It starts with a whisper, a softening light,
A little more magic at the edge of the night.
The blankets come out, and the candles glow,
While autumn taps gently on windows below.
Books find their way to the side of the fire,
Hot chocolate appears, just when we desire.
The world can rush on, we really don’t care,
There’s a little more wonder in the warmth that we share.
For cosy comes creeping, with slippers and cheer,
And whispers, the loveliest season is here. ☕📚🔥
JH
Some people want the whole damn pie,
Then steal your fork and ask you why.
They’ve filled their pockets, filled their plates,
And bought the locks upon our gates.
They con you with a charming grin,
Then tell you that you’ve got to fit in.
They twist the truth, they move the goal,
Then sell you back your own poor soul.
They want control of what you say,
What you believe, and how you pray.
They’d bottle freedom, brand the air,
Then charge you extra for a share.
They’ll preach of kindness, peace and light,
Then rob you blind before the night.
They’ll shake your hand, then pick your pocket,
And call it business, put it in the budget.
Oh, what a clever bunch we’ve grown,
With hearts of ice and egos overblown.
They count their money, worship gold,
And wonder why the world’s grown cold.
They build their empires on our backs,
Then blame the poor for what they lack.
They hoard the land, the food, the sea,
Then sell us dreams of being free.
Well, here’s a thought, you greedy lot,
The planet isn’t yours to squat
Upon like some entitled king,
Who thinks the world owes him everything.
You cannot eat your piles of cash,
Or hug your gold when forests crash.
You cannot buy a world reborn,
When every field lies stripped and worn.
We don’t need more who cheat and rule,
Or polished sharks who play the fool.
We don’t need bullies dressed in ties,
Or con artists selling paradise.
We need more people who give a damn,
Who help their neighbour, share the jam.
Who speak the truth, who stand up tall,
Who know there’s room enough for all.
Less taking, more giving, less ego, more grace,
Less winning at someone else’s expense in this race.
Less “Look what I’ve got!” and more “What can I do?”
Less “Me against them,” and more “Me and you.”
For no one gets out with a mansion in tow,
No golden parachute wherever we go.
We’re all just visitors, passing on through,
So perhaps we should leave something decent to do.
Let’s plant a few trees, let compassion take root,
Stop worshipping money as life’s sacred fruit.
Let’s teach our children that kindness is clever,
And being a decent human matters forever.
Because the world’s not short of wealth or power,
It’s short of a conscience in the darkest hour.
And if we want a planet worth passing along,
We need fewer people convinced they can’t be wrong.
So here’s to the kind ones, the brave and the true,
The ones who make space for somebody new.
The ones who choose love when hatred seems cheaper,
Who lift others up instead of climbing steeper.
The future won’t shine because someone got richer,
Or because some con artist became a bit slicker.
It starts when we choose to be better, together,
And stop treating our planet like disposable weather.
So, greedy little kings, here’s a thought for your throne,
You might own a fortune, but you don’t own this home.
This Earth belongs to no tyrant, no clan, no elite,
It’s the home of us all, with one shared heartbeat.
And if we want tomorrow to be greener and fairer,
Let’s be kinder, less selfish, more honest, more caring.
Because we don’t need a world full of people who take.
We need better people for the world’s own sake.
JH
Already September
Excuse me, who pressed fast forward?
January just waved hello, now September’s standing here holding a pumpkin spice latte like it owns the place.
My to do list is still buffering, my New Year’s goals are somewhere under a pile of “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
At this rate, Christmas will text, “Outside.” and I’ll still be looking for April.
JH
Laughing has no passport,
no border guard,
no grammar test at the gate.
It spills out
untranslated,
unbothered by syllables
or the weight of where you’re from.
A burst,
a crack in the serious surface of things,
like light sneaking through shutters
in a room that forgot morning.
Your laugh doesn’t carry your history
the way your words do.
It doesn’t stumble on r’s
or soften its t’s
to make itself understood.
It just arrives
bright, sudden,
a shared language with no alphabet.
In a crowded train,
in a quiet kitchen,
in the space between strangers
who will never learn each other’s names
laughter recognises itself.
It says:
I know you.
Not where you’re from,
not what you’ve survived,
but this….
this moment of being undone
by something small and human.
And for a second,
the world forgets its divisions,
because joy doesn’t need translation,
and laughter
has never had an accent.
JH
Karma keeps no ledger you can see,
no ticking clock, no courtroom plea,
it moves like rain through unseen air,
quiet as breath, already there.
The way you speak, the things you choose,
the small, soft wins, the careless bruise,
all ripple outward, thin then wide,
then circle home on the turning tide.
It is not wrath, nor cosmic score,
but echoes knocking at your door,
a mirror held in shifting light,
reflecting day inside the night.
So plant with care the words you sow,
they bloom in places you do not know,
and when they rise, both sharp and kind,
you meet the garden of your mind.
JH
I used to know the map of my own mind.
Every street had a name.
Every door opened.
Now the rooms move.
I walk into the morning
and it forgets me.
Faces arrive like visitors
who expect to be known.
They bring smiles,
warm voices,
and stories that sound like mine.
I search for the key
that used to fit their names.
Sometimes a memory glows
for a moment.
A small candle in fog.
A child’s laugh.
The smell of rain.
A hand I once held forever.
Then the wind comes.
People say my name
as if calling someone home
across a wide field.
I want to answer.
But the path is fading.
The signs are gone.
The map is dissolving in my hands.
Inside me
a quiet person still listens,
still feels the warmth of love
even when the words fall away.
If you look into my eyes
and stay a little longer
you might see them.
The one I used to be
standing gently in the mist,
trying to remember
how to return.
JH
he Quiet Good Rarely Trends
In the bright bazaar of noise
where every shout grows wings,
the loud climb ladders made of echoes
and applause rains like summer hail.
But somewhere, just outside the glare,
a hand steadies another hand.
No camera lingers there.
No headline leans in close.
A woman carries groceries
for a man whose bones remember storms.
A boy kneels beside a fallen bird
and cups the trembling air around it.
A stranger lets another stranger go first
in a world that loves to rush.
No fireworks announce these moments.
No algorithm lifts them high
like glitter tossed into the sky.
The quiet good moves softly
like moss over old stone,
like dawn laying gold on rooftops
while the city still dreams.
It asks for nothing.
No medals, no trending tag,
no bright parade of praise.
It simply happens,
again and again,
in kitchens, in doorways,
in the hush between heartbeats.
And though the world scrolls past
in search of louder miracles,
the quiet good keeps growing
under the surface of things,
a forest of small mercies
rooted deep in ordinary days. 🌿
JH
Peace is not a whisper;
it is a door left open.
It is the light that stays on
when the street goes dark,
the quiet cup of tea
set down between two shaking hands.
Peace is not weak.
It does not bow its head.
It stands in the centre of the storm
and says, enough.
It is the courage
to lower your voice
when you could raise it,
to unclench your fist
and find a pulse instead.
Peace grows in small places.
In school halls.
On crowded buses.
At kitchen tables where words once burned
and now begin to soften.
It is the brave art
of listening past your own echo.
The steady work
of seeing a stranger
and choosing not fear,
but wonder.
Peace builds bridges
from the thinnest thread of hope.
It stitches torn flags
into blankets.
It turns battlefields
into gardens where children run.
Do not mistake its silence
for absence.
Peace is a deep river,
moving under the noise of the world,
patient, certain, strong.
And when enough of us
step into that river,
the current shifts.
The shouting thins.
The ground remembers
how to bloom.
Peace is power,
not loud,
not cruel,
but enduring.
It is the future
walking towards us
with open hands.
JH
The soul learns early
how to fray
Time does not shout
it brushes past
soft as a sleeve in a crowded room
and still it leaves threads behind
Once
the soul was a clean page
bright with belief
stitched tight with first mornings
and reckless hope
Then came the years
quiet thieves
lifting colour
loosening seams
teaching the heart the slow grammar of loss
Time tugs
not cruelly
just often
It pulls at laughter until it thins
at dreams until they feather
at love until it aches with memory
instead of promise
The soul grows tattered
but not empty
Look closer
every tear is a doorway
every loose thread remembers warmth
every worn edge has held on
longer than it thought it could
Time thinks it wins
because it leaves marks
But the soul
oh the soul
keeps breathing through the rips
keeps light caught in its tatters
like dawn through torn curtains
And if it is ragged now
it is because it stayed
because it felt
because it dared to keep going
while the hours kept passing
A tattered soul is not broken
it is proof
Proof that you lived
and loved
and let time touch you
without ever giving it the final word
JH
They arrive without armour,
hands open, eyes wide,
the world pouring in before they know its weight.
They do not choose the noise,
the smoke in the air,
the rules written long before their names.
They simply arrive,
trusting us with everything.
We forget how much power sits in grown hands,
how every word becomes a lesson,
how every silence teaches too.
We forget that children read the world
by watching our mouths, our choices,
our excuses.
They come clean of our grudges,
unstained by borders or blame,
asking only for room to grow,
for truth that does not bruise,
for love that does not disappear when it is inconvenient.
It is not enough to say
we did our best.
The future does not run on intentions.
it runs on care,
on courage,
on adults who stay awake.
Because innocence is not weak,
it is borrowed light,
and we are its keepers for a while.
What we build now
becomes their normal.
What we excuse now
becomes their burden.
So let us be steady,
let us be kind in ways that cost something,
let us leave fewer wounds than we inherited.
They are watching,
learning how to be human from us.
And the least we can do
is make the lesson worth remembering.
JH
