an old writer and his words

  • A TIME ONCE

    There was a time when wewould go to the desert or shore.Now the desert comes to usand we know the oceanwill arrive not far behind it.We learned to shape our world,mold it to our desires, perceived wants.The world has grown weary of ustinkerers never satisfied, moreour watchword, enough forgotten.Now it demands that weacceed t o…

    Lou Faber

  • GENESIS

    Every time I see a doveI look twice to seeif by chance it has an olive branch,actually any branch, claspedin its claws, for that would meanthe storm of the last years,the wars, the abject poverty,the amassing of wealthfor its own sake at the neverending expense of others,was coming to an end,that the peace we all…

    Lou Faber

  • STILL VAINLY SEARCHING

    I spent a pleasant morning walkingquietly around the grounds, searchingfor them diligently, but as on most days they again remained hidden from sight.I did see several cattle egrets staringdeeply into the foliage, knowing that breakfast lay hidden deep within,and a flock of ibis pecking lifefrom the still wet, just watered lawns. Today I even saw…

    Lou Faber

  • PAUSE

    This morning a lone snowy egretperched stoically atop the leafless treerising out of the small preserve.Of what was it a harbinger, whatmessage was I needing, failing to hear?Was it in search of a dove amid endlessnews of wars still raging on,or was it repeating the unheard warningof what we had wrought in its onceedenic world,…

    Lou Faber

  • THE HERMIT

    The hermit livesin the shadowof the great mountainlistening to the symphonyof the bluebirdand the wild Roseengulfed by the sky,the meandering streamhis constant companion.I live in a cityin a sea of city dwellerseach of us prisonersmarching from cellto cell, with passing nods.we hear only solitudeand are blindto the ever shifting clouds.Kuan Yin sitsin her templeand whispers…

    Lou Faber

  • A STRANGE LIFE

    The sun rose this morning,as if the day was not in anyway out of the ordinary, daysgone far too large to countfor those with finite capacity.The birds begin, their harmoniouscacophony, though they thinkit is their lauds, matins of reflectionburned off with the dew underthe gentle glare of a late spring sun.They watch us begin to…

    Lou Faber

  • STOICS

    This afternoon the vulture couplesit stoically on the limbsof the long dead tree in the preserve. The rain was torrentialas we watched from the dryconfines of our home, theystood soaked to the featherswith nowhere to hide, knowingthey couldn’t out fly or out climbthe purging clouds, so they setsoaking wet and stared at us. And then…

    Lou Faber

  • SERIOUSLY AMAZON?

    I am struggling to understandjust who is the target marketwith a thirty piece atof rubber ducks for the baththat Amazon wants to sell me.I did have a rubber duckyfor the bath when I was a childbut he was singular, and whenhe partially cracked and drownedI buried him in the backyardand vowed never to ownwaterfowl again,…

    Lou Faber

  • AUTHORSHIP

    If birds could write, which birdwould write like which author.The Osprey would clearly be Hemingwayknowing the sea, but with no need for an old man.The common Gallinule might becomeBilly Collins, an easy laugh and always entertaining.The crows could be so many writersattending workshops, all still lookingfor a voice to express themselves withoutcausing their audience to…

    Lou Faber

  • BLEEDING

    A violinist canlook at an Amatior a Guarnieriand hear a concerto. A birder hearsthe call of the songbirdand can describethe beauty of her plumage. A skilled photographerlooks through the viewfinderand tells a complete storywith one press of the shutter button. But it is the poetalone, staring at a blank page,who spills onto it joy and…

    Lou Faber