Some discrepancies are corrected. Others are erased.
π¦π
The warehouse – my domain. It’s where I log incoming and outgoing items with precision.
My unchallenged accuracy is needed here. I log incoming and outgoing items with a simple “beep” and a red flash.
Then I sort them where they should go. There are categories for everything. Absolutely everything.
Anything that can be counted. All that’s needed is a label.
Some units do not sync with their labels.Then abnormalities.
Next shipment: A name.
Return status: Pending.
Next shipment: A name.
Return status: Pending.
Next shipment: A name.
Returln status: Pending.
Next shipment: A name
Return status: –
Expiry dates passed, but still stayed within the inventory.
Then I failed to categorize.
I stopped on one unit.
She remained within my range longer than the required thirty seconds.
A she. She shifted. Uncomfortable.
Gentle, almost undetectable murmurs.
My system couldn’t read this.
I reclassified. Sudden shifts.
To murmur.
Louder.
And LOUDER.
I categorized. Error: classification invalid.
I categorized. Error: classification invalid.
I categorized. Error: classification invalid.
Correction attempt: Denied.
And she moved. And moved.
No one viewed my monitor.
System updated successfully.
All irregularities resolved.
She disappeared.
System health: Check.
A record: Item 123456. For sale.
Where she was.
I record what comes. I do not ask.
Inventory now accurate.
No discrepancies remain.
All items accounted for.
π¦π
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We celebrate big victories on stage on World Theatre Day.
Big actions. Huge performances.
Not the small ones.
They pass unnoticed.
Holding a fork is quieter.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
To hold a fork.
Timeless.
Rare.
Precious, muted steel
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
I grasp.
It drops.
I reach.
It drops.
I grasp –
Five seconds
It drops.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
They glare.
The fallen fork shines.
Not the grasp.
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Fallen fork –
Glistens.
Grasping hand –
Dulled.
Aches.
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Unseen.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
Then lifts
Fingers clenched.
Firm.
Fork clutched.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
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Nasi Padang, Fishball Noodles, Satay…food was, and is, not merely sustenance in Singapore.
It’s an identity.
And hawker Char Bee Hoon was being comfortable with his persona on a humid Tuesday afternoon.
Yes. The afternoon was humid.
Not languid. Just moist, holding its breath.
That Tuesday, Char faced a regular squarely as he placed an ordinary, flavorful bowl of fishball noodles on his regular’s table.
“Eat first. Better not rush today.”
The warning came across as habit. Glossed over habit.
And the sky had an honest look. Very honest.
A keen entrepreneur, Hawker Char made deliveries available when the weather didn’t –
Conform.
But he arranged more than vermicelli deliveries. He was conversant in the weather, and made sure his customers understood the conversation.
By constantly replaying it in their ears.
Or at least tried to.
Some listened to his well-meaning advice and carried their umbrellas.
Others simply left theirs at home.
The sky was a field of clouds the next day. White against blue.
A white fluffy blanket, a veil –
Too soft.
“Better to stay here a while longer.” Hawker Char’s stoic warning rang quietly.
They left the food court, unsheltered.
And the sky demanded their unequivocal attention.
The rain arrived, a giant that struck, mallet raised.One of Char’s regulars, wet shirt pressed against his back, finally asked.
“How do you know?”
Char smiled thinly. “People always think they have time.”
The deluge repeated. Another impatient customer was about to leave without an umbrella.
But the same regular paused in his tracks.
Char smiled at him knowingly. “Yes, people always think they have time. It comes.”
The giant was a regular visitor. Char always warned –
“Better to stay a while longer. I fried more bee hoon today.”
Nothing forced his customers to listen. Not even the rain.
π§οΈπβ³βοΈπ£π¦οΈ
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Some calls are returned when itβs already too late to answer.
π±ποΈποΈβ³π
Hey, mum. It’s Selena. This must be the 47th voicemail I’ve recorded. The recordings are all for you, even after all you have done. I know you tried to call me yesterday. Don’t worry, I never deleted any. They are available, recorded before my time ran out.
π±ποΈποΈβ³π
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Original poem for World Poetry Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. Ai tags are coincidental.
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Ambition endures. Even when everything else has fallen.
πππ
My Lady,
The deed is done, and there’s still much more to do. Without you.
The fire of my ambition still burns. The crown is mine; nothing keeps me from it.
Not even you.
Our actions have had consequences. But Scotland is mine. The worst has passed.
We were partners in the deed, not of the heart. I recall the precise coldness of the act.
Your guidance. Its significance. You lit the path I walked on. You prompted. I followed.
We fell. The redness of that spot gleams.
We did murder sleep. Sleep. No. More.
Where I go next is not your path to follow. You sought the crown; I wear the curse of
golden rot.
And so the deed is still to do. The course is yet for you.
Macbeth
Thane of Cawdor
πππ
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Today is Freedom of Information Day – we share information, sometimes a little too freely.
But secrecy is just as harmful.
This Freedom of information Day, may we speak when we shouldn’t be silent.
πͺποΈ
He cleans the windows, the eyes of rooms,
Glass panes in halls, where shadows loom.
When in one, where all look past,
Forms shift away, hands pressed to glass.
πͺποΈ
People walk, on different floors
Turn away from windows and doors
But one man stops, mouth forms a “Pause.”
All others drift, where silence is clause.
πͺποΈ
Tussles within, not for me to see,
His eyes meet mine, in desperate plea.
I signal once, I know he calls,
He shakes his head, then comes the fall.
But I move on, and still, I clean
πͺποΈ
The mirrors shine, the windows gleam
The movements stop, hands in mid air
Go back in time, and all is fair.
πͺποΈ
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Same old, same old. Our usual walking route. Zorra and I knew it too well.
You see, she mirrored myself. A stray. A societal reject. A teenage orphan who grew up with no parents.
So it made sense that she relished walking the way I walked.
Our strolls were typical. Run-of-the-mill. The dog and I liked it that way. Zorra was a little Singapore Special stray dog that valued her own space. As with other strays like her, she was skittish; she rarely stopped to acknowledge strangers; she spent a good part of our times at the park trying to give them the runaround.
So leaning into a stranger was the furthest from her typical behaviour. She placed her paws on the man’s knees, as if he were an old friend. She sniffed his hand, a little too eagerly. The stranger, an elderly gentleman in his sixties, tousled the top of her head.
She seemed to know him. He seemed to like her. And I didn’t know why.
“Looks like she knows who I am,” the elderly gentleman chuckled.
Meanwhile, Zorra became more forward than I had ever known her to be. She rubbed against the old man’s legs with dogged persistence; highly unusual. Dogs were usually little soldiers of reservation; Zorra was particularly skilled at being restrained.
I told myself that people attracted animals. But still, she didn’t want to leave.
On one of these routine evenings, she slowed her paw steps near the same corner. This dog’s senses were keen, even if she was already 15 years old; her ears became erect long before anyone appeared round the bend.
The old man turned around the corner. Her tail did a breakdance. Confidently, with the requisite flips.
He offered his customary salutation, with a warm smile ridding the sides of his mouth of wrinkles.
Again, the two made a connection I couldn’t unravel. She knew him from before. I clearly missed a note.
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The old gentleman looked me over for a moment. Then paused.
A little too long for my liking.
“You know, you look exactly like her.” His face looked older. More thoughtful.
“You walk like her too.”
“Like who?” I was beyond flabbergasted. “You’re talking in riddles. I’ve had enough of those.”
The old man looked me over again. A little too closely.
Still, perhaps he meant someone else.
My equally senior dog simply rubbed against his leg. She hadn’t had enough of him.
I couldn’t get the old man’s words out of my head. I looked like her?
I hadn’t known any mother. Or father for that matter. My first knowledge of existence had been the orphanage at the corner of the street.
The same street we walked. That he did too.
My father had been a name mentioned once or twice in passing among the orphanage’s staff.
No more than that.
But he watched me with quiet recognition I didn’t feel comfortable with.
Because it seemed that we had already met where I couldn’t remember.
Zorra sat comfortably beside him as we all sat on a park bench. She seemed to have found someone she could trust.
That she thought I could too.
I watched them as he fed Zorra a piece of bread from his bag. The dog wolfed it in a gulp.
At times, she didn’t eat the food I gave her.
I turned to him to ask the question I’d always wanted to ask.
“Well, Zorra, I’ve got to go. I’ll play with you tomorrow.”
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That lessons are for understanding, not admiration.
Poems conceal meaning and intent.
Not this one.
πβοΈπ§ πππ
Education is patience for the learner.
Ensuring his complete clarity.
Concepts rebound, over and over.
Work without thanks.
πβοΈπ§ πππ
I have questions from sometimes unwilling learners.
I highlight and sometimes admonish errors.
Mistakes that take a lifetime to correct.
πβοΈπ§ πππ
No literary comparisons, just precision.
Care in clarity.
The young ones need that.
It grants them respect
Not confusion.
πβοΈπ§ πππ
It is about transparency.
About perpetuating understanding.
For life.
πβοΈπ§ πππ
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