A Sonnet for My Border Collie

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Eleven years of bright and boundless grace,
your clever eyes still lingering in my mind;
the way you ran made wind give you its place,
your joy a compass keeping my heart kind.

You learned my silences before I spoke,
you knew my shadows better than I could;
with one soft paw you gentled what life broke,
and turned the smallest hour into something good.

Now dusk feels wider, emptied of your light,
yet still your spirit circles at my heel—
the loyal echo moving with the night,
the faithful warmth no absence can conceal.

My playful friend, my constant, clever boy—
run on ahead, and leave me one small joy: to follow when I can.

The Falls of Rauros

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The Rauros roars where Anduin leaps to flame,
Its golden haze a hymn of grief and might.
The waters bear away a noble name,
And veil the world in thunder, spray, and light.

Upon its brink the Fellowship was torn,
The river’s cry a dirge for broken bands.
A boat went down, with Boromir forlorn,
His sword laid still within the river’s hands.

Yet beauty lingers in the torrent’s song,
A music fierce, that drowns both fear and pain.
It speaks of endings, yet it flows along,
A voice of loss, yet never sung in vain.

So Rauros falls, eternal, wild, and free—
A shrine of sound, where memory is sea.

The Music of the Silence

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When voices cease and breath becomes the air,
A hush descends more golden than a song.
No lute nor lyre could ever quite compare
To silence held where aching thoughts belong.

The wind moves slow, as if it dares to speak,
Yet finds its tongue too sacred to reveal.
The stars lean close, their shimmer soft and meek,
Composing chords no mortal ear can feel.

The heart begins to hear what time forgets—
A rhythm born of stillness, deep and wide.
Each pause becomes a verse the soul begets,
Where soundless truths in quiet grace abide.

So let the silence sing, and I shall bend—
To music made where noise and self suspend.

Lilith in My Voice

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I walk the threshold where the shadows keep
their stories folded close like secret skin;
a name half-whispered wakes me from my sleep,
a pulse that knows where all my sins begin.

They call her Lilith—storm behind a smile,
the first to choose her own unruly night;
yet in my bones her cadence stays awhile,
soft thunder clothed in velvet, taking flight.

Am I not like her? I who learned to rise
from every exile written on my flesh—
I hold my hunger steady in my eyes,
I make my silence speak, my longing fresh.

If she is myth, then I am what remains:
a woman shaped by fire, not by chains.

Little Friday

On By MeiLingIn Chōka, Poetry1 Comment

Paper waits in stacks,
screens hum with their endless glow.
I drift in the chair,
silk clings beneath hidden folds,
heat pools where the body sighs.

Thursday blinks in haze,
time forgets its heavy clock.
I stretch with a smirk,
not for duty—just for want.
Weekend hums behind the glass.

No inbox, no grind.
I dream, sly and slow, in silk.

Jat¹ Hau² Jat¹ Hau² — A Soul They Could Not Split

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

1
They called me gwei-lo, half and never whole,
jat¹ bun² jat¹ bun² — like I was split in two.
When death took ma and ba, and gung-gung’s soul,
the ones who should have held me simply withdrew.

2
Their voices cut, like blades that know your name,
m⁴ hai⁶ ngo⁵ yan⁴? — as if I wasn’t blood.
I learned to swallow grief without a claim,
my tears kept low, like tides that fear to flood.

3
So I ran out, hou² jau⁵ hei² — thin, broken air,
a girl half ghost, half Cantonese at night.
The road was long, but quieter than their stare;
at least the dark did not deny my right.

4
But still I walked, with bruises in my chest,
ngo⁵ zung⁶ hoi¹ hang⁴ — though small, I fought to stand.
And step by step, I learned my mixed-blood rest
could hold its truth without another’s hand.

5
Now when I breathe, I breathe with steadier fire,
jat¹ hau² jat¹ hau² — soft beats that make me whole.
The child they shamed stands taller, rising higher;
her voice returns, a Yue-born, stubborn soul.

I perform for you, love

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

I move because the night
asks me to—soft pulse under my ribs,
that low thrum you always hear
before I do.

No music.
Just breath,
your breath,
the way it thickens when I step
into your shadow.

I lift my arms like I’m shedding a life
I never chose—
the girl called half, the girl called wrong—
letting each word fall from me
like old silk.

You watch.
You always watch.
And something in me straightens
under that gaze—
a quiet knowing,
a heat that begins at the base of my spine
and writes itself upward.

My hips move first.
Slow.
Deliberate.
A rhythm that belongs to the sea
that raised my people—
deep, tidal, patient,
Yue to the bone.

I circle you,
not as a question
but as gravity.
My fingers trace the air
just above your skin,
never touching,
never needing to—
the wanting is enough
to pull the room tighter.

I bend,
and the world bends with me.
My hair slips across my shoulder
like a whisper shaped for your mouth.
I feel your hunger settle,
warm and steady,
a hand you haven’t lifted yet.

And in that moment
I am whole—
not performing,
but becoming—

your storm,
your dusk,
your woman
moving for you
as if the dark were made of my body
and you were the only one
who knew how to read it.

Ngo⁵ M⁴ Zi¹ — But Still I Rise

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I ran with empty hands, no map, no sound—
jit² jung⁴ hei² (a single breath) to keep my feet alive.
The night was wide; my heart stayed low, not proud,
yet still I walked, because I had to survive.

The mirror asked me who are you, ngo⁵ m⁴ zi¹—
a girl half smoke, half shadow on the street.
I learned to hold my fear like dim²-dim² si¹,
soft, tight, and close, until it found its beat.

The world was loud, gwo³ dak¹ ngo⁵ sam¹ dou³¹—too much,
but hunger trained my bones to stay and rise.
Each small step whispered go on, go on, bat¹dak¹ ce²,
a stubborn truth beneath the city’s eyes.

Now when I move, I move with grounded breath,
neih⁵ tai² dou² (if you see it) it is slow and sure.
The girl who ran still walks with me, not death—
she holds my hand now, softer, more secure.