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.
Poetic Philosophy 