excerpts from a letter to my mother’s net curtains – A Poem by Kittie Belltree w/ a drawing by Robert Frede Kenter

IceFloe Press

excerpts from a letter to my mother’s net curtains


like you a letter should be transparent
a mesh of words let go
threading the margin between surreal and
complicit
my eyewitnesses speaking in stitches
remember the frillings and trimmings
the negative acoustic of decay and disorder
cleanliness whispered to godliness
their embroidered conversations
silting the question of breath caught by streetlight
a filament between home and not-home

inside your quiet folds
the claustrophobia of domesticity
lies loosely against the tight-lipped fabric of
containment
a conjugal sieve of dust and secrets
where everything and nothing is private
grime gossip greed lust
do you still love those gothic novels
their black and white silence
their arched window violence
needle marks of motherhood
and orphaned young heroines
who must go to bed hungry night after night

dressed in these forensic veils
you can see right through me
that i am merely matter out…

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Two Poems by Peach Delphine w/images by Moira J. Saucer

IceFloe Press

Day Returns


we sleep in the downspout of weather,
tropical systems swamp dry season dust
settling in our lungs, we are saturated
with longing, small black ants dismembering
a carcass, wings disappearing into cracks,
we breath of joinery, old wood,
sleeping pine, limbs dripping with resin
nails bent in the flesh.

Our mothers buried our names
behind azaleas, not yet incandescent,
beneath magnolias, thick with shade,
moss from oaks is what great grandmother
gathered for mattresses, soaked in water
to be rid of redbugs, dried, fluffed, stuffed
in ticks sewn up by her mother.

Granny said dreams wait in the mattress
for when we sleep, perhaps if we stretched
out on the dirt some we could share dreams
of trees, of a fat possum, high in the palm,
of moth in oak, transformed only for a week
vestigial mouth, filling our night with wings,
perhaps if we slept at tideline

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AND SHE LIVES ON….. A Poem by Jemelia Moseley

IceFloe Press

AND SHE LIVES ON……


She lives on
In the music I hear, In the stars in the sky
In the food that I eat, in my dancing feet
in the perfume I wear, in the love that I share
She will never die ….as she lives on


Jemelia Moseleyis a primary school teacher, poet and spoken word artist. She loves all things poetry and spoken word and would love to see her work all over the world in print/word and on stage/TV. Jemelia’s poem ‘United’ will be published in ‘The Fly On The Wall‘ Magazine in September 2020, her other poems; ‘Grandma and Grandad’ and ‘Protests’ will also be published in September in a journal in Scotland, U.K. The Daily Drunk Mag has recently published her work. Twitter: @jemeliapoet, Instagram: @foryouandi3

Banner Image: City Night, a digital image by Robert Frede Kenter Tweets: @frede_kenter

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Kindle – A Poem by Sarpong-Osei Asamoah

IceFloe Press

Kindle

For the ritual. I am burning to ash in my desperate signaling.
In the distance. A fire burning and a man.  – Chris Abani


We dance in fire’s fulvous city.
Once, at 7, I leapt into the flailing frock of fire;
Ablution in golden libation.
My ash, a mesquite iteration of chaste dust,
Eyes, smithereens of moon Pyrex,
Yards of my beaconed feet, biblical as Sodom
Beneath the coarse current of God’s eye,
Mother perished with me, her bones unstoned,
Said death is always courting us
Till it leaves with us, it too a suitor sojourning
Like the fire with whom I fell in love,
Who crackled a late order to seize fire.
Isn’t this what love does, burn you?
Burn mother, burn your bumble-blue bubble,
Your absent wings. Burn bridges?
Without a single shimmer of flame?
And leaves a note:
If it burns, call it fire.


Sarpong-Osei Asamoah @s_Asamoah_

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Holy Week 2017 – A Poem by Roger Hare with Two Drawings by M.S. Evans

IceFloe Press

Holy Week 2017

(‘The United States dropped the ‘Massive Ordnance Air Blast’ bomb (“mother of all
bombs”) — the most powerful conventional bomb in the American arsenal —

on an Islamic State cave complex in Afghanistan.’
Adapted from New York Times April 13 2017)

Night and day
words fell on me……
From one of them
I learned my name

Evan Boland


I

They dropped a bomb

We dropped a
We dropped

A very big bomb

on people
who do terrible evil

terrible/ people / evil

An evil bomb

An evil bomb
on evil doers

A terrible evil bomb

People / People / People

II

Something else; they
called it
‘Mother’. I

know, I know
that ‘Mother-of-all’
is just
a turn of phrase
a turn of magnitude

but

to
drop
a
bomb
and
call
it
Mother

Mummy
Mum
Ma

says what
I don’t want said
what
I don’t want
I don’t

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The End of Innocence. A Memoir by Yvonne Lloyd

IceFloe Press

The End of Innocence

Learning to knit, eating cheesecake and the arrival of my adopted sister, Betty: this is what I remember from the time I spent with grandma Rosa. But actually, there was so much more – I now regard this time as a defining episode in my childhood, one which marked the end of innocence, the beginning of a darker period of turning inwards, of feeling that the world was an unsafe place in which unpleasant surprises sprang from nowhere.

During my childhood, I walked past the photograph of grandma Rosa, my mother’s mother in its gilt frame hundreds of times barely noticing it. But since my mother’s passing, I’ve become interested in the chain of mothers and daughters, stretching from my granddaughter back to her great grandmother – 150 years of the female family line. I’ve been studying the photograph looking for clues to Rosa before she…

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