Poems & Poetic Prose

In my September newsletter, I mentioned being invited to write and narrate my poetry and poetic prose at The Shape of Change International Art Symposium at Ninovan Horse Sanctuary. The event celebrated transformation, embracing change and coexistence, themes that resonate deeply with me, particularly given my lifelong connection with horses. Ninovan does wonderful work in providing a sanctuary for horses, offering them safety, care and the opportunity to live with dignity and

Wanda went walkabout at Capelinhos today, A trusty wheelie walker, she was on her way. Down the red track she rattled and rolled, Feeling adventurous, fearless and bold. Past the black lava, all rugged and rough, Wanda declared, "This is easy enough!" But over the ridge, with a wobble and sway, The walker had other ideas this grey day. She clattered on rocks, she stumbled on stone, And muttered, "I really should have stayed home!" But the waves were spectacular, crashing with

Off we went this morning, Along the coastal way. Me and her go out, To greet the sea today. We headed for the beach path, The sea was looking fine, Then suddenly…a barrier! For me it’s not designed. “Come on, girl, you can do this.” She expected me to squeeze. I performed the limbo, I was nearly on my knees! And then I saw the ocean, Oh, this is rather grand! I rolled towards the shoreline, And then I met…the SAND! “Nope! I’m not going any further, You really need to know. My

My brain has gone out for a little fresh air, I’m fairly sure it was here, but it’s no longer there. I reached for a thought, but it slipped out of sight. A perfectly good thought. It was there half the night. Which, frankly, is awkward when writing’s your trade, Because words are the tools from which poems are made! I need them to sparkle, to twist, and to flow, But today they’re on strike, and refusing to show. I know there’s a word for the thing I require, It’s sitting som

Here I share my Haiku that was accepted and published by Fresh Words: An International Literary Magazine. It was such fun to write within these confines: A haiku is a short, unrhymed poem that originated in Japan. It typically follows the structure of a three-line, 5-7-5 syllable pattern with a focus on nature and the seasons, but modern versions explore a wide range of topics. Rain and Roots: A Nature & Earth Haiku Anthology Summer rain dances island’s deep thirst is sated

There comes a time when you stop asking if everyone else approves. You wear the shoes you like. Eat the cake before dinner. Say no without writing an essay to explain why. You stop confusing exhaustion with virtue, and being needed with being loved. You learn that comfortable is not the same as giving up. That staying home can be an adventure too. That early nights are not boring, and cancelled plans can feel suspiciously like freedom. You begin to understand that your time i

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.