Poems by Peach Delphine: Every Cloud Has Life of Its Own & Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind, Flat

Photo by HilLesha O’Nan (with blue orb)

Every Cloud Has a Life of Its Own

Knife dreams of stone and wire
of edge, curling upon itself,
wire, once burnished away, reveals
the sinuous and bright word of cutting,
the long tongue of scar tasting bitter orange,
laceration stained hibiscus flowering,
rain sluiced into the bay, sweltering cauldron,
broth of migrations.

We did not dwell, ephemeral precludes
habitation, residency is the privilege
of those less soluble, less phosphorescent ,
we left no trace, no photographs, not even ash,
mouthfuls of sunset and the shimmy
of gossamer night unfolding  every horizon.

Room could not contain, windows
being more than apertures, points
of egress where we vanished into the breathing
  of sea, iron bellied clouds concealed  as weather,
tide of carrying, tide of shell calling us   by name,
   those once lost, those who could not remain.

Voice at the ear, voice of the cloud,
   swirling through palms as wet prairie
opens itself in a supplication of frog singing
lit by lightning, sleepless wet season,
irrigation ditches filling with water
not yet dark, not yet caramelized,
our names flow through creeks, cypress
knees, long plumes of moss licking
the surface as we make our way
out to the flashing jacks, silvered
mullet, tangle of mangrove, leaves
salt frosted and blazing verdure.

Accompanied by gifts, shelf clouds
piling on shore, white feathered egrets,
slivers of lightning, the low glide of pelicans,
we receive more than we can make in return,
   we name more than we can remember, endless
recitation against erosion,   we are bound to voice
of tide, of wind, raucous calls of rookeries
where our dreams slowly feather, singing
their way into flight, drawing us from roof
and door, returning us to a world without habitation,
without the naming of place, tides of giving
washing our bones smooth as wave, moon bright,
curling in the  mouth of conch, relentlessly.

Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind

All thaw and sweltering, not yet
season of moonflower or sphinx moth,
sleeping by day, dreaming of manatees,
buoyant in the spring, blue flow silvered
with schooling jacks, jumping mullet,
boiling white sand, living  by the light of a cold flame,
speaking to the mirrored burning,
lost as we are, on the margins, talking
  to the moon in less dangerous
than conversations with men,  which is more
dangerous  than swimming with alligators,
shadows treading water, elegant logs
with shining eyes, the weather here
  is affectionate full of heat and damp,
thunderstorms brewed up for the taste of coldness.

Lightning licking its way through cypress
and pine, the dog wedges herself
under the table as the cracking approaches,
 sizzling despite the rain, gouging out
long strands of bark from the pine next door,
waiting for this, bursts of illumination
wind straining at the oak,  a song
out of darkness, an answering voices,
a defiance of what would deny us
the everyday gentleness and motion
of tide, nightgown soaked, shiver
in my voice, the dog is not amused
at any venturing out in the rain.

Some can't abide tangle and clutter
of thicket, slash of straight line wind
and deadfall, shaggy cabbage palms
or the wicker woven arms and knees
of mangrove, some can't abide
that their god has not yet struck us down,
or caust us from the precipice,
or that we are not afraid, having known
the song of the blade for so long
we have become the flowering
no edge will part from the earth,
the vine that will not fail, the fox
sleeping in the shade of oak and cedar,
a wave rolling out of the Gulf no fence
will restrain, no hand will push down,
no prayer will deny that we are such as we are,
wind in our hair, sea in our eyes,
fragmented and worn, we too will add our shells
to this shore, to the constant arrival of tide and star
  of moon and sun, to the constant repetition
of the litany of belonging.


Water, not anguish, lifts oaks
the first steps of flight, yet leaves
cannot overcome the heaviness
of memory, so much despair soaked
into the aquifier drawn forth, hydraulics
of root, trunk and limb, beyond the trees
blanket flower, railroad vine, gulls
facing windward, waves stacked
on sandbar

Brittle is how the tooth cracks,
blade chips on bone, the self shatters,
shards pooling on the floor, resolve
to endure vanishing as cold sets in,
warmth flowing out, body anticipating
  the glide into quietude.

Arc flows through a line
in the sand, it is a far shore, sea
flowing from here to there, a woman
inscribes glyphs in the sand,
what is mending, the cup once broken
becomes new, the shell remade speaks
of a ghost, without hymn or prayer
we are without, unattached against sun and rain.

When you're small
and want to vanish but don't know how,
 there's no way to see how you'll learn
 to turn the pain inside out and eat it
 like an orange or how fifty years will pass,
the hard cold breath of morning cracking
 sternum, memory will come, as stealthy
 as wind as the taste of the sea ever on the tongue
 salt and the swell of wave, tide washing
   through lacerations, scars forming a text,
a chart of what horizon long ago swallowed,
submerged lands.

A drowning that returned you, moon pale,
a form  that cannot leave the sea, facing
oaks and pine, palms open in supplication,
beyond the treeline an orange burning,
a brighter flame filling the sky, a wind darker
than crow, the only tongue between us
being glyphs inscribed in sand, lifted
from the body, unlaced from skin, visible
  only to sea and moon, tide erasing
each word before barnacled memory
solidifies the text of departure,
form dissolving into wave.
Bio links:
Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

Poem by Peach Delphine: wave is a circular motion (poetry repost)

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Patience of egrets (c) Peach Delphine

new poetry showcase from Peach Delphine

aerial photography of river

photo by Adrien Wodey (unsplash)

facing away

Opening the kitchen, grill at my back,
spiders lit up, blue all around, onions
sweating, the line cook and dishwasher
singing along with corridos on the radio
voices straining at everything the song
contains, even I, cold ass bitch of the line,
felt something soaring before getting back
to blade, transforming flesh into sustenance, as if
all our comforts weren't stuffed with blood and bone,
songs of love and the unbroken, we gather words 
from the waters, it is the making that sustains,
 the smallest flowering passed hand to hand, 
plate to plate, mouth to mouth, it is how we celebrate
 survival, untaste the blood, scar fading into age, 
word lifted from water, shimmering, slurring
all our prayers, hands up, day lifts flame
from oak, horizon dissolving into green
we wrapped in our hair, it is how we endure
the living, each day becoming new again,
the daily repetition of discovery, relentless
grappling with memory, making anew
the first breath of waking, sun from a high
window, paper nightgown, mattress on the floor
 left hand cupping a hollow egg of singing, air thick 
with wing, feather and flowering

bone river, lamp of shell

Often, unable to keep my mouth shut,
spun up, summoned from within arc
of wave, night still writhing upon tongue,
hard shadow in my eye, yet welcomed daily 
by crow or egret, cormorant or spoonbill,

false lightning eats life not memory,
shame is momentary but recollection
continues, upriver in the cypress, breathing
heavy fragrance of magnolia, darkness,

light the lamps, raise the blinds
each new thing on the board
tastes of shadow, brine,

ash settles on unbroken water,
what crawls into the eye an oracle 
of leaves, divination of yes, no

there was the decade I could not eat
without feeling an iron ingot settle
in my guts, rusting, shank of the hook
in my cheek clicking with every word

often, unable to keep my mouth shut,
speaking aloud to taro and banana,
head high, unfurling burgundy, darker
green than palmetto, we are each of us
a sail of verdure, windblown under azure
unyielding, each of us, unspoken

the obligations of the past made today
settle into sediment, time and pressure
solidify the stone in the eye, stained
hands flutter a voiceless semaphore,
dismantling what made us is only choice
still available, a necessity of tide,

often, unable to keep my mouth shut
I make things worse, rust in my teeth,
ash in my hands, coins on my eyes, 
night still writhing, we make that the shards 
be unsplintered, candle awakening to match, 
that the voice beyond the creek be heard, 
wave breaking shore never approached 
empty-handed, tongue on the eye of the hook, 
unblinking in this thin air

1) of seven

memory rides the tongue, cast iron,
brittle, obsidian slick, taste the roundness,
 feel the heft, the heart of a star quenched 
 in bacon fat, licked clean by household ghosts, 

memory rides the tongue, sand filled
jars with shells, still singing of sea,
when the moths found me, powdering
face and wrists with scales of wind, night
dipping stars from a cauldron,
the roof of my mouth is torn from chewing
hard words left on the table, a shard of Moon
buried in my left hand, tongue of despair
slithers in one ear, we gather up broken
light from a heavier gravity,

there was a song at midday after lightning
furrowed bark, smoke spiralling across
palmetto, the lightness of owls, drowsed
by the slow breeze, we paused in shade,

skillet over coals, a smoking altar, mirror
of prophecies, rendering down or frying
up, the circumference of squeal, onions,
garlic, olive oil, peppers, the verdant world
centers on your beautiful darkness,
as the hearth opens itself, flame a fluid
glyph, all our names have burned here,
beneath the spider, disk of transformation,
we sleep in  ash of our own consumption,
we sing of smoke, we sing of remembrance,
of the flame in the hand.

First morning of birdsong

Holding vigil with Moon,
not in the quiet of rooms
 but striding down a road of sand 
and oyster shell, ibis pale in moonlight, 
bearing witness to what smoke 
rises from pines, from the hollow 
no mouth will fill, how fever
 burned out the framework of the house, 
bones collapsing into cinder, how the heart
was cut from a different cloth, shroud
of burlap, sail of flour sack,
 how memory was a conch dragging shell 
through grass flats, burying itself 
beneath a blanket of tide, most muscular tongue
 of all our singing.

My voice is not my own, a creature
 of river, long and slow, hauled out  basking
or hanging eye deep in the current, watching 
over her eggs, shadow of  black water 
sinuous amongst cypress and flag, 
oaks leaning over their reflections,
ribbon of blue that could be sky, tattered lace 
of cloud heavy with thunder, 
there is no flowering in these hands,
 worn to the vestigial twigs of thicket, 
tangled in dewberry, thorn combed
 coat of fox, still and watching, 
blinking against mosquitoes, 
concealed from coyote and some man 
promising reconversion.

Unpronounceable shards of shells
 washed up out of depth of barrel sponges,
 hogfish, grouper, cold current coiled
 flowing through sea fans, in its fullness,
 unbroken, there is no reply to Moon,
 lightning does not coagulate into word,
 burnished triton, scallop or cockle, 
sometimes iridescent as pen shell,
sea contains all things, except star, 
sun or wing lifting wind of pelican, 
every destination folded into wave, 
all that remained unsaid polished 
translucent, thin lip of vanishing, 
sky splintering spall of light dropping
into the sea, slowly, flexing our knees,
we shoulder the weight of silences
 we cannot redeem, burden of dust,
bushel of ash, absent moon 
still filling our eyes.

Tupelo flowering, dark river

As memories unspool into a continuous loop,
a notation of intimacies, glyphs carved
into breath of form, swallowing word of tree
at edge of black water, languid as cottonmouth,
lithe as wind pressing through tupelo, cypress,
twisting limbs, shaking loose oak leaves,
he said he could unfold the wafer of silence
stuck on the back of my tongue, in the craw,
stretching open every word, reaching into
every  breathless place, what replaced silence,
respiration of another, it was all true, what he said, 
"if you weren't that girl, you'd never have been on the back
of my bike".

This form vibrates at a frequency of wing and leg, road 
spun out beyond, beyond again, the body you refer to 
could be river or sea, even karst, writhed through 
with erosion, pills dissolving galleries opening 
to aquifer, turning hand to hand, tongue is the wave,
sand flowing, darkness uncontained, I have always 
been of shadow, made briefly flesh, an emulsion of oil 
and acid, lemon sky simmering, once
he said, " ibis are an angle between light
and form, this one liquid, that one whelk", the tree drips 
fat, unctuous gobbets of sap, pine shouldering salt 
wind, thick with midges, mosquitoes, "to love this 
place is to love your own suffering", the same man said,
"forget the river, blacking out is a similar swim" discarding 
trust, resolute breath as room surfaces into focus, 
some thing flutters in honeysuckle on window, 
ceiling fan thwacks thick air into manageable 
chunks of breath, the man kneels over  me, 
"that was awesome, sugar, let's do another."

When you step out of the tree, surface
rushing up as body strikes current  in a boil of air,
 amber bubbling through black water, the form 
shifts, alligator, catfish, fae, a vibration cicada matches, 
a sound of cuttings opening up in pines on the road 
south, he demanded fare at every rest area, 
" mileage is eating you up, sugar, but the destination completes ." We unfurl the shade, 
sprung upon arc and strut, sewn from a soft textile, 
not word, not song, not light, in all its textures, 
not rain, this deluge comes without cloud 
or lightning, this river rises, year after year
coming to full flood, we watch from beneath
our parasols as all the upcountry is swept out to sea,
emptiness tangled, a chorus of gulls, still
I feel his hand within me, a weight of bone and word,
a fragrant column of moonflowers on the dead pine.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Peach Delphine 

Poems by Peach Delphine: Every Cloud Has Life of Its Own & Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind, Flat 

2 Poems by Peach Delphine: Coyote Song & 84 (any scar)

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


































A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Peach Delphine

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Peach: Sophomore year of high school, Marvell, Milton, Keats.

John Keats - Wikipedia

Q2: Who is your biggest influence today?

Peach: Paul Celan, Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing/art?

Peach: Florida, a subtle and secretive landscape heavily exploited with a harsh history.

Q4: Have any travels away from home influenced work/describe?

Peach: Wherever you go the world is beautiful, sometimes that tells you where you belong.

Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer/poet?

Peach: When I was fourteen the local paper started a weekly poetry column, I submitted and was published.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Peach: Cooking, gardening, walking, canoeing

Q7: Any recent or upcoming work you’d like to promote?

Links to some of Peach’s poetry & more

Poem by Peach Delphine: wave is a circular motion

Poems by Peach Delphine: Every Cloud Has Life of Its Own & Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind, Flat

Poetry by Peach Delphine – Entanglement

2 Poems by Peach Delphine: Coyote Song & 84 (any scar)

Patience of egrets a poem by Peach Delphine







Q8: One of your favorite lines from a poem of yours?

Peach:  - a forest of summoning a sea of renunciation -
"How easily I set aflame to this misbegotten body,
accelerant ever on my tongue, chine of wind,
cutting edge of utterance, "

Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Peach: I cooked for many years, you have to learn from everyone, even if it's not what you would do.     Thanks for having me amongst so many brilliant writers, it's been a joy and privilege. Stay well and best wishes.  

Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

Poem by Peach Delphine: wave is a circular motion

Out of the wound
we come singing
a chorus of wings
swallowed by daylight.

Hand that balances wind
waiting on the surface,
out from the creek, free diving,
descending from surface warmth,
gathering shells,
ascending in one long exhalation,
leaving the squeeze of depth
and coldness behind.

There is a voice in lightless sea,
entering through eye,
answering voice of shadow
buried beneath sternum
coiled about spine, always
we feel the vibrations
in our feet and hands
always we feel the wire
of edge, the burnished arc
of time.

This form has become shadow
of cloud, darkening shallows
for a moment, turtle grass,
blue crabs, bonnethead sharks,
ponderous and seeking tongue
of horse conch, the sea is indifferent
to this body, the multiplicity of forms
has buoyed me out past the Key of memory
into the open Gulf of sapphire
reflected in your eyes.

Surfacing breathless, unfolded

from palms the optic remains unspoken,
fronds shimmering with morning,
a spent shell lifted from shallows,
empty of body,
my own emptiness filled with sea
restlessly seeking reunification
with the greater body
an ebb and flow of so many small voices
in the roots of mangrove,
a clinging of barnacles
to our mothering wood,
leaves of voices lifting
to azure, a different blue
than your eyes reflecting
sea and horizon.

from palms the optic remains unspoken,
fronds shimmering with morning,
a spent shell lifted from shallows,
empty of body,
my own emptiness filled with sea
restlessly seeking reunification
with the greater body
an ebb and flow of so many small voices
in the roots of mangrove,
a clinging of barnacles
to our mothering wood,
leaves of voices lifting
to azure, a different blue
than your eyes reflecting
sea and horizon.

Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

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