The Gentle Sparrow

When you’re a sparrow, still chirp–and fly high.

🕊️🍂🕊️🍂🕊️

Amid November’s frost

The trees still stand

Their leaves still applaud

The blowing wind.

🕊️🍂🕊️🍂🕊️

On a tree’s branch

A sparrow chirps–soft, unsure,

Its sound unclear

But loud enough

For lost ears.

🕊️🍂🕊️🍂🕊️

None heralds the sparrow’s chirp.

None applauds its dull, brown wings.

It does not twitter for glory,

But sings softly.

🕊️🍂🕊️🍂🕊️

The sparrow flies,

Wings against wind.

Its song mingles

With frost-covered leaves—

A path in the dark.

🕊️🍂🕊️🍂🕊️

Behind the forceful black crow

A single sparrow flies

Its dull, brown head tipped

But held high

As it spreads its wings.

🕊️🍂🕊️🍂🕊️

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The November Games

She did it her way–snd we should too.

☕🍂

November rain knocked on the window and glass door of the Wits Cybercafe. The interior of the cafe combined with the month’s transitional energy; it smelled of cinnamon, damp clothes, and thick espresso.

Nancy noticed another scent—quiet competition.

The delicate pastries that Wits was known for were aligned in a complex jigsaw no one cared to fix.

Yes, the game was afoot.

Nancy wondered if anyone else had noticed the friendly rivalry in the air.

The cafe’s usual coffee-soaked clientele seemed to be part of an absurd contest—whether it was who could gulp their hot coffee the fastest or fold their napkin the quickest.

Every sip of coffee felt like an unspoken contest.

Nancy tested her theory, folding her napkin the wrong way on purpose.

Of course, her rivals applauded with extra zest.

A love song played as piped-in audio, defying the cafe’s competitive vibe.

A stranger’s eyes met hers.

Ready to incarcerate.

Put her on one of the cafe’s chopping boards.

A gaze that held both judgement and irresistible curiosity.

Had she broken an unwritten rule by mistake?

The games paused—a heartbeat suspended.

She sipped her coffee—

In triumphant gulps.

And finished the last with a satisfying burp.

Horrified gasps from her friendly rivals.

Grinning, Nancy swiped her lips with the back of her hand.

Horrified gasps.

But the same stranger gave her a nod of acknowledgement—she had won this round.

She left the cafe, victorious—but slightly confused.

The rain tapped on the windows, giving her a round of quiet applause.

Her triumph, though invisible—

Perfect.

Nancy-style.

🏆☕

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November’s Spirit

It comes—if its warning is unheard.

🌙

The wind’s breath chills
Bringing whispers too cold to remain.
A sliver of light within frosty dark.
Silence in the trees—no chirping.
Black darkness moves—against stillness.
A shiver courses through my chest.

❄️

It comes—
Every November,
Lingering in the mind and soul,
A call to the self—
Creeping in to stay—
If not heeded.

🍂

Leaves that drifted,
Silhouettes that moved.
A dance to shape the soul
Their steps foretold—
For me.
For others.

👻

A ghost that haunts
Every November
Shadows trail its form
Leaves call frosty names—
If left unheard—ours.

🌌

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The Train after Rush Hour

When life and space seem empty, hope and renewal happen.

🌌🚉🌌

Twilight dawns, the platform stands—
Empty.
Even the tiles breathe slow.
The schedule board blinks, an eye refusing to close.
A sweet wrapper’s slow dance in the draft,
A vending machine’s guttural hum.
Soft footsteps in the distance, an unwanted memory.

🌫️✨🌫️

Half-drunk coffee, newspapers read.
A lilac scarf lingers on its arm,
Drifting in the wind.
Every object, a person in haste.
November’s platform—in darkness.
Unlit.

🌧️🚉🌧️

My steps slow with the train’s chug—
Her missed graduation.
Mama, in bed, unseen.
His violin recital.
Each memory station a reminder,
A rest stop.

🍂🕰️🍂

The station alit, quiet.
The empty platform serves—
To rebuild.
Renew.
Old memories vague—
Yet a part
Of each turnstile.

🌙🚦🌙

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The Heart’s Berlin

The Berlin Wall fell this day, November 9th, 1989.

It took just one night for its pieces to shatter.

The walls that surround hearts can take a lifetime to break.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

50-year-old Thomas Weiss stood before a crumbling wall, wielding a hammer he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. His wife, Hannah, and twin sons had resided in the free zone for years–because she wanted to.

The wall had come down in 1989–ten years to this day. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, waiting to come together.

Thomas wondered if they would–but some walls sealed hearts.

And stood taller.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

Youngsters still came to hack at the bricks that hadn’t yet given way, breaking out in raucous hollers as they did.

Thomas watched them, his memories more dislodged with each blow of the hammer. Each cheer he heard felt like an accusation—like Hannah’s last words to him.

He wasn’t sure he envied the wall for coming down.

Before he slammed the door of the family home–sharper than the barbed wire that accompanied the bricks.

A young man spotted him standing, still in a reverie. He stretched out his hand–a small piece of the wall lay in his palm.

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was just unwanted history coming apart, or a piece of his own heart.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

His wife appeared amidst the dust and fallen wall splinters.

Older.

Strange.

The shadow of the wall that was, stood between them–too real.

Freedom felt foreign–the hardest reunions were the ones one didn’t prepare for.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

He dropped his hammer, the crowd’s joy flooding over him. He and Hannah didn’t embrace–but stood together.

Breathing the air of freedom for the first time–

In decades.

Their unity had begun—in silence.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

As dawn broke, the wall had nearly crumbled completely. The crowd had vanished, save for a few stragglers.

The bricks had come apart in just one night in 1989. His peace with Hannah would take a lifetime of rebuilding.

The Berlin wall had finally fallen. The one in his heart–still solid brick.

And had to shatter–within.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

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A Palm’s Reflection

On this balmy November day, all of us stand beneath skies that have seen storms–but remember our voices amid the loud roar of thunder.

We are the palm trees–we bend, straighten, sometimes lose a few branches when there are storms in our lives–but we reach our own rhythm.

Our dance goes on despite the rain.

🌿🌊🌤️

My palm fronds dance in the wind

Watch kites kiss the sky

Tasting the metallic air–

Hearing, knowing, but not listening.

🌬️🪁🍃

They sense the tumult of the clouds–

The world in chaos, deer running.

The whoosh of wind and sands shift

My branches bend.

🌪️🦌🍂

The faint smell of sea salt

From waves that poured over.

But my tattered trunk remains.

My seeds sprout on new soil.

🌱🌊☀️

The calm blue sky returns–

My fronds sway in a new dance.

They feel the sea’s breeze as they traipse.

Hearing–and knowing their whisper.

🌤️🍃🌊

Yet I stand, listening, still dancing,

Knowing when to bend

And when to straighten

To my tune.

🌿🌬️🌞

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She Wears The Red Scarf

Today marks the anniversary of a milestone in women’s political power in America—the election of the first woman to Congress. We mirror that femininity in Singapore by celebrating the Samsui Woman, a female labourer commonly seen at construction sites in the 1950s and 60s. Opportunities for women have increased over the years—and her scarf, and spirit, live on. She wields the scarlet scarf of strength.

🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬

The evening air was dense with the usual Singapore humidity–and tales once woven. Despite the tropical overwhelm, Singaporeans walked to the polls.

Outside on a railing was a scarf–red, fluttering in the November wind. It hung a poignant scarlet against the grey twilight. No one saw the woman who donned it, or her dust-streaked blue blouse.

A heavy blouse no wind could lift.

Mdm Ong was a Samsui Woman who lived in Singapore of the 1950s–a construction worker who laid bricks when women weren’t meant to construct. Along with others like her, she built a city that never knew–or wanted to know–her name.

She had toiled when families prayed, hauling beams twice her weight. She out-dreamt her pay.

She returned every Singapore election–not as a ghost, but as a witness.

An elections officer noticed her form in the glass, in a blue samfoo, head bound in a telltale red scarf. She watched as the women of the time filed past to the polling booths, pens ready to mark their chosen candidate.

She blinked, and the Samsui ghost left, leaving only the faint, but comforting scent of earth.

The elections staff sealed the ballot boxes. The scarf fluttered to the ground. The elections officer picked it up, and wore the proud memory around her neck.

🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬

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When Roots Touch The Sky

Young roots grab the Earth
Connected plants in same soil
Trimmed and well anchored

🌱🌿🌎✨🌳

New roots stretch to sky
Their hands reach for door slammed shut.
Pull beyond comfort.

🌳🌤️🌿🌱💫

Roots and branches meet
Pull and reach with combined strength.
Fight to reach and grow.

🌿🌞🌳💪🌱

Roots grow with branches anchor.
Only when melded.

🌳💫🌱🌿🌤️

Original Map of the Self memoir by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. Any AI tags are conincidental

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When She Breathes Again

This week is one of introspection for many—on souls loved and lost. So, we pause to ponder the echoes of fire and ash. A volcano’s eruption reminds us that even the strongest forces bear grief and must weaken to renew—and strengthen. The chaos reshapes land—and spirit.

From the ash, new life begins.

🔥🌌🌋🔥

The giant rises, stirs in silence

Before its rousing roar;

Its grief in our spirit, not just in stone

The sky drew breath before it soared.

🔥🌌🌋🔥

Tongues of flame curl in the night,

A loud roar tearing calm;

The mountain’s fire, bursts of grief,

Shakes decades of quiet and peace.

🌄🔥🌫️🔥

What lies beneath the mountain’s soil

Crawls in full, or part, to the top;

So, it burns what it reaps not

And what no longer serves.

🌋💨🌑🔥

The fire cools, its soil reshapes

The new form of the world;

From ashes’ cradle, new spirit made

Life charts its own return.

🌱🌄✨🔥

The giant sleeps once more —

But in perfect slumber,

Her dreams of green

Of peace on every shore.

🌿💤🌍✨

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The Whine

Every soul needs a guide–even if it isn’t human.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

All Souls’ Day blanketed the pavements and roads in velvet black and the dim light of street lamps; anything but a typical day for a little pet dog.

Snowball stationed herself at her home’s bay window, hoping to unsettle the

patrons at the coffee shop opposite with her insistent, barking overtures.

She didn’t have mischief in mind that day; instead, she stood at the window, each paw trembling, hackles raised.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The air froze with biting cold; atypical for Singapore, a country with heat and

humidity as its middle name.

A chill numbed the air indoors; the smell of damp leaves pervaded the air. I

concentrated on my book review, for the first time donning an outdated cotton

sweater.

Then—the low, persistent growls.

Snowball had positioned herself in front of my bedroom wall, paws stiff, nails

clicking on the floor.

An almost-human whisper grazed my ear. My breath caught, and my jaw dropped. as it looked around.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The little West Highland Terrier lunged at the wall. A long silence followed.

Too long.

Then, a faint shimmer—the ambiguous outline of a silhouette.

Lost.

Caught between Heaven and Earth.

Asking—

Just for a name.

My heartbeat synced with its pulse—

One that echoed for a presence.

The little dog had guided—

And found.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

“Snowball. It’s alright. No need.”

Her cue not to bark.

She obeyed and lay down, finally calm.

The room felt—

Lighter.

Warmer, with the whisper now unheard.

But the chill was a permanent guest.

Teasing a little dog wasn’t the name of the lost soul’s game—

It had asked the little terrier for guidance.

To where it belonged.

The whisper left. But at night, Snowball still faced the wall–and heard the clicks.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

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