an old writer and his words

  • NIGHT AGAIN

    It is well past midnight and outsidethe birds and frogs in the wetlandannounce the rain, unnecessary really,as it beats a steady rhythm on the roofand windows, pierced onlyby claps of thunder and the lightningwhich gives them short announcement.The light dances through the closedwindow blinds on what ought to bean ink black night, and I knowthe…

    Lou Faber

  • YOU AGAIN?

    On the path around the pondthe male of a pair of Sandhill Cranesstares closely at us wondering, perhaps,which if any of us actually belongs here.We more than return his stare, fumblingfor our cameras that claim they are phones,wanting to capture this moment.The crane proudly approaches, getsinches from the arm-extended phone. Is hetrying to see what…

    Lou Faber

  • IF ONLY

    Were we birds we wouldhave our talons dug so deeplyinto the soil, our wings unableto lift us into a waiting skyfrom our gravitation prison.The egrets peer down at usfrom a thousand hued blue skycloudless again this dayas a maleficent sun glaresdown on us as we slowlybake in the oven we createdby our malfeasant stewardshipof nature’s…

    Lou Faber

  • THIS TOO

    When I hear “this tooshall pass,” I hopeat least for a whilethey are not talking about me.The flowers outsidedo not ask such questions,too busy drawing eyesto really care.And the now deadpalm tree in the yardhas become stoicjust watching,always watching.

    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

  • SEASIDE HAIKU

    The ocean singsof its abundant lifewe hear only waves On the tidal pondthe moon admires itselfno one will see it On the waterI cried a thousand tearsthe sea accepts them

    Lou Faber

  • GOOD MORNING

    The wetland isno longer wet a burgeoning forest of Carolina WillowThe birds that nested hereby the multiple dozens that overnighted by the thousands have moved on.But each morning I arise to the call of the Limpkin the closest thing we have to a rooster.

    Lou Faber

  • SHEPHERDING

    Today I paused to considerhow odd it must be for thoseborn, bred and always livingin a city, say New York, andto sill be a lover of poetry.So many poets, from Keatsto Hirshfield will take youinto nature, bathe you in wordsbeneath a star lit sky, sit youin a meadow, breathing airthat has never known the exhaustof…

    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

  • CABERNET

    Sitting at the table lookingat a glass of cabernet sauvignonits legs long reaching from rimto dwindling pool I ask myselfif I could imagine tending the vinesin France or more likely Napawatching the purple orbs take formand cluster, caring for the canesthat have deemed themselvestoo old to bear any longer.My knees are tired and dirtycutting the…

    Lou Faber