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Young Ravens Literary Review
Issue 21
Winter 2024
Editorial Staff:
Sarah Page
Elizabeth Pinborough
Copyright © 2024 by the individual authors
All content and graphics in this publication may not be copied or republished without written
consent. Copyrights of individuals’ work are held by the relevant authors and requests for
reproduction should be made to them.
3
Table of Contents
Cover Art by Benjamin Green
Introduction 5
Raven Collage Benjamin Green 6
passage Mark A. Fisher 7
Train John L. Stanizzi 8
Two Thoughts on a Monday George Freek 9
Eventually Michael Keshigian 10
the white Martha Clarkson 11
Tribute to Leonard Cohen Diana Raab 12
Medina Cat John Delaney 13
Over Cat Mesa Benjamin Green 14
Baked Dutch Baby Under
Snow Warning Kersten Christianson 15
Choose Old, Choose Dear Terry Trowbridge 16
Settling Benjamin Green 18
American White Pelicans Samuel Lorraine Goldsmith 20
Green Honey Creeper Robin Wright 21
Letters Lily Ogden 22
Alone Martha Clarkson 23
Askance Richard Dinges, Jr. 24
Misled Susan Shea 25
Raven on the Rock Kersten Christianson 26
A Coming Storm Will Reger 27
the ghostlight Mark A. Fisher 28
IMG 0223 Fabrice Poussin 29
Diminution Michael Keshigian 30
Silence in the Storm Nancy Machlis Rechtman 31
Garden Prayer Vern Fein 32
4
IMG 0613 Fabrice Poussin 33
In Time Craig Kirchner 34
Journey on Canvas Duane Anderson 35
“the bay,” helen frankenthaler Charlotte Mills 36
Desert Benjamin Green 37
Good-Bye Susan Shea 38
Wind Chimes Michael Keshigian 39
Raven Enamel on Wood Benjamin Green 40
This Flesh McClain Homann 41
Novice Driver Michael Blaine 43
Elegy at the Natural History Museum Mark A. Fisher 44
Ray Richard Dinges, Jr. 45
Aura Russell Rowland 46
Raven Watercolor Benjamin Green 47
Contributor Biographies 48
5
Introduction
In Issue 21 of Young Ravens Literary Review, we explore what haunts us—from nature’s
unmitigated fury and startling beauty to the inexorable turning of the seasons and the slow
siphoning of our years.
Life’s responsibilities and the regrets that only time teaches pervade human hearts with a tempest
of love and smoke, with the roiling clouds of our colliding actions and inactions.
We are struck by wonder and woe at other worlds, glories and selves we may barely glimpse
with our eyes, but forever chase after like mist with our ink and art.
We seek a “pocket of peace” in the storm of mortality, dreaming awake in our skin until at last,
night falls (Nancy Machlis Rechtman, “Silence in the Storm”).
6
Benjamin Green
Raven Collage
7
Mark A. Fisher
passage
this new dog
and I
wander the sandy path
behind the house
his nose to the ground
as I look across
the weedy landscape
and feel the ghost
of the dog that came
before
remembering
what he could not
with his dementia
all the times
we had walked
that same timeworn
ground
before
while the new dog
recently adopted
‘cause he lost
his people
to dementia too
now
he and I
walk a changed
landscape
8
John L. Stanizzi
Train
The train’s grave whistle
ascends from every tree in the valley
spreads out in the sky everywhere at once
and I move quietly
through mansions of light
as if not wanting to disturb
the vocalizations
of these rarest of affluent creatures
I ascend along the clay road
dreaming all day
of impossible journeys
I’ve always done this
And as each light in each window pales
I wake and return
to the clay road
and a night sky full of holes
a reminder of what I have chosen
and what was chosen for me
as if they’re somehow different
9
George Freek
Two Thoughts on Monday
As leaves fall into the river
like acrobats dying gracefully,
a raven stares at me.
Of what is he accusing me?
But like nature itself,
his meaning is a mystery,
and he flies off,
lost to my sight, blending
with the oncoming night.
What we make of birds
is what we want to see.
It’s partly truth,
but mostly make believe.
Discontent with the world
doesn’t hide in trees.
It lives deep inside of me.
10
Michael Keshigian
Eventually
Staring from the moon
in a dream
I saw people of Earth
meander aimlessly
from minute cavities,
following burrows
to dutiful destination
and back again.
Some moved faster
others carried more
and few were prostrate to fantasy.
Yet above each hill
hovered ghosts of intentions
not resting, but preparing
markers with singular openings
where well-meaning will be placed.
11
Martha Clarkson
the white
12
Diana Raab
Tribute to Leonard Cohen
Two years before Cohen passed
I sat in the third row of his last concert—
while that octogenarian played three hours straight:
inspiring and haunting words about relationships,
joy and melancholy.
As he glanced my way, I wondered how
he would know about our connection
which had deep roots in Montreal,
where he and my three kids began their lives—
a string connecting us way beyond his songs.
From Cohen I learned creativity is both
delicious and horrible, but often graceful,
and us artists have no choice but to create.
His songs fueled my best poetry
during dark moments of loneliness,
delivering promises of reconciliation
and appreciation for the self.
Months before his own passing
he wrote a farewell letter to a dying
friend— “Our bodies are falling apart,”
knowing he’d follow soon.
“If you stretch out your hand,
I think you can reach mine,” he wrote.
His lust for life and tenacity for youthful vigor
has inspired me every day of my life,
especially now as I turn the page into my next decade.
You want it darker, he reminded himself
and all his listeners in his very last moments
of all his hauntings.
13
John Delaney
Medina Cat
14
Benjamin Green
Over Cat Mesa
No leaves fell that autumn.
An early freeze turned the cottonwoods
cardboard box brown,
a drab shingling that lingered
to the winds of spring.
November limped on
white frost, with ice
in the shadows. Clattering
brown leaves reflected
in the still creek, both frozen
on the edges.
One afternoon in January
drapes of cloud fell into the canyon.
Soft rain, no wind—
I heard a strange click and patter
on the brown leaves—
then snow in the hours of small shadow—
from mist that clung
to canyon rock.
The moon rose through
a tear of cloud
over Cat Mesa.
15
Kersten Christianson
Baked Dutch Baby Under Snow Warning
When the word snow appears in the forecast, you push back your cocoon of covers and slipper-
step down to the kitchen. Outside, gale from the Gulf of Alaska. Wind and temperature change
offer a creaky song to your snug house; the roof groans like a banshee, drafts through the cracks
of the uneven door. Alder, cedar, spruce limbs shadow puppet against orange streetlight and in
the warm glow of your kitchen, your eye wanders to the fruit bowl to count the remaining Honey
Crisp apples. The coffee is on. Snow shovels and ice melt poise ready at the maw of the garage
as you peel, core, and dice fruit into piles, consider the coming construct and breakdown of the
soon-snow berms that will build at the base of the driveway in the blue-black light of afternoon.
The woolen mittens your Finnish friend knit and mailed to you from Paris last winter, tiny green
seahorses frolicking among pink coral in sea of navy, are stacked by the door with wrap-around
scarf and woolen felt hat. Melt the butter, add cinnamon, stir in the apples. Whip the milk, the
eggs, add the white flurry of flour. Pour the batter into the pan, a blast/squall/tempest to wash the
dark cold with sweet honey-scent and warmth.
Dutch baby to warm
the shoveler’s winter-cold
hands. Cold blanket hush.
16
Terry Trowbridge
Choose Old, Choose Dear
between my fingers, old and dear
-Emile Nelligan, Ship of Gold, 56.
A few years cannot be compared to many years.
-The Book of Chuang Tzu, 2.
Some of us know this dilemma.
We must choose either to pursue
what is dear to ourselves
in the middle of our lives;
or to redirect ourselves to serve
an elder family member’s care.
This moment, when we have learned
our positions among our peers,
(and maybe how not to compare each other)
now that we’ve revealed our real selves
to ourselves by our own means of measure.
This choice, too, will determine our future,
and the outcomes will be what we know
when we are old enough to need the help
of maturities, families, annuities.
On the other end of balance, the far end,
the diminishing weight of a parent
whose retirement is tiring, if not exhausting.
We come calling and then can’t leave,
and beg our pardons of our responsibilities
just one more day. Let’s plan a week,
consider a month. Tremors begin to insist
we consider our own futures, if we will need,
and what we want; worse, the widening space
between savings and sundown.
The price of caring is spent,
and means less banked for our own care.
Homo economicus claims that solved games
quantify dignity. Solved games still can’t decide
for us, against us, before or after we realize
the profits of our youth. These middle years
are our greatest accomplishment, our strongest power.
17
Power: but power only to realize it is only the power to choose.
Only to realize that our life’s accomplishment will be this choice.
18
Benjamin Green
Settling
The smoke from the woodstove
Does not rise
But coils and snakes
Around the house and
Under the junipers—
Slow-dancing with
Canyon-filling clouds.
When mist saturates the air
Even the cottonwoods disappear.
Ravens chortle;
The fog turns to rain.
Power’s down,
And, soon, it turns night-black.
The old man is alone
In the darkened, empty
Neighborhood.
Hearing aids still in, on,
He listens to the mice
In the walls,
The pelting rain—
He cannot sleep.
The cold settles
And snow drifts
Through ponderosas.
With no light to read by
He thinks how literature
Convinces that characters
Know who they are—
Where they come from, what they do,
Where they go—
And, often, why—
All through images,
When all he knows, really, remain guesses.
Suddenly, he thinks of
The immeasurable distance
19
From a trout
To himself—
Do we live in the same world?
What, after all, do I hold
In my hands
When I hold a trout?
Only guesses, he thinks, no images:
Relationships describing
Staining light, emotions, fields
Of push and pull,
The pathways of thought,
The vectors of movement
In space and time.
What is love to a trout!
The sight of bark-bit
Covered caddis flies
On the river-bottom stones?
The green tent of
Watercress shelter?
And it does not mean anything,
Or does it?
Just a trout, another guess,
Not an image—
Not a symbol or metaphor
Or simile—
Not the words
But the thing itself.
Why do I allow
What I settle for
To fill the world?
20
Samuel Goldsmith
American White Pelicans
21
Robin Wright
Green Honeycreeper
You’re rare but spotted
in Columbia by a surprised
birdwatcher, your body
divided down the middle,
feathers painted blue
on the right, your male side,
and green on the left,
your female side.
Experts observed that you
distance yourself from others,
don’t know how to woo
another of your species.
Are you able to reproduce?
I look at pictures of you,
so small and vulnerable,
and want you to find
the bird that is your bird,
have babies that call you
what means love
in your language.
22
Lily Ogden
Letters
Mementos are left behind, but do they haunt if there is no one left to remember them? There are
boxes of things collected, burnt matchsticks, movie tickets, a stray button. Memories that meant
something and that once exploded in relevance.
Tins of postcards, a pressed flower, a small shell.
I have a box of letters from my father. I didn't meet him until I was 25 and then we wrote,
became awkward penfriends. He was only visiting at the time and was living in another country.
We were not close enough to share long walks and estranged silences. There was a feeling that
an effort should be made. An attempt at familiarity. It was too late for childhood so we tried to
share as grownups. Neither of us wanted missed opportunities. And so we wrote.
The beginning letters are polite and straight forward and there is never any mention of regret. I
know that my letters to him started with “Dear Henry” and in the space of just a few months I
was writing “Dear Dad.” He is dead now. Unfortunately our relationship never reached the
warmth that was promised in correspondence. I am still haunted by that time that held so much
expectation. The vague promises of a parent written with flourish on moth coloured paper.
When I die I have no history to supersede me. Nobody else with this memory. There is no
offspring that will treasure and unwrap carefully each note. There will be no mysticism and
wonder when the box is found, dusted off, opened. It will simply be a box of letters. Paper that is
easily burned. If I die in the winter maybe they will be used to keep someone warm. Letters that
started with politeness and moved to forgiveness that ended in love. They will shine in colours
from ink used and then dance as a bright flame until they diminish. They will end as grey ash.
I have a daydream hope that the wind might take whatever remains and hurtle it upwards to the
sky on a simple whim. A wisp of words set free. Maybe that is how I will be, too. Windswept
and dancing. A grey plume ascending into the clouds. A collection of moments forever lost. A
ghost no longer contained in the thin folds of a page.
23
Martha Clarkson
Alone
24
Richard Dinges, Jr.
Askance
Legs tucked beneath
you, hidden in cushions
in a corner of the couch,
your face glows the gray
of a tablet screen.
You do not look at me,
A shadow passes
across the room, follows
sun rays until dusk
dims window panes.
I am absorbed
into corners and you
turn out the lights
to leave me behind
another piece night.
25
Susan Shea
Misled
When we first moved to the forest
we flourished with the feeders and the fed
luring the wordless ones to our seeds
amused to see them standing in a row
deer raccoon squirrel under birds
splashing trail mix from above
until their numbers grew, until ten deer
surrounded my idling car before dawn
hunting me down
a mere commuter trying to get
to my own honeypot watching
one put his nose right on my
driver's glass, making his eyes speak
right into my apprehended mind
he begged with dead-eyed urgency
telling me he needed seeds and corn
to keep him from becoming a ghost
before the morning
broke this day wide open
making me bright enough
to see the cost of dependency
to see what I had done
26
Kersten Christianson
Raven on the Rock
27
Will Reger
A Coming Storm
The heavy air surrounds me.
Rain is in it, threatening
the earth with heat-lightning,
thunderous rampages, then
a pregnant silence, waiting
for the cry of rain on the leaves,
but hearing nothing just yet.
The neighborhood is a marina
of boats anchored in place.
Among all that life in hold,
the weather is an abstraction.
Rain might fall, or maybe not.
We are afloat on our tiny raft,
open to the elements, a splinter
off the vast promise of this land.
The wind manipulates the trees,
turning them into restless ghouls
dressed like charging horses.
The rain will not arrive tonight,
perhaps the thunder must strike
the sky a few more times to bring
the rain down to our thirst.
28
Mark A. Fisher
the ghostlight
stands on the stage
lighting the way
for his entrance
to an ovation
from the wings
and all the players
that arrived before
he turns and faces out
then takes his bows
to an audience
that has been waiting
to give him their applause
while the band
returns to the stage
echoes of concerts
whispering in the dark
as they play him to his rest
and the magic of the dream
settles in to glow in
the ghostlight
29
Fabrice Poussin
IMG 0223
30
Michael Keshigian
Diminution
On a tree
by a city street
upon an invisible bough
I perch
in a dream
unseen
over people
hovering about
an empty hole
obstructed by a box
with contents
of what use to be me.
Some are sobbing
most somber
and few hide
a reluctant obligatory glint.
All watch
the hyphen
between random dates
engraved upon
a slab
transform my toil
to a trophy abbreviation
for living.
31
Nancy Machlis Rechtman
Silence in the Storm
The yard was a desert
The soil was cracked and parched
And the hydrangeas were no longer
Bouncing merrily along the fence
But instead appeared to have fainted from the relentless heat.
Even the birds were wilting
And their songs remained bottled up
Inside them.
Just before I walked through the door
To return to the blessed air conditioning
Silently thanking Mr. Willis Carrier
I felt an eerie pressure on my skin
And the hairs on my arm stood on end
As a barely perceptible shift filled the air
Like a ghost was hovering over my shoulder
I looked at the sky which had been the picture-perfect blue
Of the ocean reflected in a baby’s eyes
But it had now faded to a dangerous grey
And the clouds had become shelves
Stacked up across the horizon.
A howl of thunder crashed through the air
Followed by a scorch of lighting streaking across the churning sky
As if Zeus himself had angrily aimed it at my house
And in the span of a heartbeat
The dam was unplugged
And torrents raced through every furrow in the yard
While the house was throttled
By the ravages of the wind
And raindrops became rocks pelting my home relentlessly.
The savagery of the storm engulfed me
But I soon noticed there was a space in between each droplet
That was like a pocket of peace
When the world became so quiet
Nothing could be heard
And I knew this silence was when I needed to pay attention
Not the madness
Because in the end
This was all that would matter.
32
Vern Fein
Garden Prayer
"In the spring, at the end of the day,
you should smell like dirt.”
—Margaret Atwood
My wife, a part-time, life-long gardener,
in the time left from working a necessary job,
tends our house as if it were another garden,
raised our children as if they were roses and milkweed,
nurtures our pets like Nature’s children,
loved me into being better than I might have been.
Now, in old age, she persists,
hired a younger woman to help,
still fusses around, plants pots,
pulls weeds, smiles while sweating,
sidles back on to the deck,
rests quietly in the sun,
our dog on her lap,
never quits, never will,
until she is part of the dirt
she smells like before her shower.
In Eternity, will she be able to plant Eden?
Gracious God, give her the chance.
33
Fabrice Poussin
IMG 0613
34
Craig Kirchner
In Time
I wrote a poem ‘Next’ - I am still running,
I’ve been running all my life—
and had an epiphany.
I’m 76, if I have any sense at all
I will slow down, savor, not hurt myself.
I started with what I knew best,
I stopped rushing through showers,
this was easy, being beat on by hot water
is one of life’s great pleasures.
I started applying this basic premise
to my whole routine, slowed everything down
deliberately. You would think things
would take longer – not true, it was
as though the clock slowed
and the days become longer.
I made the bed when Dee wasn’t looking,
ever so carefully, palming out wrinkles,
fluffing the pillows, making every edge perfect
with the calmest of intent. It was therapeutic,
especially since in fifty years of marriage,
I had never made the bed.
And now, instead of scribbling,
balling up wads of unhappy words
and getting nowhere fast, I’m slowly typing,
softly caressing the keys, one finger,
one at a time. The keyboard is responding
as those this new demeanor could be fruitful.
I’m going to send this to the publisher who told me
I had ADHD, that I should set it aside for a day,
come back with a fresh outlook. Well, it’s day two
and I’m snail-mailing, licking the cheap envelope,
cautiously recalling Costanza’s fiancé, Susan,
and a tortoise-like death by calmly lapping glue.
35
Duane Anderson
Journey on Canvas
A painting,
an unexplored cave
deep with mystery,
each drop of the brush on canvas
is like the drop from
a stalactite to a stalagmite,
building new worlds
for the eye and mind.
36
Charlotte Mills
“the bay,” helen frankenthaler
paint no longer mixes into itself
like oil and water, it separates
blue stark against tan against green against brown
water stark against sand against grass against dirt
or i’m wrong
and the colors are whatever you think they are
you never took my word for it.
we stand in front of the painting
pretend we haven’t seen each other in years
pretend Helen Frankenthaler isn’t dead
pretend we still fade into each other
before, i couldn’t tell where you started and i ended.
the blue stands out from the rest of the it
stain painting lifting the sea out of the bay
it always fades into itself
but doesn’t deign to touch the others
we pretend we don’t scrape against each other
my grass against your sand
pretend we haven’t seen each other in years
it’s easier than knowing we have
and knowing we’re still this unalike despite it.
you make the best of it
think Helen Frankenthaler would be proud of our contrast
i always thought you pretended too much.
37
Benjamin Green
Desert
I see what the spirit
made
one thing at a time—
caprock
pinyon
cholla
red dirt—
and, in looking,
show what I am
made of.
Even the clouds,
building over the mesa,
look newly created
and the eight-minute old
light from
the dipping star
caresses earth;
the wind mumbles in
rock
tree
cactus
soil—
teasingly cold:
the work of a palpable god
seen
and
felt.
38
Susan Shea
Good-Bye
My father was so mystified
and forsaken when the
neighbor woman revealed
that my mother appeared
to her, bathed in soft white light
waking her from her dream
to say farewell, moments after
she had died, she smiled
leaving him to wonder why
she didn't wake him up
to share this moment before dawn
I think she knew he wouldn't
understand the smile that was
overtaking all that was
within her, greater than all
the moments that were gone
I think she knew that she would
see him on the other side of years
where elation and high spirits
never stop
never wait or live in tears
39
Michael Keshigian
Wind Chimes
Though no wind passes,
a harmonious ringing
resonates,
breaking silence.
Dangling lines
of pewter angels
fly in circular motion,
playing harps
And kissing softly
to disrupt
the day’s stoic countenance
with celestial sounds
Kindled by the breaths
of wandering spirits,
stopping by
to whisper hello.
40
Benjamin Green
Raven Enamel on Wood
41
McClain Homann
This Flesh
I looked in
the bathroom
mirror today,
at this stitched
woven cloth
cathartic—
at this quilt
with stitched
blue eyes in
the seams--
fibers stretched
out in feeling
call this flesh
a baby blanket
that has grown—
lived
and still learning—
the security
of skin has endured
the past and
its meanings
its lessons--
a shield
for a brain
a boy
looked into
the bathroom
mirror and must
love this cloak
like christ
this bread
crumbling but
still offering
a world
a chance—
a voice—
looked into
the bathroom mirror
42
today
with stitched blue
dyed eyes dangling.
The boy inside
iris swimming—
the liquid
of a magic 8 ball
playing,
proclaiming:
“I forgive you.”
43
Michael Blaine
Novice Driver
The magnetic tag Novice Driver sticks
slanted on the rear lift hatch door
It is for my son and a note to others
that he is unsure
as he navigates
the hardened path
marked before him
In the passenger seat I steer
without mechanics
suggest each adjustment to keep
him lined up
between white line
and the middle
broken one
I should tell him
at some later date
better yet
casually mention
when things have settled
The magnetic tag
was really
for me.
44
Mark A. Fisher
Elegy at the Natural History Museum
it is a chamber filled with death and wonder
and the bones of the mighty fallen
mute remains we will never hear sing
whose voices filled the ancient skies
lost now in eons past
now mere silent exhibits surrounded
by the voices of children
that rush from giant to giant
gazing in a mystic wonder
incapable of grasping the vast time
separating them from these monsters
turned cuddly in gift shop displays
whose sale supports the secret science
that lurks behind the awe
while one old man with aching bones
looks on
wishing
that he too could reach generations
in some distant future
like this T-Rex stood before him
roped off on display
wordlessly lighting sparks
of passion
like flint on steel
in these young minds
who still have time
while the old man
ponders the emptiness of the future
knowing time has passed him by
and all too soon
he will be a poorly remembered memory
told to another child
as he follows his grandchild
into the next room
filled with even more wonders
45
Richard Dinges, Jr.
Ray
Each day at sunrise
I search for a pattern,
where light hides behind
clouds or lies in dappled
patches across waves
of dead grass, where
I can capture
a single ray
in my palm,
cup my hands together
and imagine I race
through time ahead
of what lies to either
side of me, to look
back and forward at once,
then open my palms
to an eternal sky
and release the final
vestige of what
I hope to become.
46
Russell Rowland
Aura
Only once did I discover a rainbow haloing
the lower waterfall:
unplanned conjunction of sunlight and me.
Still, an aura of similar color
sometimes develops in a window at home;
or, if I stand up too quickly, inside my head.
Pastor thinks such an aura contains
all my memories of good times, now gone.
The shaman at the blade-sharpening shop
says it comes to show me
by what death I will justify the life I lived.
I believe it may be a promise:
all my days I’ve been haunted by promises.
I will approach the waterfall
again one day: just try to see it for what it is.
47
Benjamin Green
Raven Watercolor
48
Contributor Biographies
Duane Anderson
Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla
Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of On the Corner
of Walk and Don’t Walk, The Blood Drives: One Pint Down, and Conquer the Mountains, and
Family Portraits.
Michael Blaine
Michael Blaine’s chapbook, Murmur (Bay Oak Publishing), was the winner of the 2005 Dogfish
Head Poetry Prize. His second chapbook, Brackish Water (Broadkill Publishing) was published
in 2016. He is a 2006 Delaware Fellowship of the Arts recipient in the field of Poetry. A few
publications of his work have appeared in: The Jabberwock Review, Baltimore Review,
Georgetown Review, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Frogpond, and American Tanka. Blaine
has also had cartoons published in the English Journal and an article in Chesapeake Bay
Magazine.
Kersten Christianson
Kersten Christianson derives inspiration from wild, wanderings, and road trips. She authored
Curating the House of Nostalgia (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2020). Kersten lives in Sitka, Alaska where she
eyeballs the tides, shops Old Harbor Books, and hoards smooth ink pens.
Martha Clarkson
Martha Clarkson’s photography can be found at NYC4pa, Lightbox Photography Gallery F-Stop
Magazine, Black Box Gallery, Sunspot Magazine, LensCulture, Light, Space, and Time Gallery,
Ours Photography magazine, Calyx, Junto. www.marthaclarkson.com
John Delaney
Delaney’s publications include Waypoints (2017), a collection of place poems, Twenty Questions
(2019), a chapbook, Delicate Arch (2022), poems and photographs of national parks and
monuments, and Galápagos (2023), a collaborative chapbook of his son Andrew’s photographs
and his poems. Nile, a chapbook of poems and photographs about Egypt, appeared in May 2024.
Delaney lives in Port Townsend, WA.
Richard Dinges, Jr.
Richard Dinges, Jr. works on his homestead beside a pond, surrounded by trees and grassland,
with his wife, two dogs, two cats, and five chickens. Oddball, Schuykill Valley Journal, Grey
Sparrow, Wilderness House, and Illuminations most recently accepted his poems for their
publications.
Vern Fein
A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces in over
100 different sites. A few are: Gyroscope Review, Of Rust And Glass, Bindweed, Young Raven's
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Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Rat's Ass Review. His second poetry
book—REFLECTION ON DOTS—was released late last year.
Mark A. Fisher
Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet, and playwright living in Tehachapi, CA. His poetry has
appeared in: Reliquiae, Young Ravens Literary Review, and many other places. His first
chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon. His poem “there are fossils” (originally published
in Silver Blade) came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition. His
plays have appeared on California stages in Pine Mountain Club, Tehachapi, Bakersfield, and
Hayward. His play “Moon Rabbit” won Audience Favorite at the Stillwater Oklahoma Short Play
Festival in 2023. He has also won cooking ribbons at the Kern County Fair.
George Freek
George Freek's poem "Enigmatic Variations" was recently nominated for Best of the Net. His
poem "Night Thoughts" was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Samuel Lorraine Goldsmith
Samuel Lorraine Goldsmith (he/him/his) is a former musician who lives in Richmond,
California, with his family. A lawyer by trade, he continues to obey an existential compulsion to
experiment with nature photography and write poetry and prose. These photographs are a part of
an as-yet unpublished nonfiction and photography book, The Point Isabel Project, about the
Point Isabel Regional Shoreline in his hometown. His photography has not been previously
published.
Benjamin Green
Benjamin Green is the author of eleven books including The Sound of Fish Dreaming (Bellowing
Ark Press, 1996) and the upcoming Old Man Looking through a Window at Night (Main Street
Rag) and His Only Merit (Finishing Line Press). At the age of sixty-eight, he hopes his new work
articulates a mature vision of the world and does so with some integrity. He resides in Jemez
Springs, New Mexico.
McClain Homann
McClain Homann is a Registered Behavioral Technician, providing therapeutic services for
children with disabilities. In 2022 McClain graduated with a Bachelor's in English Creative
Writing at Eastern Illinois University and lives in Urbana Illinois, attending local poetry open
mic nights within the city and attends local workshops.
Michael Keshigian
Michael Keshigian has recently been published in the Comstock Review, Tipton Poetry Journal,
Smokey Quartz Journal, Panoply, and Jerry Jazz Musician. His latest collections, What To Do
With Intangibles, Into The Light, Dark Edges, are available through Amazon. He has been
nominated 7 times for a Pushcart Prize and 3 times for Best Of The Net.
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Craig Kirchner
Craig Kirchner is the author of Room Full of Navels. He thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves the
aesthetics of the paper and pen, and has had poems nominated for the Pushcart. After a hiatus he
was recently published in Decadent Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Wise Owl, Chiron Review,
Dark Winter, Spillwords, Fairfield Scribe, Young Ravens, Unlikely Stories, The Main Street Rag
and about eight dozen others. He recently had a poem nominated for the Pushcart 2024 by
Choeofpleirn Press.
Charlotte Mills
Charlotte Mills (she/they) is a poetry and non-fiction writer from North Carolina. She has always
loved reading but discovered her love for writing during the COVID-19 pandemic. She pursued
creative writing at Interlochen Arts Camp in 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024. Her awards include the
2023 and 2024 Youngclaus Writing Award and she has been featured in literary journals such as
The Blackbird’s Eye.
Lily Ogden
Lily Ogden originally from England now resides in the wilds of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia,
Canada. She has always had an appreciation for the small hitherto unnoticed things which have
always inspired her creativity. She is an artist and writer, currently editing her first novel about
two crows.
Fabrice Poussin
Poussin’s poetry and photography work has appeared in hundreds of magazines worldwide. Most
recently, his collections In Absentia, If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life, and The Temptation of
Silence were published in 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024, by Silver Bow Publishing.
Diana Raab
Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, speaker, and award-winning author of fourteen
books of poetry and nonfiction. Her writings have been published and anthologized worldwide.
Her latest book is HUMMINGBIRD: MESSAGES FROM MY ANCESTORS. (Modern History
Press, January 2024). She writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, and Thrive
Global and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at: dianaraab.com.
Nancy Machlis Rechtman
Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Your Daily Poem,
Writing In A Woman’s Voice, Impspired, miniMAG, Discretionary Love, Young Ravens, and
more. Nancy has had poetry, essays, and plays published in various anthologies. She wrote
freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and she was the copy editor for another paper.
She writes a blog called Inanities at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com.
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Will Reger
Will Reger has a Ph.D. from the University of Illinois. He has published four collections of
poetry available through Amazon. He has served as the inaugural poet laureate for the city of
Urbana, Illinois 2019-2020. For the last decade he has been active in promoting poetry in his
community.
Russell Rowland
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Red Eft Review,
Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is
available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH)
Conservation Trust.
Susan Shea
In the past year, Susan Shea made the full-time transition from school psychologist to poet. In
that time, her poems have been accepted by publications that include: Invisible City, Ekstasis,
MacQueen's Quinterly, Feminine Collective, Amethyst Review, Green Silk Journal, Flora
Fiction, Last Leaves, The Write Launch, The Gentian, Across the Margin, October Hill
Magazine, Litbreak Magazine, Beltway Poetry, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Foreshadow, New
English Review and others. Her work was recently nominated for Best of the Net.
John L. Stanizzi
John L. Stanizzi, author of fifteen collections, with number 16 appearing shortly after the first of
2025. Besides Young Ravens his poems are in American Life in Poetry, Cortland Review, New
York Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, and many others. Former Etherington Scholar/Wesleyan
University, his non-fiction story, Pants, was named best creative non-fiction piece from the
journal Potato Soup Journal. He received a Fellowship in Creative Writing from the Connecticut
Department of Creativity, Culture, and Diversity. Non-fiction is very widely published. A
Former Professor of English in Connecticut, John lives in Coventry, CT with his wife Carol.
Terry Trowbridge
Terry Trowbridge is a poet, book reviewer, and fruit farmer who lives on Canada's shore of Lake
Ontario.
Robin Wright
Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Loch Raven
Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News, Rat’s Ass Review, One Art,
Young Ravens Literary Review, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first
chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.
