an old writer and his words

  • NIGHTWAY TOKYO

    It is well into the Season When Thunder Sleeps and the crowds no longer snaked through  Shinjuku Park where even the stones were in quiet hibernation. The sun fell quickly sucking away the light bringing the sleep of dreams and nightmares, of love and terror and despair. The night chant began for yet another night…

    Lou Faber

  • COYOTE SONG

    Down at the butt end of the arroyo is a pond, an aneurysm in the stream that runs down from the mountains for better than a month each spring. The twisted, gnarled mesquite cluster around it, like children gazing at a corpse in utter fascination who dare not approach lest it become real and touch…

    Lou Faber

  • MESA

    This night in cold moonlight earth rises up clouds float down ghosts walk the margin. Old ones sing           now shall be then older ones still sing           then shall be once to wolf and coyote. This season of north winds suns heat barren spirits rise up…

    Lou Faber

  • HOW IT IS

      I came down out of these mountains once, emerged from clouds that built, blackened the sky, bleached and were gone, I slid on snow pack, I came down into the sage and piñon, lit my fires and purified myself. I ran with jackrabbits, imagined bears were coyote, coyotes cats that might curl in sleep…

    Lou Faber

  • CHINDI

    They come down from the hills long after the sun retreats beyond Tres Piedras. In the moonless sky they creep around the pinyon, nestle the sage that blankets the mesa, stare at the scattered homes that dot the half-frozen soil. They are orange flames compressed inside orbs paired, they approach here one set, there another.…

    Lou Faber

  • ON THE MESA

    I sit outside, on the mesa, having watched the mauve, fuchsia and coral sky finally concede to night. The two orange orbs sit twenty yards away, staring back and in this moment coyote and I have known each other for moments, for generations, and we are content. Coyote tells me he was once an elder living…

    Lou Faber

  • TAOS EVENING

    On the mesa between El Prado and Tres Piedras after the sun has been swallowed by  the mountains, to the east a fire burns. Countless stars stare down on the shivering sage. The scorpion lunges for the distant hill. The fire grows behind the mountain, the orange disk rises slowly. The smallest stars flee Luna’s…

    Lou Faber