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.


Photo by Ant Rozetsky on Unsplash

This poem is written with relation to these quotes by Osho. Or maybe not. 🤣

“So I say to you, even to a well frog it is possible to communicate something about the sea. And if the messenger is really inventive, he can create devices to communicate. That is what a Buddha is doing, a Jesus is doing – creating devices to communicate something of the sea to well frogs. Because there is one thing in common – the water. If there is one thing in common, then connection is possible, a bridge exists.”

And this quote here could describe both the ecstacy and frustration that occur when we communicate with someone else.

“There are three hundred languages in the world and three hundred languages for rose; there is no relationship, all relationship is arbitrary. Cold is related to hot, well is related to the ocean. Their relationship, however indistinct, is there – real,  not arbitrary. But between a word and reality there is no relationship, they are not related at all. So you can have your own words, a private language, you can call anything by any name.If you like to call it something else, the rose will not fight in a court. And nobody can prove that their word is more correct than yours, nobody can prove it because no word is more correct or less correct. Words are irrelevant, they are not related.

And this snow –
born in the cold:

the shade of an old man’s beard,
marking transitions –

the pearl, glistening,
spread open, all opportune
nestled between hinges.

The untouched language
of  Indian textiles; before
purple and gold existed –

the bare glint of a pebble,
all lonely on the sand.

How could I even try
my hand at comprehending?

There’s 50 words for snow,
but no single word
to cut to the absolute bone.

Ruminate all you want,
come up with dialectics
till you go blue in the face –

but still,


“All this snow –
always born in the cold…”

I’m really, really enjoying this book…and really, really enjoying this rain….

Blog Post – What I’ve been up to…

A few things have been keeping me busy lately, but not too much. And also – a realization that I’ve had over the past few weeks:

  1. Trying to set up an online presence for a business. I can’t say who it’s for just yet (well, maybe in the future), but this explains my on-off absence. I’m currently teaching myself the ropes. I could have someone to teach me, but….I would probably never learn. I’m a stubborn ass mule. The cliff’s as steep as hell, but I *think* I can do this. WELP
  2. Erratic time schedules. This will be a challenge that I’ll have to tackle head on. It used to be that I could squeeze some time out to write/edit/schedule, but as of now I won’t have, or at least have very little of this common luxury that I used to take for granted. Writing on the go isn’t alien to me, but editing on the go….that’s another story.
  3. No man is a complete island. I know everything is ultimately inter-connected in the end, but thinking and gut-feeling do not always go hand in hand!
  4. Thinking about advancing beyond poetry into article writing. i.e freelance writing, i.e. to write for a fee. I want to venture beyond non-creative writing. I realize that I like flexing my brains as much as going into the misty realms. (er, yes – I did just say earlier that I couldn’t write reviews. Somebody, please slap me now). But I’m not sure if I should do it?

    And to cap this off, hello to my readers again. It’s been quite some time! What’s on with you? 🙂



If I dream, do I clearly see –
And if I finally see, can I still dream?

I pray that I find the connection
bridging these two,

so that my dizzy mind
can finally be at ease.

© Zelda Reville


Feeling Good

I once watched a bird
with a yellow stump for a foot
who flew, pecked,
showered and pooped

without being bothered
by life’s haughty demeanour.

Of what could be
and what could be not
was not like a question
asked to this little mynah,

who pecked
at little white rice grains
emerging, innocuous
from a gaping red plastic bag.

The sun yawned an answer,
as a cat flicked its tail in response.

It simply just is.

Could I do
and say the same
for myself,

as a wantonly paranoid
card-carrying member
of the human race – ?

© Zelda Reville


Coming To A Fork In The Road

There is a path
that unwinds
before his feet

as he bites his lips
knowing full well
how this strange road
will elude all familiarity.

Still, the traveller
smiles and takes out from
his burlap sack
a beautiful, rippling piece of purple
that drapes loosely on his shoulders –

He’s saved it for the moment;
for this current predicament.

He buckles on his muddied shoes,
while watching the rain
bouncing off the weak fulcrum
of his hungry rapier.

He thought to himself:

“What better way
to smash initial discomfort
and the inertia of laziness,

through that split moment of
weakness – a vulnerability,
shamelessly exposed,
cheeks burning  –

the whip of life’s lessons?”

Then, as he steadied his
fiery steed, he remarked:

“How easy it is
for one to be mistaken
as alienation’s victim,

or being a less-than-grateful
affectation of a sore thumb!”

© Zelda Reville

I had to take some time out last week to dive totally into my reading. My apologies for the sudden absence!

Blank Space

Is there a place
for him in this world,

where he doesn’t need to
cut and unzip
the space around him,
step into silence
and hide himself
in common sight?

Is there a place
for her in this world,

where she doesn’t have to
squeeze herself
into a flimsy, curvaceous cutout,
paint on “lol” and “tbh”
and smother herself
with banality?

Is there a place
for us in this world,

where we don’t have to
fit ourselves
into painful stilletos

and simply present ourselves
as is?

© Zelda Reville