Rainbow Seekers Passing Through


Gently, autumnal breeze

Whisper over brown grass

Through summer green

Soon now yellow and orange

Like the caress of a mausoleum

Death in the throes of life

Leaving a familiar numbness

Opaquely covering the soft nuance

Of a summer day giving away

To the inexorable cold coming.

Longing, memories fading

Into dreams and Paper Castles.

Rainbow Seekers passing through.

Maker of the Universe

He made the forest whence there sprung the tree on which His body hung


The Maker of the universe,
As Man for man was made a curse.

The claims of Law which He had made,
Unto the uttermost He paid.

His holy fingers made the bough,
Which grew the thorns that crowned His brow.

The nails that pierced His hands were mined
In secret places He designed.

He made the forest whence there sprung
The tree on which His body hung.

He died upon a cross of wood,
Yet made the hill on which it stood.

The sky that darkened o’er His head,
By Him above the earth was spread.

The sun that hid from Him it’s face
By His decree was poised in space.

The spear which spilled His precious blood
Was tempered in the fires of God.

The grave in which His form was laid
Was hewn in rocks His hands had made.

The throne on which He now appears
Was His for everlasting years.

But a new glory crowns His brow
And every knee to Him shall bow.

By Phil Keaggy

Into Her Dreams

 (c) Can Stock Photo / Filedimage
(c) Can Stock Photo / Filedimage

Like skaters on icy pavement
gliding together into the city skyline,
grey against clouds of snow.
Winter storm warning, veiled
by music and coffee, conversation and silence.
Precious cargo
delivered into the Windy City,
big shoulders
Blonde and steel,
she slips into the hurried streets,
the streaming crowd,
Out into the world.
This father beams in consolation.
Sighs.
She doesn’t look back,
blue eyes piercing into her future.
No hesitation.
Heading home,
grey fading into western twilight.
slipping past long headlights.
Silence in music playing.
Snow dust, shifting like dry mist,
passing like sands of time.
Falling, the flurries whirling .
How easily she slipped out of my car and into her dreams.

Winter’s Ravage

Canstock csp16495871
Canstock csp16495871

The rush of desolate bone chilling wind
through trees stripped of autumn’s glory
brings comfort within
as the ” I think I can ” stove
fortresses the cold
in a small sheltered space
meanwhile
death itself howls
bearing its incisors
a wolf’s grin with yellowed eyes staring
How gallantly, how merrily
we find solace with warmed brew
and amiable talk
against such a sure footed and relentless enemy
we grasp common courage
and yawn at threats
from winter’s ravage

By Ken Peters, Belmont, NH