Welcome to The RavensPerch
PUBLISHING POETRY, FICTION, NON-FICTION, & VISUAL ART FROM CREATIVE MINDS AROUND THE WORLD. A COMPREHENSIVE LITERARY MAGAZINE THAT PUBLISHES WRITERS AND ARTISTS OF ALL AGES.NO ONE VISITS THE BABY BY JON LAVIERI
The history of the city is etched in names weathered down to afterimages on stone - Sidebottom, Orsini, Ruiz, Pierre. Flashes of color decorate the newest graves, plaster angels and empty liquor bottles, baseball hats of the dead’s favorite teams. I always go back to...
MY VERY BY JENNIFER GURNEY
my very favorite color horizon Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. Her poetry has appeared internationally in a wide variety of journals, two of her poems have won international contests and one was recently turned...
NO PEN BY JENNIFER GURNEY
no pen just words free falling
DEEP SIGH BY JENNIFER GURNEY
deep sigh tomorrow Saturday
BLUE SEEPING BY JENNIFER GURNEY
blue seeping through gray skies your eyes
LOVESICK BY KELLEY WHITE
you found a little dog huddling in a fox’s den (the sound might have been a siren it might have been the whine of a table saw) leaves trembling all those shades of green, and red I pulled a package from the top of the closet my forgotten dancing shoes and sent you...
LUIGI SCROSOPPI BY KELLEY WHITE
On this day, February 9th 2025, may we pray to the patron saint of football players, Luigi Scrosoppi, (1804-1884) chosen as ‘a good fit’ for the sport given his love of children, his joyful spirit and his extraordinary virtues of charity and patience (the choice made...
THE FROZEN RIVER BY ARIEL LAWHON: A BOOK REVIEW BY LINDA S. GUNTHER
The definition of hell was being a woman in the 1700’s. I never thought about this until I read The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon. This author pulls no punches regarding the severity of how women were disrespected, attacked and many raped by men who cloaked themselves...
OPEN WINDOWS BY THOMPSON WAINWRIGHT
Rolf Westerling looked for a final time at the faces of his three children. They were gathered around his bedside, heads bowed as if nodding off, a sniff from his youngest, the nervous tick of his eldest’s perennial throat-clearing, while the middle child hummed a...
MEN BY GREG MOGLIA
Weak as all men, are How I long for her hug furtive as it is Weak as all men, are Why has these words lived in me? All the effort of so many days weak as all men, are Was it mother’s hold long gone weak as all men, are Come hold me a bit longer weak as all men, are...
CASABLANCA BY GREG MOGLIA
With time passing the older me says Elsa really loves Rick Strange how in my married middle age the movie fit Elsa and her husband get away and are set to fight the Nazis I see why Rick let her go - it was the war and his words Our concerns aren’t a hill of beans at...
WHAT WE CANNOT SEE BY MARTHA LABINE
To be in a dark room looking out the window at a bright scene, is vastly different than being in a room with the overbearing overhead light on, looking out into darkness. The latter results in meeting your own reflection. I’m sure there’s something poetic to be said...
DEBTOR DAUGHTER BY MARTHA LABINE
Beneath the sternum where ribs are brushed up, three strands are strung through the spindles of a breathing cage, though knot pulled tight, unsewn and so, the right marrow never knows the left in the shape of an inverted V, like the wet sand that moves to make room...
ROCK-GOOD-BYE BABY BY MARTHA LABINE
The power lines hum louder following an ear-splitting suicide, strumming to soothe those who lean on the posts, while birthing the deafening, and listening to that buzzing lullaby. I imagine my late classmate’s mother like holding a child that is not mine, staring in...
INSIDE AGAIN BY MARTHA LABINE
As a child, I’d place my upside-down heart-shaped nose— a LaBine trait— to the window screen of the upstairs living room, pulling the cool air of my backyard into my little lungs. That childhood home housed my body, and me within it. A dark and deep nostalgic hole,...
SOLSTICE BY CARL SHERMAN
It was the solstice, a light snow dotted and streaked the sidewalk, each slick spot a curb, crack, stumbling block, a sudden abyss, arms open to embrace the weary and unwary. That night the unhoused died all over town. Our compassion failed to keep them warm. We felt...
SHOWING THE INSTRUMENTS BY CARL SHERMAN
Scenes from childhood: fire in the furnace in my father’s face, chapped hands gentle as Jesus till the hour strikes. Watching the woodchopper wind lay waste the tree next door teaches the sapling to bend; to taste the spit on the Pear of Anguish, see blood on the...
