an old writer and his words

  • MIRAGE?

    Outside the doornestled in the tall grasswhite, a plumegossamer, a giftperhaps from a skyfinally blueor a tearfor the summer’sdeparture,or, perhaps,a promise,down paymenton the freedomfrom gravitylong soughtnever attained.

    Lou Faber

  • THE POND

    Along the shoreof the pond wishingit was a lake,the anhinga proudlyshows off the small fishthat will be hismid-morning snack. The egret findsthis show of ostentationabhorrent and returnsto her searchfor bugs on the reedsfringing the shore. The alligator swimslazily off shorehoping we willsoon pass, andconsiders whetherhe wants only to sun,or if an anhinga wouldmake a good…

    Lou Faber

  • SITTING

    It is onlyin the deep stillnessand silenceof zazenthat the wordsof the Dharmaresound loudest From the cushionsamadhi ariseslike a Phoenixtakes wingand with the final bellall to oftenflies off mindlesslyand it’s goneuntil the next sitting.

    Lou Faber

  • WOODEN PILLOW 鐵笛倒吹 六十

    If, sitting at your mealyou hear the song of a bird,what do you do?You may tap your chopstick rest,and perhaps he will answerand repeat his sweet song.If you tap a second timeand there is only silenceis the bird rejecting youor offering his song to another,flown from your window. Perhaps you should tap againand hear the…

    Lou Faber

  • GRAMMATICALLY APART

    What sets us apartfrom other specieshas little or nothingto do with self-awarenessand everything to dowith parts of speech. The birds outsidemy window shun labels,think only of eating,mating, flight, of goingand arriving, of being. They know nothing of birth,do not fear death, for itis merely a label they cannotaccept or understand. It is left to our…

    Lou Faber

  • FEEDER

    The seed specklesthe snow like buckshotpiled neatly under the branchwhere we, fingers numbed,tied the little chaletto the lowest limbof the ancient maple.The birds stand staringas the squirrel swingsslowly in the breeze. First Appeared in Echoes, March – April 1996.

    Lou Faber

  • WALLS

    Someoneonce suggestedthat if you builda ten foot wallsomeone will bringan eleven foot ladder. I have alwayswanted to taketo the sky freelyand not in somemetal sarcophagus,to be a birdwithout limitationsbut all I have is an eightfoot ladderand I amstill afraidof heights.

    Lou Faber

  • IBIS SEEING YOU

    They pausein their foraging in the lawnto peer up at us,strange looking interlopers,but they are used to us by nowand return to the task at hand. We no longer find them strangethough we never quiteget used to the curvedsalmon colored beaks,and we do wonderwhy the ancient Egyptians held them sacred. It seems that theyhave never forgiventheir Egyptian ancestorsfrom affixingtheir head to…

    Lou Faber

  • INVASION

    The light has fadedand the wetland lies underits mantle of faint starlight. The birds are there, wecan hear them, but our eyesdo not allow us to see them,despite our desire to havemore time with them. They can see us, in our well lit homes, staring out,but they do not want particularly to see us. To us they…

    Lou Faber

  • IN CHORUS

    Deep in a small forest,a murmuring brook reflectsthe shards of sun slidingthrough the crown of pines,its whispered wisdominfinitely more clearthan the babbling of menholding the reins firmlyin distant cities of power. The birds know this well,sing of it in chorus, nature’smusic, jazz scatting thatthe graying clouds absorb,an always willing audience,and the wind rushing bycries through…

    Lou Faber