You can bring me to the flowers, but not the flowers to me!

Photo by Gül Kurtaran on Unsplash

There was a dude
who bought a bouquet of roses

for a girl he really, really liked –

but the colours that leapt before her:
January’s spring! Quivering arrows;

hiding their thorns
in crinkled, silver foil

brought not joy – but, instead –
dismay to her eyes.

Then the girl said,

“Never mind this awful Valentine’s Day cliche,
but there’s something you have to know:

“you can bring me to the flowers,
but not the flowers to me!”

The dude, surprised by her words,
only had two words to offer: “But why?”

She continued, her mature stance belying
the terra-cotta freckles on her little hands:

“You see, my hands may bring them warmth,
but not the sustenance they truly need:

some water, sunshine, earthworms
to loosen the soil – or, even better – butterflies!

So leave them alone in the mucky dirt,
because that’s what they really, really like –

and bring me to the treetop walk instead,
because – my darling – that’s what I truly LIKE!”

© Zelda Reville

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!

Pro tip: not all women like flowers, not all flowers are like women. Enjoy.

Metamorphosis – Daily Prompt: Glaring


Push, and then
s l o w l y pull –

What a perfect needle
for the tool!

The prolonged art
of glaring
is all that it takes

for the other to
start unconsciously
giving me

that cold shoulder –


(No) Thanks, cockroach.
I needed that extra privacy.

I’ll spare you
the bundled newspaper
this time round,

but I won’t guarantee you
your extra life mana
the next…

© Zelda Reville

Bada-bada-BUMP! Sorry about the lack of updates…

How George Blew His Top – Part 1

Once upon a time, there stood three, lofty mountains.

If mountains could be separated accordingly to their gender, there would be two male mountains and one female mountain –

Supposedly female, as judged by the two male mountains, who could barely make out two swollen peaks jutting out of the billowing tufts that obscured their vision (and ardent admiration) for her beauty. They finally knew one fine summer’s day, when a shrill voice screamed “Get away from me!” as a humble camel ascended her peaks.

Being mountains, they could not move from where Nature, that sly puppeteer, had condemned them to stay, so they passed their expansive, idle time by mostly sitting in silence. On occasion they would converse with each other, and find out what each other’s inhabitants had been up to.

These settlers had turned up unannounced one day, and proceeded to make each mountain their home without further delay.

A religious sect had set up shop on the first male mountain, a wandering philosopher had declared the second male mountain his perfect haven, and two magnificent eagles spied the female mountain as the perfect place to call their home. Both eagles had since spawned a healthy eagle population on the previously eagle-free area.

As it conspired, today was one of these days, and the second male mountain was bemoaning his unfortunate fate to them. He called himself George after he’d heard someone call the philosopher that. He knew not what a George was, but it sounded nice and good as a name; furthermore, he was tired of being called Blue Peak. First, he was not blue, and second, he felt that the name Blue Peak was lacking in character, somewhat – passe, bland, two common nouns hastily strung together for the sake of naming this mountain something.

He felt he had a shining destiny laid for him, in his path. He knew not what this was, but it winked at him periodically in his daydreams, like the stars in the sky. He sighed.

George was a very laid-back and patient mountain, but then again, all mountains are laid-back and patient to an extent. He had learned many philosophical theories over the years by listening to the philosopher’s lectures, and therefore made better use of his eternal life by musing over them.  But lately all that pondering only served to put George in a dreadful mood…which could only be described as something along the vague, scholarly lines of “existential despair”. George had first heard the term issued by a belligerent student. This melancholic, restless feeling, he assumed, was probably what this word meant.

“I wish he would stop bringing in more students, they’re ruining my forests with all that chopping for firewood. They’re turning me BALD.” George griped to the first male mountain, who called himself Chris for the same reasons as George. Chris, being much more reckless than George, became increasingly at odds with George as their inhabitants were constantly bickering with each other. Both secretly wished that they could get away from each other, but alas – they couldn’t move, and so they continued their luckless fate. They could only hope for the unreliable clouds to obscure each other from sight.

Chris was in a jubilant mood, having spoken to the female mountain earlier, while simultaneously ogling her glorious pinnacles.

“He is doing God’s work, only with philosophy,” Chris replied benignly. “George is doing a good job.

Religion and philosophy tentatively held hands for once, though peering at each other with suspicion.

“Did you mean me, or that fleabag philosopher?” George asked, morosely.

“Him, of course.”

Both of them soon lapsed into deep silence.

“Well, don’t you say!” exclaimed the female mountain suddenly.

“What, Bird?” Both Chris and George answered. They’d called her that after Chris had overheard an excited toddler exclaiming, “Bird, bird!” as he saw a circling eagle.

“It’s not much, really. I was just eavesdropping on the eagles. You’re going to have new people staying with you again, George!” Bird said.

“Perhaps you should be more careful, now that they know you’ve heard everything,” George replied cautiously.

“Aww don’t worry, they don’t speak mountain! They’ll think it’s one of those tremors again.” Bird replied brightly. George silently applauded and admired her unceasing optimism.

He wished he had half of her joyous personality – or at least her carefree approach to life. Damn it all – why had the philosopher chosen him, of all places, to stay on?

As he raged, the clouds; fluffy, majestic masterpieces of Nature’s doing, parted  like the velvet curtains of an opening theatre show, and he then witnessed Bird in her feminine glory. Her unconscious sensuality and naive seduction were displayed at their very best, with the addition of the late summer’s rays. She was clothed in a bejewelled emerald sheath of lush forest that clung to all the right places – Good god, those rising peaks! – and he continued to stare in undisguised awe. Somewhere in George, a tremor split the ground open. No one was harmed, though the philosopher balked at how his overweight pony had fallen to its premature death, into the newly-created crevasse.

Then, without warning, he felt the strangest sensation. A deep, dark, angry…something. This…something had inconspicuously attached itself to his volatile mire of existential despair. What was this?

He was very confused. It was the first time he’d ever encountered anything like it. No word from his limited vocabulary could describe this roaring Minotaur that was barely chained to the ground.

In his mind’s eye, this curious beast looked like a reddish black mob of angry ants. And then, through this tangled mess he discerned a faint thread of yearning – first spiraling out, gossamer-thin, then becoming a mass of tangled lines, red and purple and black, which lashed at him. George tried to shake this not altogether unpleasant feeling away, but the more he stared at Bird, the more intense this feeling grew.

A passing gale soon swept the clouds in Bird’s direction, obscuring her from his sight. The intensity of this feeling subsided with the elegiac movement of the clouds, although now it continued to lick at him like kindling embers gnawing away at firewood. George mulled over this sudden change in mood. He decided to seek counsel from the only friend he had, even though in all honesty, he would have given everything to get away from him on some days. But still, he was the only person he could count on, and he knew it was the same for that friend too.


“Yes, George?”

“Erm, have you ever felt…” George hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to best articulate this emotion to Chris. His dangling sentence abruptly terminated itself as his mind tried to package this vague feeling into appropriate language. He observed his inner monologue dully as it hurriedly pulled up words from messy book shelves, pored over them. Realization and rapture saw him ascend rapidly to the dizzy heights of ecstasy, his internal monologue praising itself on its fantastic rational, logical, genius mind. Unfortunately, this short reign was quickly replaced by a writhing despair, as self-doubt rose like the mightiest of waves, more frightening then what Noah saw as his ark sailed the treacherous sea. He soon sighed, yielding to a rather agreeable ennui as he watched his perfectly built train of thought topple to the ground in a detached manner, scattering the pieces of logic everywhere. Why did he even try sometimes? What even was the point?

Chris’s voice rudely jolted him from the grasp of his inner world.

“George? What were you saying?”

George sighed. “It’s nothing, Chris…”

© Zelda Reville

Do mountains dream of playboy bunnies and drunken philosophy? Who knows? I’m planning to put this out as a 3 part series to challenge my lazy ass to write something more than 3000 words. I don’t know if I’ll actually complete this, but I’ll try…

A Resident Of Teeth Park Complains

“Chorus boy!
You peddle insinuating
off-key melodies;
stamp with spite on
enameled floorboards,
claim the Diamond Throne
as your own -“

Aye. You there. Come over here and I’ll tell you a story. You say you can’t sleep? Well, me too – or anyone else in this godforsaken area. There’s no damned sleep for anyone in this neighbourhood tonight, so you might as well give it up. Keep the windows shut, will you? Do you want some hot chocolate? Yes? Ok. There you go.

You know Toby? Good for you. He’s the mayor of this district. A real nice boy with the most adorable cheeks. Mum and Dad love him to bits. He always gets the good grades in school and says his prayers before going to bed. Oh yes. But he never brushes his teeth. What? You say that’s not a problem? Well, it’s not a problem for him, yes – how could a tiny, ineffectual motion cumbersome to sweet Sleep be a considerate problem, considering how inviting the bed can be? But on our terms, he’s ignoring the water pipes that burst and the overflowing garbage in the streets. And that’s a big problem cos he’s just invited some unsavoury people to our lovely neighbourhood. For convenience’s sake, we’ll call them Mr C. and G. Let’s start with Mr C first.

The whereabouts of Mr G have been lost to time, but I’ve gathered a morsel here and there. Mr G was an illegitimate child of unknown origin, who used to hide and shiver in the theater wings eking out a miserable existence as he avoided the Toothbrush Brigade and Toothpaste Legion. I’ve always wondered how this crafty specimen came to be, since he usually remains invisible from prying eyes for most of the time. He’s a bit like the Italian mafioso. Thin mustache, beady eyes, lips forever curled on the edges of a really bad joke that never leaves his mouth, preferring to keep the puns to himself.

But the arrival of another portly and petulant choir boy – blessed with the ignorable name of Messr. C  – saved Mr G’s arse one dark and stormy night. In doing so, he also sealed the fate of Teeth Park. Like any gangster worth his mettle, owning a well-stocked armoury to terrorize the Teeth residents is something they do very well. This terrible anthem is the tune to which they dance to, as they bring a rod swinging onto someone else’s head:

“Rusty saucepans,
holey drums,
the booming and
our favourite
of all time –
the pneumatic drill!”

By god, I hate that drill… It makes the whole neighbourhood vibrate on its rollies, shakes the dentures out of them old folkies and scares the noisy macaws out of the trees! I can’t sleep with them making all this racket at 3 in the morning! Argh! Well, you know…this reminds me of the good old days, flanked with  picture-ready sunsets and morals to match. The Toothbrush Legion and Toothpaste Brigade would make their daily patrols every night, watching out for these particular two troublemakers… but ever since Toby stopped brushing his teeth, they have no need to fear fluoride bullets, or the Mouthwash Of Peril. Why, you ask? Let me show you something, son. These cheeky rascals pinned this note to the board outside the police station last night. They are the end of us, I tell you. Not unless we do something.

“Who cares
for triclosan tear gas
or abrasives,
when you’ve got
pure sugary corruption?”

That’s not all. Have you seen Ms. H? She’s that odd lady with the sky-high bouffant, thinking that she’s still stuck in 1969. You’ve probably seen her dumpster diving in the late afternoons, or trying to woo terrified teenagers with her questionable amorousness. There’s no mistaking that horrid dress sewn with sequins of moss-green and spittle-flecked diamonds, sashaying down the red carpet like some phony Marilyn Monroe. She nearly set her pitbull on me once when I yelled at her to keep away from my trash bin. Good lord! I can’t remember when Toby sold his dear soul to the donut shop down his street.

I tell you, his mum’s obviously spoiled him with too much liquorice and gummy bears. You know, I have this suspicion that maybe his mum is Satan in disguise. If his mum is really Satan, then what on Earth is his Dad doing to him?!

© Zelda Reville








Baby security gates aгe typically made use of on staircases, entrances and somke uneven openings in thе residence.


The baby stared
at the steps,

as his young brain
tried to grapple
with this strange,
spindly complication

that blocked
his VIP access
to the pots and pans
in the kitchen.

Sitting on his
blooming botty,
he started to wonder
and wrack his 3-year old brain.

Maybe it was Mummy?
But Mummy’s rack
or spandexed body
wasn’t this skinny…

Perhaps this was Daddy?
But Daddy was exceedingly spray-tanned –
it would have been an offence
to be a death’s shade of white.

Ah! It had to be a tree!
Just like the great, big oak in their yard.
But it wasn’t brown –
neither was it leaf-worthy!

The baby narrowed its
eyes as it ransacked
its narrow vocabulary…

Then, suddenly
a smile split his frustration
and he whooped in glee –

“Zoo! Zoo!” He screamed,
as he quickly crawled over
and gripped the bars with his tiny hands.

“Monkey! Want monkey!”

The baby security gates
with a huge “Somke”
emblazoned across the bars

certainly complied
for once…

© Zelda Reville

A quickie that tips its bowler hat to this satirical piece from Unbolt Me’s spam series. I wish my spam was as entertaining (and tasty) as theirs! 😂

Thoughts Before Sleep

Black. White.
An unwilling compromise
between shades.
Or a good-willed truce
between opposites?
Black or white?
Who likes choosing sides?
Nachos versus chips.
Tomato verses, ketchup seers.
It’s never cats and dogs,
but cats or dogs
(but a lucky few will disagree with this)
Nothing seems to give!
The Beatles or the Stones?
To complicate (and infuriate):
Blur, Suede or *shudder* Oasis?
Sir, will you have chicken or mutton?!
The left road or the right fork?
Art or science??
You or me?
Me and I?
She, nor him?!
But most of us can come
to an important consensus:
neither garlic nor onions
in their hideous whole.

Chopped finely
or glazed with pepper and honey,
they probably could suffice…
though I think
I might gladly starve

before I partook in thee!

© Zelda Reville



About “Me” – 9 Reasons Why I Left My Bio Blank

Nouns: One man’s favourite is another man’s poison.
Adjectives: Distances and distorts slightly…
Colloquialisms: Even further from perceived truth!
Trying a funny sentence: I sound even lamer then before.
Trying 1/4 funny with 3/4 half-serious sentence: Only Doofus does that. Stop.
Trying a short sentence of three words: That’s not mighty sounding enough
Keyboard smash: Sober drunk-texting is not my aesthetic
TrYiNg ThIs: nOpE
🦄 : Honestly? I’m more 🍆 than 🦄 and I don’t wanna scare people off

© Zelda Reville




We do not fight it out
but, rather, sit like two,
three or even five
half-faced strangers
wearing holey jester’s masks
and rough silk punching gloves.

We study each other’s faces
and think ourselves very skilled
in the art of concealment.

A quick, greedy snatch
of a furrowed brow
seems to tell her
all that she assumes to know;

while the downward glance of piety
hurls painless daggers
into the other’s back
with howls of laughter.

The other Fool
is usually up at daybreak,
juggling spatial configurations
that, if one is careless in handling –
may confuse and destroy.

To add to the preternatural mess,
his packrat love of urban superstitions
and wonky conspiracy theories
ensures his arms are always busy.

The last, notable Jugglermeister
simply sits in a hard-backed chair.
He’s a lot like that pondering
poseur…oh…you know…!
The one that they call The Thinker?

(still, nobody knows till now
what on earth is contained
in that round, shiny head of his)


Their favourite pastime
is to take turns to
duplicate and/or replicate.
Up, down, left, right,
3-dimensional – they don’t even
spare the space in the middle.

Alas – what Mercury delights in
simply sends the poor user
into the frigid territory
of existentialism.

They first turn into twins,
hungry oligarchs and
then into dessicating mutants

who insist on their
terrible masquerades,
acid-tongued debates
and surrealist parties

in dingy basements
that simply cannot
accommodate the numbers.

Could you blame the abject human
who expresses a deep yearning
for silence and solitude
in a quiet room?

A few choose to end the rabble
by jumping off from the bones of reality.
Of this, there are a few methods –
and endless possibilities.

So, you see, one can glimpse
into the misty looking glass
and see exactly where and how
the sources of insanity pick their apples.

Thank god that debates,
books, rampant curiosities
and holiday getaways
exist on Earth to harness
the best of this mental Tempest
(and give a rest to aching brain cells),

because endless arguments
cramped into a tiny house
in the middle of 3 am

only serve to debilitate
and not rejuvenate!

NaPoWriMo #22 – Porcelain Butt

I wish they’d put stuff like this in my textbooks as a kid

Dear Overly Bored Student,

I am a much better
employer of script and ink
than your weak, trembling hand.

Watch my prowess as I weave
Delphic ribbons, tadpoles
and delicate rusty trumpet horns,
excess flatulence and last night’s blueberry dinner

with baroque flair.

My superb peristaltic skill
and bowel movements
will put your teacher’s Latin handwriting
to shame.

P.S. I’m always available for a perk-up in the afternoons (if I’m needed).

Yours sincerely,
Mr. Porcelain Butt

© Zelda Reville

Day 22. Using the ekphrasis prompt – a poetry piece inspired by a piece of art; in this case this involves the specific subject of questionable marginalia artwork in medieval manuscripts.

NaPoWriMo #19 – How To Make A Perfect B33f Patty

the validity in mutual opinion
the winning recognition of exclusivity
the blinding blatancy of ignorance
the pursed silence of resentment
the disbelief in dissonance
the spark ricocheting from the realization
pepper and salt from trolls hungry for their fill of blood
the cry of “Aaaah, it hurts, it hurts!”
as the eyes of the innocent (and amused) fill with tears
and the eventual uproar as the beef patty sizzles
slowly on the relentless grill, all nicely done –

Would you please put some Tabasco sauce
on my slice, hun?

© Zelda Reville

Day 19 takes its original idea from Day 2’s prompt for a recipe, but presented in another form. Can someone please pass the burgers?