My palate makes the switch from heavy hops to rooibos, ignoring
The powerlines and harmonies and busy highways.
There’s a chill in my bones upon discovering something beautiful:
Someone who can play the piano,
The disconnectedness from self I learn to love,
The gradual erasure of self
Into
Silence
Apart from the occasional clever word and smug smile.
As love spills towards me like a waterfall from the mountain,
I solemnly realize that I have a problem and the bitter-
Sweet voice replies “So do we all.”
I trust and love that voice more than everything:
More than the wallpaper that has guided my trip up the stairs for years,
More than the cigarette-smoke smelling basement,
More than the front yard that tastes like pine sap and motor oil.
I take to the neighborhood the same way
A shark takes to the taste of blood.
I could write for ages about that basement and the spaces of it I never walked
The corners I only gazed at as if they were the darkest depths of the human soul
And never touched --
Because they felt like ghosts upon my skin,
Because the television cast a glow on them that told me to avoid them.
It lives in my sternum, like the pill which sticks in my intestines
And eats away at the tender membranes til they burst.

The café rumbles like the belly of a fasting saint,
voices competing with the clanks of silverware.
In the tearoom a boy with a tangle of wires
leaking from an unzipped backpack
struts between tables, billing himself as a "human hotspot".
He wears the same glasses you do;
they slip down his nose as he leans over to flirt with the waitress
in the red apron, who taps her nails against the cash register
and laughs at his bad jokes, she tells me, because
he wears his pants too high, just like her brother used to.

A man with a soup-stained button down and a bald spot
introduces himself as Peter Ling, proprietor,
oracle of the inner city rummage sale,
advisor to the lost and hungry.
He doles out pithy wisdom and lentils into mismatched bowls-
"You want therapy? Try your ex boyfriend."
The four of us hide our grins, and flee
to his cavernous basement. As we go spelunking
through the puddles left by a burst pipe,
clambering past bloated books and warped furniture,
Emma Miller swears that she slept here once-
on a moldy brown sofa crouched like a hibernating bear
among empty Heineken bottles.

The expedition yields four boxes of acupuncturist leaflets
and a damp antique suitcase filled with seeds,
who seized the opportunity to germinate,
their tiny roots searching fruitlessly
in the mildewed silk lining.
Ling says he's going to try gardening this year,
serve up spaghetti squash grown out back by the garage.

We sowed pea shoots and salad greens
in glass jars pilfered from a claw-footed armoire
that lay on its side, defeated, like the last of the saber-tooths.
I named one for you, tucked Eruca vesicaria sativa
into potting soil, and set it on the balcony railing-
tempting fate and gravity, because you always liked a little excitement
with your afternoon cup of rooibos.
I didn't see the girl who knocked you off your perch,
saw only the sun's sharp gleam off the glass
as the jar plunged, graceful as a slow-motion train wreck
on its arc toward the concrete,
and Peter Ling reached up with his big, calloused hand
to break your fall.

I'm waiting for my tea to arrive in this hotel lobby.
The slow piano music playing in the background
Is more familiar than it should be.

I should be calm, but all of the couples around me
Are exchanging sweet nothings and sweeter kisses
And it makes me jealous
Because I wish you were here
So we could do the same.

Tea is here, love.

warm sun sweet liquid
dark moist hole bristles soft sand
wonder exquisite
                            
                         *      
                                  *
                        SUN    
                             \/
                          sweet
                             ||
                       D  ARK        Q  QQ ||| b r i St  Les                      
                    s
                           o
                                f
                                    t
                                         sand ::::::sandcastles:::::::::holes OOO:::birth
                                                                 ing
ALICE

She basked in warm mid-morning sun drinking rooibos tea with almond biscuits. Her dollies speaking dolly lingo to marching ants. An indigo beam of sunlight rayed into her forehead, delivering jolts to her ladybird reverie.

Instantly Alice saw it. A tiny dark gasping hole in the flaking courtyard wall through which a caterpillar was  c r a w l i n g, beckoning her to
f o l l o w.
“Come,” he said, “with me, through MY intricate hole. I want to show YOU wonders beyond wOnders.”
eyes to eyes magnetised
a curious movement                             SSSSSSS
body lost legs, arms, neck                       SSSSS
brain smoking shrinking                              SSS
ears disappearing                                          S                
ribs increasing                                              

                      she felt an ***** growing
                      on the roof of her mouth
                      transmutation into worm or
                      serpent
                      how was she to know ?
        
                                                          
Her dollies started whimpering, ants stopped in their tracks, wall flaked some more
shedding skin
ALICE with two silky plaits, red ribboned tied
GONE to the
                     BE
                          YOND •••>>>  where no pond rip
                                                                       pled

black moist silently inward
sumptuous costume velvet
lime glitter embellished
crawling  s l o w l y, sleekly
spine tingling steel pins
rapidly acquiring density
            s e r p en t i n e  sword
            struck swiftly
            penetratingly  

Alice feared losing her
squirm worm
already her mind was
  L
           O
                S
                    T    

w i t h o u t  thistle  f i e l d s
or jellybeans or colour-in books
lego nowhere = ego shat
                                         te red

“Feel,” he said. “You can’t talk here, only feel.” She felt liquid through her veins, diluted warm honey, sensing bronzed bristles along the wormhole wall. Justice or Judgement eyes watched intently, though nobody touched.

             Her forked tongue grew longer
                  licked sides of damp musky hole
                      elongated, she was whole  

dead     alive     SAFE  opened  merging
slithering deep into belly of volcanic Earth
                  YET….slashed  slimy
s a i l i n g  sand  muddy   SACRED
worms and serpents crawling beside
behind, ahead ~
all heading in  O N E
direction________where to ?

“This is a pilgrimage,” her new friend remarked.  
Where     t   o   x2x2 ?
thoughts quietly rattled wormy counterpart  ~
“To Lord of Light, awaiting in a leather armchair.”
What must I do there, her thoughts slid along.
“Nothing.”
Then why are you taking me there ?
“To see what NO THING  is.”
How can I see nothing ?     DNA    j     m
                                                          U
                                                                p s
recalibration of
strings and strands ...
                            “Because  NO  T H   IN G  O
      D            is           Everything...”

They slid  a l o n g  > > ~ ~
slightly more haste
pace becoming faster
warm breezes flushed her
trunk. Her intestines becoming
                       an
          
               ~~ !!\\/\/\/\/!!! ~~~!!

EXPLOSIve  ORANGE RIVER
GOLD dust tinged ~   flame-purified
                                   no pebbles no grit no grime

“Feel,” her friend whispered, “we are nearing His g  RAY  sheepskin slippers sprouting WHITE lotuses. He is Nothingness, so don’t be afraid.”
                tingling sensations swept
                   upwards
                       from tail end through heart
                           to centre of her new skull.
Alice panted hot ice
I want to cry, but have no tears, she thought.
“HUSH hush hush ….don’t be afraid.”
Her body stiffened
neck area arched
scales curled   f  a  l  l
                                          i
                                             n
                                                   g            

webby rose petals faded
through floorless floor

NOTHINGNESS  and  EVERYTHING
flashed   L U M I N O S I T Y   n  a  k  e  d

A   Li  ce     died   * ¥ ¥¥**  an   e c s t a t i c
                                     D
                                          E
                                             A
                                                 T
                                                    H _


Alice Wanda Adam  ~  1.1.202O  — 1.8.2025


@never.never.land
                  she frolicked with
                  Rip van Winkle
                     who fed her TIME and leechies
                        skipped alongside Goldilocks
who offered hot cinnamon porridge and
a silver spoon engraved ~ AWA ~


What is her name ? asked the midwife
                       “A  L  I  C  E”   replied her Mom              
“Oooo, Sweets, she’s a  WONDERLAND ” a baritone voice chimed, stroking vernix ears.

mohair crochet bootied
Alice ****** HOT
mother’s milk
                       d
                          r
                            i
                              p
                                p
                                   i
                                      n
                                          g



©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song2025

There it looms, a life like mountain/ sheathed in fynbos, all shades of green/ while the cape drags in reluctant seaweed/ and the wind makes contrails of my hair/

I ascend too with the heather, the rooibos and the hottentot/ We climb/ now a collective of exaggerated beauty/ defiant in wind, spray and fire/

There are leaves as prone as a flat lined heart/ reeds as resilient as a returning pulse/and we all watch the hope of yolk/ of a Sunday sun dipping into the ocean/promising to rise again/

We creep up the leeward and the windward/ ensconced in the spiral of a soul entropy/ determined to survive every rock and crevice/ to hoist ourselves up the flagpole of the cosmic plan/

carpal tunnel
born of first-serve lets
and second-serve ace
comebacks --
from
sloughing off
winter coats
to share between
twelve --

my wrists are
less than echoes
and may have
been little more
to begin --

suspended
by gossamer,
brass-covered
lichen
and ticking fungi,
like man, (with his
whirling gears
and mad metals)
replaced
nature's course
with an automated
system --

i would rust
just to crack
but they keep
me too clean --
my sunspots
have fled to
warmer pastures,
i am milk-buckets
on overcast farm
dawnings, but surely
even they have seen
the light of day --

splashed my face
with wine
and rooibos
to see if i
would stain
like the canvas
metaphor
my generation
ascribes to --

maroon dispersion
in terra cotta wash,
twining around
a spiral course --
the folly of it
went ignored
'til my lost and
floating freckles
gathered at the
drain and clogged
the sink to overflow.

Again
she has her fill
then only leaves
me
now cold
used
amid the other chipped souls
in wait of her next pleasure

Once
a chosen favourite
long ago
time
now crazed
my insides
stained
weak
a withering
I am no cosy

She wipes wet lips
fanning
with rooibos
over silken forearm
We blend
She devours my very reason
There is no tomorrow
No taste nor savour
She takes me again and again
And yet
her touch is gentle
re strained
a much practised ceremony

Just as always
I alight
and warm for her
She steeps
my flush
in exotic desire
wrapping strong afflatus fingers
tight
around my aging girth
I am drawn to her
This woman
for whom I spill
again…

Searching on the fire escape
Desert sands
Rooibos flake
Standing on the dune of fate
Raga bands
Oasis lake
Rolling red the wind to shape
Palm leaf fans
Wise-eyed snake
Quenching cactus, satiate
Unknown lands
Hot breaths to take

Today,
I found that sweater you let me borrow.
It still smelled like you.
And breathing in the stale remnants of your cologne and sweet sweat,
All I could remember was the taste of the shell of your ear, and the way your letters slanted in your notebook, and how you loved rooibos and pancakes.

I still wish you were here sometimes.  

But,
I didn't love you enough,
And you wouldn't tell me what was wrong.
So I guess it was inevitable.

Someday,
I hope you find some fabric memento from me.
If you do, please find some peace in my faded scent.
Let every breath remind you:

*I loved you I loved you I loved you

8 | Heartbreak in Hatfield

Love, will you still be able to love me unconditionally tomorrow?
I hope you’ll still love me when my heart has been burdened by sorrow.
I have love in my heart, milk in my cereal and honey in my cup of Rooibos tea.
But my friends know I prefer a strong cup of coffee that’s as warm as the love and happiness that I provide.
How do I keep it all together when everyone around me is falling apart because of an overflow of pride?
I have constantly fallen in love with my solitude but loneliness has taken over every single part of me.
How do I keep it all together when everything around me is falling apart?
A wise woman once told me that the only thing that matters is the love in my mind and the logic in my heart.

A pitter-patter chorus in memory
plays a tune; yesterday's rain stuck
in the trees

A bird's whistle, a steaming cup
of rooibos watermelon & mint tea
waters both trapped in leaves

A dusty floor, swept and tucked under
a warm blanket- lost in the sounds
soundly sleeping I was

A sun peeps out of the corner cloud,
an after clearing of grey smoke, whispering mist
muddy water splash; split by passing cars

A creaking old door, swinging into the
mood of things- moving out of a dream,
I relocate into my very first step

A morning orchestra, as I yawn loudly as brass
instruments. The bells rings to wake me up
from this dream, and out of my bed

                        ...yet to face another morning

At my local used-book store
There is a small poetry section
Filled with dusty old volumes
Of Whitman, Eliot, and Dickenson.
There are newer poets too,
Regardless, they are barely touched.

Each time I visit
The selection has not changed.
In fact, the spaces from where
I pulled my last purchases,
Nearly a month ago,
Are still there.

So is the hard-covered Frost
And the book of Yeats
I thought was a Pocket-Poets Collection.
Normally, I am searching for new-to-me poetry,
Variety to whet my palate with,
Finding various poets I have not read.

Yet this time I searched the shelves
For my new friend Carl Dennis
Who's poetry has been like Rooibos
On a cold spring day,
Warming my soul
And awakening my senses.

Yet near the spaces I left
Nearly a month ago from today,
Mr. Dennis cannot be found,
And I am faced with the same volumes
I faced a month ago, variety that
I normally look for, just not today.

Rooibos
—late night thoughts
in a cupful, to the tee caught in the awe,
or in the ways the hot beverage tickles the
tongue floor

     ....one sip leads to more and more

The Red
Instead
&
Read
inside
the
ceremonies
All charities $$$
Formalities

All to see
Never nothing
On me
Red fire
Mercedes
Mouths
you could
never
Race and
beat those
Stepford Wives*
Never said
they were
ladies

Ritual
deep red
lipstick

Risky
business
slick
Boost of salaries
phonies
yellow
chicks
Cold cuts such
a ham
Humming Mrs.
(Honey Baked)
Red show
pictures

Red light
Catch
them
Red Hoods
Oh! what a
Knight-light

Those dark
negatives
Became ******
Maleficent
book light
Stay positively?

Extremely
Indian-Bow
redface
painted
cults Wow

The Boston
creme pie
That ****** fool
Hot barn gals
Warrior
Blue

Sword Fee
number
clue (He)
Just pay up
red dual

Antique
fireplace
Hire-red-lace
Devil made me
Risque
dancing

Wind- up Dollie
One of
a mind
doll
Romancing
Red-bed
Wickedly
insulted

The cardinal
the male red
Madly
Totally Rad

The female
Red bling
with his
garnish
feastly

Beastie
clocker
Beguiled
brownish
What
was told
and really said?

French tickler__

New ****
Orleans
Red District 3
Never
said to
wear red

Read this if you are
too late
You will take fate in
your own hands
Don't end up dead

Red rear view
window
project bodies
possessed
Words
Went
worrisome
Never said
Enchanted
more some

Read this
maybe
you will be
protected
Mystical
" Rainforest tea"
Rooibos
Bossy Ross
the fairest
The more
blood on
your
hands

The poison
arrow frog
Lilith Leap
year
Sitting
in
red chilled
over ice
chairs
having
eggnog
Never said
I fell for
Autumn
leaves

London
Big Ben
Fog
Firey Red
Stop sign yo yo
** **
Grains
Silo
Santas
Tapas
Drinks
babes lap
Never said
Computers

Red App
and Red
collar
pups
Read this shut up
Those laptops
They gave to
Swindler Cops

Chinese
red
British
colony
lucky year

Precious
red nails
jewels
He is
bloodshot
Seeing through
his lies
((Red Raise Glass shot))

I never said why?
More jewels
Gracious Rudolf
Deers

I never said
I was from
the old school
Cheers

Magic Flowers

There's a bug in the house
and a big one too;
has our tummies curl up
and us running to the loo.

I wish I had flowers -
magic ones of course -
then I'd brew us a tea
that'd shoot the bug out the door.

I read so much of herbs
that can heal anything;
flu, pox, diarrhoea,
broken spine, lost limb...

But they grow in deep woods
where sunrays don't touch the floor,
and the books don't speak of maps
or if they exist (anymore).

So till the enchanted woods are found
I'll stay safe at home,
and drink rooibos tea with plenty o' honey
and write another poem.