contardi

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from a distant land
Who said: a tower of steel and glass once stood
Amid the dust, and cast their shadow far
Across the sand. A shattered frame of rust
Lies half-buried beside it, broken, cast,
A head with rigid smile and sneer of cold
Command still speaks of one whose restless wars
Fed long on praise, and power gripped in gold.
And on the base, these words remain inscribed:
‘My name is Trump, a ruler none surpass
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Yet nothing stands – no crowd, no gleaming mass
Only the wind across that empty span
Repeats the fragile empire built by man.

~ Tim Boardman

Churchyard

There’s a ramekin, 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

Near a Spring

I’ve lost my hair. I’ve lost my lust.
All my shining dreams have turned to dust.
My friends are going or becoming lost.
They’re waiting for me in the hot sands near a spring, where they crossed.

I said to Simon, How lonely does it get?
I still haven’t heard – yet but I hear him laughing,
questioning in the temple of love high above.

I walk with a stick – not for support, but for the look of it, second hand bought.
I was made like this. I had no choice.
The need to express. The need to create.
To prove I exist.

I sit in the house where the light is strong.
Outside, the signs of spring are waiting,
in the garden where they belong.

My friends are going or becoming lost.
They’re waiting for me in the hot sands near a spring, where they crossed.

The river isn’t flowing as fast.
The earth begins to dry.
I stare outside, waiting for you to arrive.

My friends are going or becoming lost.
They’re waiting for me in the hot sands near a spring, where they crossed.

~ Tim Boardman

As If You Were a Stranger

I will always gaze at you as if you were a stranger —
not because I failed to recognize your eyes.
On the contrary…
I recognize those eyes so deeply,
they sink me, drop by drop,
into the abyss of my solitude.
I will always gaze at you as if you were a stranger,
for shadows still dance within the room,
the folded sheet teeters on the edge of the bed,
the scarf sways, trembling
with the heavy breath of my silence.
That frame still leans against the pillow,
conjuring despair and a presence that lingers,
carrying the memory of touch.
I will always gaze at you as if you were a stranger,
for your smile resembles the executioner of my soul,
etching it indelibly
across the horizon of my being.
Like the moon refusing the sun,
weighing the tide in its palms,
as ships loosen their ropes,
leaving behind the wake of homecoming
to pound, to recycle, to revive
the derailed hopes of seagulls—
like a lighthouse collapsing
under a shipwrecked “I love you,”
crashing with windborne pleas
upon your shore.
I will always gaze at you as if you were a stranger,
because my wounds bloom into spring,
and sleepless winters burn
in the lava of your eyes.
Because my hands anoint
awkward wishes
that surrendered
to the marshlands of fear.
I will gaze at you as if you were a stranger,
while I weave Clotho’s ashes
along your footprints—and you bolt the dreams
to the reefs of estrangement,
scattering love’s ashes like golden dust,
tracing the absence you see…
within my gaze.

~ Giorgos Grigoropoulos

Untitled

And what if

We are…

All of us – just Healthy –

Whatever the conditions might be…

And what if

We are always getting

The best of the moment –

In brief …

And what if

We skip the duality –

The good and the bad,

The high and the low…

And what if

We meet the reality

With calming, loving, gentle song…

And what if

We forget about judgement

And lose intentions to compete…

And what if

We still have the wisdom

To hear and to see…

And what if

We still have the courage

To make this world

Complete…

And what if words and sounds don’t matter…

And silent is the world ?

What color would be better

The black, the White, the Blue?

And what if

you and I are symbols

Of something never born

Does it really matter

What would be the score?

And what if

We are nothing…

Just wondering

What if???

A motion in the universe

…a between tone…

April 2026
Stob, Bulgaria

~ Andriana Andreeva

Languages

Between times, spaces are changing.
The sound creates formations.
Wings of waves in the back of words.
Inter nos loquimur.
The day shapes the colour.
A rainbow saturates the movement.
Paths of recognition are born.

~ Athiná Stylianí Michou

My universe

So torn so ready to break
So ready to slip in
So far the kiss
of light
The ache holds my breathing
Am I breath ?

My universe
It was veils
Hanging on a hope
It was a story
I forgot to tell
It was a song
I forgot to sing

It was a love
I spilt
dripping into emptiness
drops in a waiting shell
Washed against the shore

I cannot hold
The nameless,
cannot be
the nothing
cannot touch this moment
Of eternity

How to be birth
How to be death
How to let them free

Do you follow me
Floating in the pools of your eyes
Weaving light
tapestry
Binding cells
in Chemistry
Do you know
How beautiful you are ?
How beautiful you are

It is only matter
fading
Pigments dissolving
Okra, chlorophyll, emerald blue.

I will paint a dream,
with your memory
I will remember you

You dance
Without and
within me
The thought
is the star
Shining
On the shuddering sea
Sink in.
Let it be

Let me in
Let me go
There is still
a time to play

~ Daniel Plackett

Technology

Technology calls

Lives, deaths and sentiments

Up on the cables

~ Vasiliki Papadopoulou

Life.

Life from life

From nothingness, something

A world full of everything

So happy that we live

And yet, we die

So happy that we breath,

And yet, we suffer and cry

Listen to the silence of babies crying

There is something wrong with being alive

If all that matters is life…

~ Spyridon Kakos

Charlemagne 2

Where is the soul of Charlemagne—

Not crown, nor throne, nor name,

But iron will to hold the line

When tides of change inflame?

Can we still build a living wall,

Of flesh and blood that stands—

A shield that does not break or bend

When strain is laid on lands?

Can we turn the swelling tide

That shapes the laws we keep,

Or watch our children’s futures slip

Like loosened grains through sleep?

From Ireland’s fields to Grecian shores,

A restless, shifting hand

Leaves native voices faint and thin

Across their fathered land.

Fine words are sold like currency,

While truth is left to starve—

And promises of safety fade

In lines they cannot carve.

In stadium glare and silver screens,

Old faiths are dressed in scorn;

Each day feels closer to the edge

Where something vast is torn.

“Speak not too hard,” the chorus says,

“Nor judge too wide the stream”—

Yet failing hopes beat loud and low

Like drums beneath a dream.

It tolls the hour few will name,

Though many sense it near—

A fracture running through the roots

Of all we once held dear.

Do not mistake this voice for hate,

Nor twist it into race—

For worth is not in shade of skin,

But truth we choose to face.

Yet speak of home, of heritage,

And you are swiftly cast—

Condemned by names designed to close

All questions that you’ve asked.

Still we are not the things they claim,

Nor driven so by fear—

We guard the threads of memory

That brought our fathers here.

For power thrives where minds divide,

Where lines are sharply drawn;

A fractured people stand alone,

Their common spirit gone.

Confusion sown in careful words,

Ambiguity refined—

So none can clearly name the fault,

Nor see with steady mind.

But unity is not a mask,

Nor forced, unthinking blend—

It lives where honest voices meet

Without the need to bend.

I hold that all are equal born,

In dignity and claim;

And character, not origin,

Is what defines a name.

So do not fall to easy sides,

Nor yield to crafted spite—

Look past the noise, and stand as one

In reason, not in fight.

Defend your home, your kin, your ground,

With clarity, not rage—

For legacy is not a myth

Confined to some past age.

For he once stood in chains himself,

A prisoner, bound and still—

Yet rose through strength of mind and cause,

And disciplined his will.

He did not strike in blinded haste,

Nor rage without a sight—

He woke the minds that stood with him

To see, and then to fight.

Not all battles call for swords,

Nor every war for flame—

But truth, once seen and held as one,

Can still outlast a name.

So take from him no myth of kings,

Nor dream of empire vast—

But learn that strength begins within,

And unity can last.

The soul you seek is not long gone,

Nor buried out of view—

It waits in those who choose to stand

With clarity—and truth.

~ Peter Hanlon

Previous Poetry Collections

Winter Whispers Collection 2025

A light breeze [January 2026 collection]

Falling leaves [March 2026 collection]

Sunny Shadows Poetry Collection [May 2026]

Shallow Seas [June 2026] (current)