an old writer and his words

  • HAIKU

    The harvest mooncaresses the still pondsleeping peacefully When you sit atopthe peak of the mountainevery step is down ibis move asideat the Great Egret’s demandavian order

    Lou Faber

  • OCTOBER

    There is an infinite spaceAround us, a massive voidinto which universes tumbleand stars and planets are born.Outside, the maple leavesburning flame and crimsonspiral to the lawn, whichwaits to receive them.Autumn is the seasonwhen the earth prepares to dieand it is left to usto prepare the gravesite.The albino squirrel standson the fence rail, defyingme to find…

    Lou Faber

  • FOUR HAIKU

    At night’s marginsdreams may ferry you acrossrivers of doubt Paper boatsfloat slowly down riversof deep felt hopes Paper lanternsslowly carry awayancestral spirits A thousand craneslift into a scarlet skyand chase the sun

    Lou Faber

  • UNSHOVELING

    There is much to love here,not the least of which is the lackof snow always needing to be shoveledwhen your back is most sore,when you need to be somewhereon a schedule the clouds chose to ignore.But the one thing you cannot find,the thing you never expectedto be that which you most missis the polychromatic season.For…

    Lou Faber

  • SPRING RAIN

    The last flowers rain downfrom the cherry trees, a pervasivesadness announcing summer’s approach.We would welcome it, but wefear its possible wrath for allseasons show their anger to us.as if to cast blame on us for ignoringtheir beauty, their bounty, assumingtheir offerings will recur despiteour misbegotten changes to whatthey have always relied on, our arroganceand greed…

    Lou Faber

  • WAITING SEASON

    He had been standing there for hoursstaring into the heavens, the cloudsa foreboding shroud promising regeneration,promising rain, promising redemption.He said to the heavens, “I loved you once,”and an ominous wind replied, “youloved yourself, nothing else mattered.”He wanted to argue but the wind, too,abandoned him and the smell of lightninghe could not yet see assaulted him.He…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING

    The clocks have begrudginglyshifted again, the earlymorning lost in darknessbarely illuminated by a waning moon.The fronds of the Royal Palm’swhisper “we are here, waitfor us.” But they are mere shadowsbegging for dawn’s arrival.Finally the sun engulfs the starswatching over the horizon,the fronds say “look at me,I will give you an infinitepalette of green that will…

    Lou Faber

  • LEAVING

    They don’t do that here,the leaves do not demand to be seenonly in their chosen seasonsand their palette is self-limited.There is no budding in spring,no malus or prunus throwing offwild cascades of white and pinkpainting the ground around them.There is no riot of coloras summer retreats and winterplans its eventual arrival,blazing reds and oranges,yellow, ochers…

    Lou Faber

  • A FROSTY RECEPTION

    I truly wish Robert Frost was still aliveso I could ask him where he foundthat yellow wood of his poem.The woods I know are mostly pinein the Adirondacks, or mixed hardwoodsand when autumn arrives they greet itin shades of green, red, orangeochre and yes, some yellow,but hardly enough to givethe forest that titular color.And even…

    Lou Faber