The air grows cool with whispers low
As leaves drift down in a golden flow
The trees wear crowns of russet and flame
Each day arrives yet never the same
A hush of smoke curls from distant fires
The dusk draws near with tender desires
Crisp apples gleam in the orchard light
And owls awaken to sing through the night
The earth now rests in a slower song
The season knows where hearts belong
In fields of bronze and skies of grey
Autumn invites us to linger and stay
JH
I am a voice that listens,
a heart that leans forward,
a soft light in the corner of the room.
I’m not the door that slams,
not the echo of anger
that bruises the air.
I am a hand reaching out,
a thread tying strangers
to the same bright sky.
I’m not the scissors of cruelty,
not the knife of silence
that cuts connection in two.
I am curiosity,
the spark that asks why
and keeps asking.
I’m not the wall that blocks,
not the heavy lock
on imagination’s gate.
I am a messy, learning. human
a traveller carrying both shadows and suns.
I’m not perfect,
but I’m not done,
and I won’t be done
until love has the final word.
JH
There’s a moment in the hush between heartbeats,
When holding on becomes heavier than hope
and in that silence,
you learn the art of release.
You untie the knots you tied in stormy weather,
loosen your grip on ghosts in the mirror,
and find that your hands
though empty
are free.
The past does not apologise,
nor promise not to sting.
But you,
gentle and fierce,
choose peace over proof,
flight over fear.
You are not the branch that broke,
you are the wind that moved on.
Not the anchor rusting below,
but the tide that still sings to the moon.
So let go,
not in weakness
but in wild, sacred strength.
Let go like dusk lets go of the sun,
trusting it will rise again.
JH
There’s a sickness crawling through the heart of America, and no, it’s not new. It’s ancient. It’s the rusted chain rattling through centuries of history. But now it’s not even trying to hide.
Racism has stepped out of the shadows, dusted off its boots, and made itself at home. No more dog whistles. No more veiled language. It’s on the surface, slick and shameless, sitting in the front seat of power. Fueled by wealth. Driven by hate. And guarded by laws that pretend to serve justice, but really serve only the rich and pale-skinned privileged.
This isn’t paranoia. It’s policy.
People of colour, immigrants, the undocumented, the unprivileged they’re not just living under threat. They’re living under siege. At the border, in the neighbourhoods, in the courtrooms, in the schools. Detained without cause. Separated from children. Torn from homes. And the world just watches as if this were a movie, distant and fictional. But it’s not. It’s here. It’s real. It’s Alligator Alcatraz, a cold-blooded, state-sanctioned prison of fear.
The land of the free? Only if you can afford it. Only if you look the part.
Where are the morals? They’ve been auctioned off. Sold to the highest bidder with a PAC fund and a private jet. The Constitution gets quoted like scripture, but only the verses that benefit the gatekeepers. The rest is redacted black lines over brown bodies.
And so we ask: Why isn’t the world more angry?
Maybe because anger is exhausting.
Maybe because some people still don’t believe it’s happening.
Or worse maybe they do believe it, and they just don’t care.
But we care. And caring means we can’t stay quiet.
This Alcatraz of inhumanity, this Alligator that snaps at the heels of justice, must be shut down. Not just the physical camps or detention centres, but the mindset that built them. The machinery that feeds on fear. The silence that protects it.
Justice is not a luxury. It’s a birthright.
And those who have stripped it from others must be held accountable. No immunity. No exception.
This isn’t just about America. It’s a mirror to the world.
So let the world be angry.
Let it rise.
Let it roar.
Because silence is complicity, and we’re done whispering.
In an alley where lanterns lean low to the wall,
And shadows lace gently across evening’s shawl,
A voice like warm velvet begins to arise
A sigh wrapped in music, a tear in disguise.
Fado, they call it the song of the street,
Where sorrow and beauty in silence meet.
A woman in black with a lantern of flame,
Sings of lost sailors and love without name.
Her voice climbs the stones, where the old trams have been,
Where laundry sways softly and hearts have grown thin.
A guitar responds with a tender refrain,
Like waves kissing rooftops again and again.
It’s not joy, not quite sorrow it lives in between,
In the corners of cafes, where time is unseen.
It lingers in hearts like a kiss that won’t fade,
A memory worn, but never betrayed.
Fado remembers the ones who have gone,
The night with no moon, the silence at dawn.
But still it keeps singing, both broken and bold
A story of Lisbon forever retold.
So sit by the window, let your thoughts drift away,
To a city that sings even after the day.
And if you should weep, let it be soft and slow
For Fado is weeping, and wants you to know.
JH
Artwork by Julan
They called you names like broken glass,
Threw words like stones, each meant to pass
Their shadows onto you, but dear,
You’re forged of light, not born of fear.
They saw your quiet, called it weak,
But silence roars when kind hearts speak.
They mocked the way you danced alone
But stars don’t ask for praise to shine.
You are the storm they couldn’t tame,
The ember they refused to name,
The poem scribbled in the night
By hands that dream in black and white.
Unwanted? No. You’re carved from grace
A universe inside your face.
Each scar, a tale of battles braved,
Each bruise, a flag for what you’ve saved.
The bullies bark because they break
They see your joy, and theirs is fake.
But you, sweet soul, you rise and rise
With every tear, you claim the skies.
So lift your head. You’re not alone.
This world is yours. This heart’s your home.
No cruel word can dim your worth
You are the fire that warms the earth.
JH
We build with hands, we dream with hearts,
We stitch together broken parts.
In every soul, a spark, a flame
A whispered song, a sacred name.
We laugh, we weep, we mend, we try,
We plant our hope beneath the sky.
And in each gaze, a world begins
A million losses, a thousand wins.
If we but look, just still and true
We’d see the light in me, in you.
For humankind, in all its grace,
Is stardust walking, face to face.
JH
He came with a grin like a curtain call,
A crown of lies, a voice too tall.
He promised light, he sold the stars,
Then paved the streets with prison bars.
He whispered sweet to aching pride,
“You’ve been forgotten, cast aside.”
He kissed the flag with fevered lips,
While freedom sank in sinking ships.
He fed the rich, he starved the poor,
Then blamed the weak, and locked the door.
A gilded cage he called a dream,
Where justice choked on silent screams.
He built a throne on blame and spite,
Turned neighbours into things to fight.
He made the truth a bitter joke,
Then laughed as bridges turned to smoke.
His name in lights, his hands in gold,
He sold the past, the brave, the bold.
And though the world around him burns,
He spins and smiles, and the crowd still turns.
For some are blind, not by the night,
But by a man who dims the light.
A showman’s charm, a hollow hymn
The country bows, but not to Him.
JH
In an era ruled by digital convenience and high-tech innovation, the massive power outage that affected Portugal (I was in Portugal) and parts of Spain was more than just a temporary inconvenience—it was a stark reminder of our increasing dependence on technology and the risks that come with it. As cities went dark, transport systems halted, and communication lines went silent, people found themselves disoriented and unprepared. This unexpected blackout has become a powerful symbol of the need to hold on to “old school” tools, methods, and mindsets that are too often discarded in favour of modernity.
The power outage, believed to have been caused by a failure in the high-voltage electrical network, exposed just how vulnerable modern societies are when basic services are stripped away. Daily routines—like navigating cities using GPS, paying for goods with cards, or even accessing emergency services—became immediate challenges. In these moments, the absence of simple backup systems was keenly felt. For many, it was the first time they realised that having a paper map, a torch that doesn’t require charging, a battery-powered radio, or even a notepad and pencil could be lifesaving tools. (Most of us don’t even know how to use a paper map!) I had a solar-powered radio handy, which I tuned in to learn about yesterday’s events.
We live in a time where convenience is king. Cloud storage replaces paper documents, smart home systems run everything from heating to lighting, and digital communication has replaced hand-written letters or landline conversations. Yet, when power vanishes, all this innovation can become useless in seconds. If the outage taught us anything, it’s that the best plan for the future includes a respect for the past. Personally, I have a print copy of important stuff, and I don’t like using any “clouds” .
Schools once taught children how to read analogue clocks, write in cursive, and use encyclopaedias. Today, many of those skills are viewed as outdated. But when the digital world goes down, the analogue world steps in. A mechanical watch still tells time. A hand-cranked can opener still gets you food. A book doesn’t need batteries. These “old school” objects are more than just relics—they’re reliable lifelines in times of crisis. I love going old school, but as a 63-year-old, I have watched from old school to modern AI-driven internet exposure on every level!
Moreover, the outage highlighted a deeper truth: resilience lies in diversity, not dependence. Depending solely on a fragile power grid, a single internet provider, or one mode of transport is a recipe for vulnerability. Old-school tools and practices offer diversity in our systems. They provide a kind of human infrastructure—simple, sturdy, and ready to be used when the lights go out. In Lisbon and other areas, when we lost internet and electricity, they sat on the grass, talking, no heads bowed into a screen! How cool was that! I think everyone needed that 8-hour break!
Let us also not forget the emotional value of old-school practices. Writing a letter by hand during a power outage might offer comfort. Playing board games by candlelight brings families together. Reading a book by the window, rather than scrolling through a screen, offers peace. These are not just backups—they’re beautiful alternatives. And no light pollution, that was pretty, watching the sunset in darkness, the power of nature, eh!
The Portugal and Spain power outage should not be dismissed as a passing inconvenience but remembered as a wake-up call. As we race forward with technology, we must also look back and gather the tools, skills, and mindsets that helped generations before us endure uncertainty. Keeping old-school things handy isn’t about resisting change—it’s about being prepared, being grounded, and recognising the enduring power of the simple things in life. The lights may go out again, but with the right tools—both modern and old-fashioned—we don’t have to be left in the dark. I would assume that after this happened ,things might change, and better alternatives might come into play. Whatever your thoughts are on this ,I think having modern and old school side by side is essential.
Julan62 