A Spotlight on IceFloe Press : Poetry, Art, Photography Creativity Sponge

logo by Cathy Daley

IceFloe Press is one of the most unique, creative endeavors for poetry these days. With challenges, specific themes of poetry, an all inclusive collective of voices that need to be heard.

Founded by Robert Frede Kenter (Eic), Co-editor Moira J. Saucer, other editors and chief contributors to the site are Ankh Spice, Elisabeth Horan, Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau & Jakky Bankong-Obi

Some of their contributions to Fevers of the Mind can be linked below.

Wolfpack Contributor: Robert Frede Kenter

4 poems from Robert Frede Kenter in Avalanches in Poetry An Interview with Robert Frede Kenter of Icefloe Press

4 poems from Fevers of the Mind Poets of 2020 by Moira J Saucer

Some poems from Elisabeth Horan in Fevers of the Mind Issue 1 (2019)

6 poems from Elisabeth Horan

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Jakky Bankong-Obi

5 Poems by Ankh Spice : That which can be made visible, Hold the river, Feeding the koi, Act like you were never for sale, & Hathor’s gift

Holiday Interlude by Ankh Spice from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

IceFloe is known for great art contributions, poetry contributions & photography. Some links below to a few you just have to read or see.





Poem for a Russian Grandmother in Exile by Robert Frede Kenter w/ A Painting by Moira J. Saucer


































Some poems from Elisabeth Horan in Fevers of the Mind Issue 1 (2019)

Egg, Eggs, Robin, Robin'S Eggs
Robin's Egg Blue

Soft bird loves night light
gowns her body and walks the last cerulean mile
flies in her mind ---a
misery broken wing trails

Along like ramparts fizzling Hitler's last
stand. What a bunker. What a braun. What a

Petty woman's war. Or stronghold---Had
she had a birdie
To release---did
she wish for a pop-out screen or a
Female Parliament to impeach; did
she know what I know

Her daddy was her
lover; did she know of the fetus which doth
smother a new mother?

Daughter turns - burns.
Small broken bird falls to asphalt
out jail window

So softly as the morning eats children---

Troubled Water

like a bridge below me
out into    the world

strident arch for once
your back  - not mine
deep into the soul/self

and the river rages under skin
hide in the vivid moon

- veins like sticks - caught -
snagged    on milk river

and they wonder why fish give in
to a hook and lure


my lip swollen - sags -
so many punctures
so many timeless reeled in and in

streams of black
             and crimson strokes

i am not dead
but i am not swimming

ECT or You Loving ME  - Vol 2

Shock treatment is for me
bridge programs

so, so, easy --- the walk
down the hall

the IV; the vomiting;
the need of a driver at 2 pm

and some deeply tinted
Jackie O glasses

the other option ---

trenchcoat, I could get into
it's muster; I could swear myself

over to you -
Chief, and you could throw
the sink

out of the window -
rip its pipes up from the linoleum ---

and i could not chew the gum
and i could

not let them cut me open ---near or on the location of my deformity:
at the temple

& icould

not let them win
not let them win
like...like they
did before
when i was young. When I was

What's Eating Gilbert Grape's Mom

Heartbroken; shattered plates
aren't coming together; swelling
makes muscle plump on bone
pooling hematoma prickly blue
bruising like a comical formula

For damaged tissue, neurologic
palsy, and bloody mess elevators
arrange the bandage as a diaper
to hold the fester a little longer

In this dillapate house caving down
upon my head, my body, throbbing
with death - no chair helps me tagalong
green lawn, green lawn, before the oak
commences burning, plays dead

Smells smoke, and crackle fawn
succumbs to the obese splinter -
white wash monster consumated
her pyre comes together - over; over

Ropes Have No Idea Their Impact 

I went away,
Cycled and spiraled and all that shit -
i went to the place
where you know about the
dirt floor
I saw you bent over
scratching at your eyes
once before -
I laid there
a virgin to the Ward's fuckin' power

& there was boy dangling in the corner
& there was you and me -

holding out one E.T. finger
touching each other
as if it would shock
the little white pills
right out of our mouths
I wanted to kiss you
Some might think that is
weird deranged
inappropriate -
who cares - no one is watching
me smoke all these cigarettes
dreaming of the time you let me
give you a foot rub with my cocoa
butter lotion.  I was a dying lamb ---
So, yeah, I went away again
I'm trying to get back to you
I know you're still in the membranes
waiting and watching in the brain cogs
the meds don't regurgitate
the brownie doesn't react to
the laxative - the demons
giggle - so excruciating in my
spine - they want to suck
me - marrow & saliva
the boy still dangling in the corner
I cut him down ---over and over
I swaddle and kiss --- over and over
give him a foot rub with cocoa butter
I make him mine---each day. Because
I never seem to get better. 

Bio: Elisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, and small press publisher living in the wilds of Vermont. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Animal Heart Press. Elisabeth is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. She is also a fierce advocate for those impacted by mental illness. (from her website ehoranpoet.net)

6 poems from Elisabeth Horan

Oral History

Take it slowly now, friend –
Feel the finger imprints
Be the shoulder, let
Old woman feathers
Alight on its middle aged
Muscle, be the interim
Caregiver, ambulance
Driver, ambulatory cane and
Walker, endless appointment
Driver, be the ear, open
For business, for recording
The oral art of the redwood
Pulp, decoding infinite loss
Of children, unimaginable to
The uninitiated. She is
Initiated on everything,
Us, just a little bit
Here and there –
We are not frivolous
But incomparable
By nature. Our troubles
Like our debts
To each other
Mired, selfishly, and
Beholden. Regret.

Be more
Like her,
Less like ourselves
Caught up in the trivial
The bad dreams the
Life disappointments
Cannot be compared to
The nineteen-thirties
Or even the fifties,
We must do the work
To preserve
That kind of strength
May we learn to survive
From it –
May it hold our heart
Chasms together.

Perfect Mother
For Sylvia

I love you dead.
Flower in your Mouth.
Button eyes.
Cotton head.

I love you cut in half…
It is a suit of fine ends.
I see it on, half fits yours/mine.
I wear

The limp skin, I place your benevolence,
perform our will, execute your debtors,
sing Liturgical misery. I reap

The widow cane,
sew mittens, tame precepts, slay
Kingdoms of having laid.

I love you dead.
Rose mouth,
Blackened eyes,
your Greyish-white head

Every single night

That’s where the pain comes in
Like a second skeleton
– Fiona Apple

My brain is a place of deep concern to me. My brain is a place of butterflies and octopi. You haven’t seen a place such as this and I am so happy for you. You tell me to smile and chock it all up to my negative attitude – that when I text you to say I feel sick, that I am afraid of the coathanger snagging the uterus and bleeding me out, of random murder, of sexual demons, of all the roadkill – you say I think too much. You say maybe we shouldn’t be friends… because when I am this negative, it is upsetting to you.

I’m sorry for this.

I’m sorry I cannot fix my slippery gray cell patina – the smile/slime of a barbiedoll on acid; the cool way I snort up the powder of suicide; the way I drink myself to oblivion, decimate my skeleton on the cliff of hopelessness — I fall short. When it comes to being in the world like a good girl — I am terrible at it — bc I am hurt/hurting in my brain, and then, you say, I’m a lot to handle, and you need some time/space away. From me.

I’m sorry for this.

I don’t think I can be normal for you. It’s agony to feel the driveway gravel puncturing my knees as I wait for things to get better — as I beg God to turn me around, let him spank me red/raw, or kiss the toes of his son; (you know I would) — go outside and let the cold burn me – as if it could pasteurize the fetid illness — freeze the chlamydia, the rot, the yellowed liver, brain disease… I imagine you chewing on my sinews… a rabid squirrel; hoarding all the acorns, clogging my limbic system; gnawing the naughty synapse gleaned — all just to make me behave better. I don’t think you have the energy…

I want to be the chickadee who freezes to death on the shimmering pine branch — falls from her perch without ever knowing of death, without ever feeling a damn thing.

And I am so sorry for this.  

Make your move – a sonnet

Love, I to love the way your finger-
Nails ran, like tracks, over my skin – each time
I came, you went farther, deeper, the wounds
Characterize my flesh—a punch to the
Gut—I now know, this is not really love;
I should not-have to fear-your tongue-your touch
You demote me—in your head-just a friend—
I despise friends; I reap nothing; my shriveling

Face-blue; blackened torso, the red velvet
Scars-crimson fork tines – evidence for
Now, for the only gift you ever gave me –
I open a vein. I watch. How the azure
Drip flashes to fire when it hits air—
As it drips like loss—brave testimony. O’er
My elbow

Bad bad girl

Watch me move like a black swan in the night
Sticking out my neck for whoever will wring it right
Ugly duckling, shrinking teen, lapping the piano
Act as if you care — but no one really knows
What I do to myself-how I eat my own brains
How I circle the wagons; how I burn up in flames
I got no one to make me—make me safer than before
I thought you loved me, but you also think I’m a whore

I’m only a girl with a body—lithe bait of neck to choke
Beat me down—tie me up in the hall—fingers and rope
What else are they good for??? Ripping out my hair
Picking at my eyelids—look at me dying in here—
And I swear, I’m guilty—I don’t love myself—I don’t tell
Anyone; I am only beautiful in the darkness of hell.


I am feeling powerful
The drip of honey
Smeared across my lips
Would share it with you
But you are way too complex
To enjoy this —

Nah, I’m gonna burn slow
Be the ache and heat alone
One candle, dripping —

A splatter burn on the breast, thigh
Or waist; all I need to cool
Is water surging outward…

Can you feel the chasm deepening?
My lower back alive with buzzing,
Arching puffs of
Smoke and goddamn, the shock waves —

The ocean is rising, she is tidal.
When I stop to breathe, to take in
The smell of sweet rosebuds,
Lime chemistry, fish filled marina —

Gonna fill my
Nose, bury it in deep. Gonna
Lick my lips
And close my eyes…

Lay back into
The arms of a woman — cuz I am feeling
So fucking powerful, my love… tonight.

Bio: Elisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, and small press publisher living in the wilds of Vermont. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Animal Heart Press. Elisabeth is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. She is also a fierce advocate for those impacted by mental illness. (from her website ehoranpoet.net)

New Poems from Elisabeth Horan : Parallelism & Suicide Attempt #_

Something about the tracks…
the tracks…
We reunite – end up with this outcome
scarred faces and arms —
A head against the metal like a penny
severed limb – (she will grow another one)
But the head, and the blaring; the blaring of the horn —
always late April; always amid the howl
of pain, of storm. When does the quiet come…
When does the child remember the coin and
Meander back. To see the metal in a new way. 
To see the neck re-attached at the seams —
When does the head stop rolling
down the river bank —
Into the water — 
with a plunk

Suicide Attempt #___

I mourn the wounded Aurora in your
eyes, who slit the grey blue waves at dawn –

The blade which opened wrists anew,
was once a friend, then gone. 

Birds know the brutal weight of air – 
we fight it, not understanding

How to float as cadavers, nor how 
to dive into abysmal depths without 

Breaking our necks on rocks
we know avarice, we know want. 

Vice to us is accumulated
nothing more than heroin and cigarettes. 

Muscle and bone – the coral and the abalone –
so patient with the eons

Not responding sooner to those who would
desecrate their beds

Pearled Pacific mornings turn to
chalk, ground up silicates and her 

Fresh flesh, crab and krill
your inner wrist split

Upon the atoll, 
bleeding clouded humanity

Into a placid sea awash in 
devastating beauty.

Bio: Elisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, and small press publisher living in the wilds of Vermont. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Animal Heart Press. Elisabeth is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. She is also a fierce advocate for those impacted by mental illness. (from her website ehoranpoet.net)