Robert Frede Kenter (Climate Change, Eco-activism, Whisperings of Social Justice)

Robert Frede Kenter is Canadian-based, disabled, pushcart nominated poet, writer

of prose, visual poet, visual artist, editor & the EIC and publisher of Ice Floe Press. Robert’s work is widely published.




Imperial clocks    with stardust smocks

the aching drying tree


 Little boys crack the branches off

     dreaming of their father’s condemnation

of nature   with  consternation 


Condemnation fathers    dreaming

cracking branches off  

     the aching drying tree


Smocks of stardust     smudged sky clocks

     the   black night industrial 




The travellers approached the water. It’s surface, a mirror, entangled with seaweed. Searching for their reflections, lying awake in the dark, voices from radio stations with strong signals came from some great distance. A voice discussed the depletion of the forests. Hundreds of years-old trees, on fire. In the morning, in a withering path between abandoned orchards, a small boy, out of breath, was happened upon, still tending apples. A lake shimmered, golden hues matching the burning sky. Smoke. This waterway, he argued, its toxic, you cannot enter it. The boy’s personality is like a foreign language, an intrusive body, an immune system, at once so awesome, alien, deadly and beautiful, said the philosophical traveler, filled up with an untouchable fear of contamination. Filled with gentleman’s thoughts, he advanced,  you cannot listen; it hurts the ears. O Radioactive Gaia, I caress your surfaces. You are so very delicate. Shimmering. To touch your death grip cough and bestow the name on you, River of Hope. Acidic, representational instinctive. Reading with a lilting quality, cataloguing the mirrored surface of change, in the longing of atlases, the hovering direction of faith, the cartographer stared back longingly, like a white porcelain doll in a monsoon, a hand-painted, abandoned reflection. Not the nailed feet of the travellers, tied to stanch blood with red ropes, using their Dictaphones, to name the cities: Buenos Aires, Georgetown, Port of Prince, Sau Paulo remembering India, thoughtless about Brazil. But that wasn’t the most troubling element. Even in the Imperial claims of history, everything had changed, everything tilting towards a commodity glut of cargo ships full of question marks plastic pens the detritus of rainforests in overflowing barges a purged universe now cleared for cattle raising. Country of birth, somewhere behind you, telephones are ringing. The boy said, please, you cannot swim here. O, to speak to no questions, to call forth no deficiency, to burn, but not for your acceptance. Hard dry earth undoes the mood of change, staring back with a violence scattering, the scoured, many embraces of colour.


At the Scrivener’s Hotel


At this inn of nails 

drawings  of drowned  cities

lost people,

            discarded spoons,



                        Ciphers,  fountain pens


elliptical quarter-moons


Sapphire    -      Sapphic




Painted signs

            of milliners

       on the sides of 

dust-cleaned    brick buildings

Red earth


    The drowned          

rising up

            turning over in entropic sheets


A canopy of trees upside


In the sea

roots, dangling in 

 sky   fields


I’m a Babel mound

            The pit of light

A gleam – a wink -

            A glint


A glossary 

            of martyred 

Saints on hammer headed 



with Doll eyes


 their tremor of card shark


Islands of first technologies

            Fins, incisors, molars, 

            Eyeless    skulls 

                        of hunger


The land-locked Jupiter

The Bright Haloed Saturn

Painted lilies in desert night 



burnt sugar

            at trough

slop buckets of scars

cold wet mouthfuls

of scatological  tattoos.

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