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
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)
Poetic Philosophy 