Oh, the magic of Christmas, so tender and bright,
A season of wonder, of joy, and delight.
When snowflakes fall soft, and the world wears a glow,
In hearts and in homes, love's warmth starts to grow.

The crackle of fires, the sparkle of trees,
The laughter that dances like whispers in breeze.
From kitchens arise scents of cinnamon sweet,
As families gather, their spirits complete.

The love that this season so gently bestows,
Wraps round like a blanket when cold winter blows.
It’s found in the hugs of the ones we hold dear,
In whispers of kindness that all can revere.

Children’s eyes gleam with a radiant light,
As stockings are filled in the still of the night.
Their giggles and glee as they wake Christmas morn,
A reminder of joy from the moment we're born.

Around the great table, with feast laid with care,
We share in the bounty, the love that is there.
With stories and laughter, the bonds grow more tight,
As hearts are enkindled by soft candlelight.

And though gifts are given, the truest of all,
Is the presence of family, answering love’s call.
For riches can fade, and treasures may part,
But love is eternal, engraved in the heart.

So let us remember, as this season unfolds,
It’s not just the tinsel, the silver, or gold.
But Christmas is cherished when hearts are as one,
A time for pure love and for family fun.

There's a moment not a second in time, but a shift,
a break from the tug-of-war with the world,
where you stop begging for scraps of approval
and instead, become the feast.

You shed the weight of waiting,
the self that bent for someone else's gaze,
and you stand, naked in your truth
anointed by your own hands.

This is where it begins.
Not the hustle, not the hunger,
but the fullness of presence,
the light that once flickered inside you
now roars, unchecked, a wildfire of enoughness.

No more running from mirrors
or molding yourself into what they might love.
No more thirsting for the gaze of others
as though it could define the edges of your worth.
Instead, you shape yourself,
hold yourself, be with yourself.

In this stillness,
the world finally takes notice.
Not of what you chased, but what you are.
Suddenly, the current pulls toward you
people who don't just fit into your life,
but match your rhythm, your pulse, your fire.

The striving, the forcing, it all fades.
Instead, there's flow,
the universe turning on its axis,
slowly bending toward the centre you've found within.

And what once felt distant,
something to earn with sweat and sacrifice,
now arrives, effortless in its timing,
perfect in its place.

You don't rise to meet the world
the world rises to meet you.

And everything that matters
falls into step with the beat of your becoming.
Because the light inside you is no longer a flicker.
It's a sun,
and the whole world blooms beneath it.

(A Poetic Ode)

Beneath the amber skies of fall, we gather near the hearth,
A season's whisper beckons us, to honour what has worth.
The bounty spread upon the table gleams with autumn's hue,
Yet richer still, the wealth of hearts, in gratitude made true.

Oh, Thanksgiving, sacred pause, a hymn to life's delight,
You teach us how to cherish dawns and praise the velvet night.
The golden grains, the ripened fruit, the earth's abundant yield,
Remind us of the laboured hands that tilled each cherished field.

Not just the feast of sustenance, but nourishment of soul,
In giving thanks, our spirits bloom, becoming strong and whole.
We bow to love's eternal flame, to friendships forged in fire,
To dreams that rise like phoenix wings, ignited with desire.

The laughter of the young resounds, the wisdom of the old,
Together weaving memories, more precious than fine gold.
The stories shared around the flame, the blessings softly sung,
Bind us in a tender thread, no matter where we're flung.

Oh, gratitude, a gentle seed that blossoms into grace,
Transforming every moment into something we embrace.
Even in the shadows, there's a light that softly glows,
A quiet joy, a whispered peace that every heart bestows.

Thanksgiving is a sacred gift, a time to truly see,
The beauty in the simple things, the power of "we."
So let us raise our voices high, our thanks to heaven send,
For life, for love, for one another, gifts that never end.

Honestly, have you ever been honest with yourself?
Does your breath fill your lungs, or is it stolen,
held ransom by the lie that bears your name?

There's a certain thrill in self-deception,
the shimmer of a mask molded to your skin,
layer by layer, scraped on thick like survival,
fitting snug to every societal bone.

But beneath that weight, what are you left with?
Bare ribs like prison bars,
a heartbeat that paces but cannot leave.
Here's the truth, raw and gaping,
the world would gladly paint you
in colours that wash away in rain.

And yet.
You are a tide that swells,
the surge against a thousand invisible walls.
Your voice is a pulse, electric with truth,
a spark meant to ignite, not wither or fade.

Can you hear that?
The whisper you buried beneath obedience,
the quiet call wrapped in compromise?

Let it be heard now, like a lion loosed.
To be honest with yourself is to set fire
to every inch that doesn't feel like home,
to burn away the foreign fabric of expectations
until the ashes reveal
the shape you were born to wear.

Reclaim the you that is yours alone,
and dare to stand in that skin,
a stranger, perhaps, but honest,
always honest.

Beneath the skies where sun once gently kissed,
The earth now trembles, wrapped in warming mist.
Her breath, once pure, now heavy with despair,
The winds lament, their whispers haunt the air.

Oceans swell with sorrow's rising tide,
Swallowing lands where dreams and hope reside.
The coral pales, its vibrant hues erased,
By acid rains, a fragile world displaced.

The forests cry as ancient trees collapse,
A cradle lost within our reckless grasp.
Their roots, once deep, now grasp at fleeting earth,
Their leaves, like tears, recall a verdant birth.

The ice retreats, majestic realms undone,
Their frozen splendor melting in the sun.
The polar bear, adrift on shrinking floes,
A silent witness to the world she knows.

Yet still, a spark of hope ignites the flame,
A call for change resounds in nature's name.
With every hand, united hearts can weave,
A future bright, where earth can yet believe.

O let us rise, the stewards of this place,
To heal her wounds and honour her embrace.
For time still turns, and we hold in our care,
The fragile world that bids us to repair.

Nothing outside yourself can cause you any trouble.
Here, where the breath begins, waves take root in shadows,
and you, the maker of storms and silence, hold them,
a sculptor in your own tides, bound to no storm but the one you summon.

Step back; let your hands unclench,
let the waves ease, let the current
of your thought roll to a gentle pulse,
a quiet that does not seek, that does not grasp.

See how trouble is born from the grip,
the tightness that weaves into the rhythm
of a restless mind, churning because it thinks it must.
The oceans stir, but not from what lies beyond the shore,
they stir for the self-made winds we unleash,
from restless hands that shape the swell.

Let it be. Let the mind rest like stones on the seabed,
each one layered with peace, each one a depth untouched
by surface winds, the rippling chaos of a world beyond.
In this stillness, nothing is heavy, nothing is lost.

For if you leave your mind as it is,
if you walk from the need to move every current,
you find the water rests in the clarity of itself.
Here is peace, untouched, unshaken, clear as the open sky.

Your trouble, your waves, these were only hands,
stretching to hold a force that was never outside.

Oh, isn't it sad, this tale we weave,
Of a heart so giving, yet too bereaved?
Her laughter, a melody, sweet and pure,
A balm for others, their pain's cure.

Her hands, like lanterns, dispelling the dark,
Her smile igniting the faintest spark.
In every soul, she planted delight,
Yet none looked deeper, beyond the light.

She carried the weight of their secret fears,
Wiping their sorrows, drying their tears.
But oh, the silence when night would fall,
Echoing questions, unanswered call.

Isn't it tragic, the giver's plight?
To brighten the world, yet lose her light?
Her joy, a facade, a painted face,
While her heart longed for its own embrace.

Who stopped to wonder, who dared to see,
The woman behind the mystery?
For giving all, she forgot to keep
The dreams that stirred in her soul's deep.

So here's the lesson, a whisper, a plea:
See the unseen, let hearts roam free.
Ask the question, break the chain,
For the giver too feels joy and pain.

Oh, isn't it sad, and isn't it true?
Her light burned bright, but she needed it too.