First Fire, Soft Return

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

The first fire of spring does not ask—
it laughs.

Smoke lifts like a soft-spoken promise,
threading through branches still unsure of green,
carrying the scent of something waking—
fat, spice, and sun remembered.

Hands gather without ceremony,
sleeves rolled, voices loose,
someone always turning too soon,
someone always saying leave it, leave it—
as if patience could be grilled into us.

Meat sings on iron,
a bright, reckless music—
little bursts of flame licking upward
like they’ve missed us.

And we—
we stand closer than needed,
warmth on our faces,
eyes half-closed not from smoke
but from that quiet, rising ease
of being here again.

A breeze passes, playful,
tugging at hair, at laughter,
at the thin paper plates trembling in our hands—
as if spring itself
were leaning in to taste.

Nothing grand is spoken.
No vows, no declarations.

Only this—
the shared breaking of bread,
the soft grease on fingertips,
the low hum of contentment
settling into bone.

And somewhere between flame and laughter,
winter finally lets go.

無為之水

On By MeiLingIn Poetry, TankaLeave a comment

無聲之手
唔推都會去
水識轉彎
心若唔爭路
自有岸等你

The hand that does not force
still arrives where it must.
Water knows the curve—
when the heart stops arguing,
the shore comes of its own.

Contraband Tenderness

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

I have walked too long with quiet hands,
palms that once held fire
now learning the discipline of empty air.

Not every war leaves scars you can name—
some settle beneath the ribs,
a slow, amber ache
that hums when night leans close.

I have been wanted
like a road wants footsteps—
never for staying,
always for leaving.

Men called it freedom.
I called it distance
in a finer coat.

And yet—

there are moments
when the world softens its blade,
when I remember how a voice
rests against my neck
asking nothing.

You would not have followed me.
You are not made for ashes,
nor for the long echo of boots
turning before dawn.

Still, I think of you
in rooms I never entered—
how your silence would have held me
without question,
without claim.

What a strange mercy:
to be known
and not pursued.

I am tired now—
not of the road,
but of its refusal
to become a home.

If I lay down my name
beside yours—
not as conquest,
not as refuge,
but as something quieter—

would the night allow it?

Or am I bound still
to this gentle exile,
a soldier not of war,
but of longing—

carrying tenderness
like contraband
no one must ever find.

Boudica: Saga of Fire

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all. (Refrain)

Her daughters’ tears like rivers ran,
The Romans’ laughter turned to cries,
She claimed the land, she claimed the man,
Her vengeance burned beneath the skies.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

Through cobbled streets, through villages torn,
Her chariot shook the earth below,
The sun itself seemed newly born,
Reflecting fire in her eyes’ glow.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

The legions feared, the banners fell,
No steel nor sword could break her sway,
She wove a spell no man could quell,
And made the night as bright as day.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

Through forest deep, through river wide,
Her voice like wind through trembling leaves,
The warriors rallied at her side,
Each heart she touched, a fire she weaves.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

And yet, the dawn would test her might,
The Romans pressed, the earth did shake,
But she rode on through endless night,
Her fury blazing for her sake.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

Legends speak of her silent gaze,
Of crowns unmade and empires burned,
Of whispered songs through misty haze,
Where time itself her name has learned.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

So sing, oh hearts, of queen and fire,
Of woman fierce and unafraid,
Her story carved from earth’s desire,
In every spark the night has made.

Ride, ride, through shadowed flame,
The morning trembles at her call,
No chain can hold, no crown can tame,
Boudica rises over all.

黃泥涌的水聲

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

霧輕輕貼住水面，
好似細聲叫我名。
小艇搖呀搖——
我仲未識驚，
只識望住天光喺水入面碎開。

你喺岸邊叫我，
聲音暖過夏天嘅風。
我雙手亂劃，
水抱住我，唔放，
又唔捨得我沉。

第一次學識浮，
心跳快過浪紋。
腳尖試探世界，
然後突然——
我同水一齊呼吸。

而家再行過嗰度，
樹影仲係咁靜。
艇可能唔同咗，
人都散咗，
但水聲記得我細個嘅笑。

黃泥涌冇講嘢，
但佢一直喺度——
輕輕咁，
將我放返去
嗰個未識失去嘅我。

Mist lay softly on the water,
as if it whispered my name.
The little boat swayed—
I did not yet know fear,
only how light shattered across the surface.

You called to me from the shore,
your voice warmer than summer wind.
My hands scattered the water,
it held me close—
not to drown, not to let go.

The first time I learned to float,
my heartbeat quicker than ripples.
My toes tested the edge of the world,
then suddenly—
I breathed with the water.

Now when I pass that place again,
the trees are just as still.
The boats may have changed,
the people drifted away,
but the water remembers my childhood laughter.

Wong Nai Chung Reservoir Park does not speak,
yet it remains—
quietly returning me
to the self
who did not yet know loss.

Afterglow

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

Morning leans in softly,
as if it witnessed everything
and chose silence.

The sheets remember—
creased with warmth,
holding the hush of bodies
that spoke without words.

Light spills slow across skin,
not bright, not sharp,
but tender—
like a hand that knows where it has been.

There is a sweetness in the limbs,
a quiet ache that hums
not of longing,
but of having been full.

Breath drifts deeper now,
anchored in something spent
and beautifully kept—
a rhythm returned to calm water.

And beneath it all,
a glow—
not fire anymore,
but ember,

steady,
hidden,
alive.

You lie there,
half-dream, half-memory,
held by the echo
of what still lingers—

not the storm,
but the warmth it left behind.

Where He Still Rests

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

He used to fold into me
like a question already answered—
chin tucked, paws dreaming,
that soft insistence of breath
finding its rhythm against mine.

No weight has ever felt so right.

His fur held the day—
wind, grass, the bright intelligence of fields—
and when I buried my face there,
I could almost hear the hills
thinking through him.

We learned a quiet language:
the press of his spine along my ribs,
the way he would sigh
as if the world, for once,
had agreed to be gentle.

Nothing was missing in those hours.
Not time, not voice, not future—
only warmth passing
from one living body
to another,
without question,
without end.

Now the shape of him
still fits the hollow of my arm.

And sometimes,
in that place between waking and sleep,
I feel it again—
the small, steady heat,
a trust so complete
it needed no name.

Not gone.
Just perfectly held
in the long memory of touch.

Spring Day at the Lomond

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

The Lomond wakes in gentle shine,
Wi’ springtime licht across the line.
The breeze comes saft, the shadows thin—
A day that warms ye frae within.

The birks grow green by stane and shore,
Their leaves like whispers evermore.
The loch lies calm in silver sway,
A mirror for the length o’ day.

The hills shed winter’s lingerin’ hue,
As brighter skies come glintin’ through.
A quiet joy begins tae rise—
Spring breathes its peace ower land and skies.