Poems & Poetic Prose

When the blood moon rises in the velvet sky, I’ll gather what I’ve carried and let the old things die. The stories that have tethered me, the words I never said, The ghosts of who I used to be, I’ll lay them all to bed. I’ll loosen every holding, release what isn’t mine, Let sorrow meet the darkness; surrender to the night. No more dragging yesterday into the dawn of who I’ll be, No more asking broken pieces to remember how to breathe. For the moon does not apologise, For wax

SHE GAVE IMAGINATION AWAY Some women leave diamonds, some leave their names in stone. She left books, and rhinestones.. Small hands held stories that opened doors to worlds beyond their own. She knew that imagination wasn’t a luxury. It was a seed. Give a child a story and you give them somewhere to go. Somewhere to dream. Somewhere to become. She came from little but dreamed enormously. And then she gave that dreaming away. Millions of books. Millions of little doors. Millio

I received this email following my accepted submission of Haiku poetry. You can check out all the authors words for free by clicking on the E-edition. You will find my haiku on page 81. Dear Poet, We are delighted to announce that Rain and Roots: A Nature & Earth Haiku Anthologyhas now been officially released by Fresh Words: An International Literary Magazine. The anthology brings together 92 poets from 10 countries, creating an international collection of haiku inspired by

Wanda the Wheelie Walker and I went wandering, Along the red stone track, wave watching. The desert-like landscape, all barren and bare, Made quite a spectacular backdrop to stare. The ocean rolled endlessly, blue and wide, While Wanda and I took it all in our stride. Well... her stride were wheels, mine were feet, But together we made a team, quite neat. We stopped for a while, to contemplate, To watch the Atlantic performing, we wait. The waves crashed and tumbled, then cam

There’d been a wish upon a list, A hopeful thought that would persist. Not just a walker, plain to see, But freedom, folds up gracefully. My name is Wanda, pleased to meet, I'm sturdy, smart and rather neat. My frame's champagne, a touch of class, Watch me shimmer as I pass. If you’re wondering why I’m Wanda, And not Matilda, Flo or Rhonda? A wish fulfilled that’s ready to wander, That’s why I’m named A Wish Called Wanda! Sally Somerton - Island Writer ©sallysomerton2026 All

When did we decide that feeling deeply was something to apologise for? That to carry the weight of the world somehow meant we were weak, dramatic or unable to cope? Perhaps the opposite is true. Perhaps those who notice the cracks, who remember the names, who cannot simply scroll past another tragedy, are not broken at all. Perhaps they are simply awake. Awake to the quiet grief that accompanies a life fully lived. Awake to the accumulated losses we gather as we grow older. F

My Poetic Prose for this Full Moon. By the time the Strawberry Moon arrives, the year has lost its impatience. Spring has stopped introducing itself. The hedgerows no longer need applause. Even the sea, though never still, seems to have settled into its summer breathing. There is a peculiar sweetness to this moon. Not because it blushes pink, as people imagine, but because it arrives when sweetness itself has ripened. Berries redden quietly. Roses abandon restraint. Bees move

A Fibromyalgia Fatigue day for me today. Here's a glimpse of what that feels like, expressed through a short piece of poetry. INVISIBLE WEIGHTS Imagine lead weights wrapped around your body, invisible chain-mail armour, you never chose to wear. Imagine your head held tightly in a vice, thoughts squeezed thin, words lost somewhere between mind and mouth. Imagine legs wading through heavy boggy ground, in leaded boots sinking deeper with every step. That is my day today with fi

I stood beside the sea for years, Through storms and sun and salty tears. The wind would whistle through my hair, Yet no one gave a fig or care. I stretched my branches broad and fair, Providing shade for all down there. For dogs to pee, and those who'd stop, To eat their chips and drink their pop. Then one fine day, without a plea, A plastic chair appeared on me. No "May I stay?" No "If you please?" It simply settled in my leaves. Now people point and stare and see That bloo

Finding New Beginnings Under the New Moon In the early hours of this morning, while I tried to sleep, the New Moon quietly arrived. A hidden moon in a dark sky, not demanding attention, not seeking applause, simply reminding us that every cycle begins in stillness. This is the moon of fresh thoughts and untold stories. A gentle invitation to loosen our grip on the narratives we've carried for too long. The ones that whisper you're too old, too late, too much, not enough. The

I told myself I was taking the day off. A proper day off. The kind I encourage others to take, as part of our self-care. A slow walk to meet my husband and the dogs, coming back from the beach. Coffee on the terrace. Watching sunlight play on the cliffs. Listening to birdsong. A delicious roast lunch cooked with love. A simple day. Or so I thought. Then I remembered... I'd stripped the bed. Done the laundry. Hung it out. Cleaned the windows. Brought the washing in. Folded it.

Thoughts from the Garden Chair. I've been thinking about this lately. Not in a dramatic, standing-on-a-clifftop sort of way. More in a quiet, cup-of-tea-in-the-garden sort of way. It's one of those questions humanity seems unable to leave alone. What is the meaning of life? Philosophers have debated it. Religions have explored it. Writers have wrestled with it. And somehow, after thousands of years, we're still asking. Maybe that's because we've been looking for one answer. O

Today, I cannot stand outside this thing and tell you what it looks like. I am inside it. Inside the fibro fog that softens the edges of thought. Inside the heaviness that turns ordinary steps into quiet acts of courage. People call it fatigue. But fatigue sounds so small, Like the need for an early night, A need for an extra hour in bed. This is something else. This is a body that has forgotten how to be light. A weighted blanket holding me down in thought and movement. I se

Some days, it is not the pain that breaks us. Not the aching muscles. Not the burning nerves. Not the exhaustion that settles deep within our bones. Some days, it is the weight of carrying it all. The thoughts that arrive uninvited, whispering doubts in the quiet hours. What if tomorrow is worse? What if this never changes? What if I can't keep doing this? Anxiety rarely knocks politely. It rushes in. A racing heart. A mind running marathons while the body begs for stillness.

Some think that in the later years, Life settles to a crawl. That dreams grow old and fade away, Or cease to matter at all. That days are spent in comfy chairs, With blankets, books and tea. While memories replace adventures, Of what you used to be. But purpose has a different view, It smiles and winks with glee. And whispers, "Look, there's more to come, Just wait and you will see." There's books to write and paths to walk, New hobbies still to try. Friends to meet and place

This month's writing desk has become slightly chaotic... 😂✍️ Perfection arrived carrying a clipboard. Poetry came climbing through the window. Poetic prose knocked at the door (pretending to be polite). And my Pico mystery is sitting in the corner keeping secrets... Somewhere in the middle of all that, I've been thinking about perfection, presence, mindfulness, mind mess, tiny moments of peace, and discovering that writing — much like life — rarely follows the neat little pl

I’ve always hated cut flowers, Preferring them wild and free, Growing softly in gardens, Or beside a winding tree. I’d rather see them dancing, In a meadow kissed by sun, Than standing still in vases, Their wandering days all done. Especially those imported, From countries far away, Their beauty somehow travelled, And lost a little on the way. Yet life has changed the picture, As life so often does, And now less mobile than before, I see a different cause. For now upon my ki

Meditation does not always ask us to sit still. Sometimes meditation is standing at the kitchen sink, hands in warm water, noticing the steam rise like tiny ghosts dancing into the morning air. Sometimes it is wrapping both hands around a cup of tea and, for a moment, not checking your phone, not planning tomorrow, not replaying yesterday. Just feeling the warmth against your palms. Sometimes meditation is the rhythm of feet on a woodland path, leaves crunching beneath boots,

Be More Bee 🐝 Hover in the garden, Smell the scented flowers, Rest your eyes upon the beauty, Mother Nature softly showers. For too much doing, Is not the place to be, In a world that spins so quickly, Demanding endlessly. To survive, to thrive, In this crazy world we see, Perhaps the greatest lesson is The importance of being more bee. Sally Somerton - Island Writer www.sallysomerton.com All Rights Reserved ©sallysomerton2026

World Bee Day 🐝 Who dances without music, And works without complaint? Who paints the world in colour, Yet never holds a paint? Who asks for little from us, No riches, praise or fees, Just wild blooms and garden flowers… Have you guessed? Yes — bees. Leave daisies in the corners, Let clover have its say, Plant blossoms, wild and cultivated, For pollinators at play. Hold back the sprays and poisons, Let glyphosates be gone, For tiny wings are struggling, To keep our world mov