an old writer and his words

  • A SIMPLE SONG

    This morning’s song is drawn from the whispers of the passing clouds as the last snow flows gently down the street.

    Lou Faber

  • YAKUSAN’S THIS BUDDHA, THAT BUDDHA

    I think therefore I am. I think therefore you are. You think therefore I am. If either of us stops thinking, does the other cease to be? If I see you as Buddha you are Buddha. If you see me as Buddha I can be Buddha, but if I see myself as Buddha Buddha and…

    Lou Faber

  • HERE

    We greet as long lost friends, having never before met save sharing a place a decade apart. I strive to cling to what was there in that place, she, fueled by the frustration, has turned away just because of it. I go home to my words, she to her art, and we know our paths…

    Lou Faber

  • WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

    The room is awash in words, they pile up in corners, form untidy stacks that perpetually threaten collapse, strewing consonants like shards of ill broken glass. It might not be this way, for words need order, a rubric in which they are forced to operate. But here, in a room of poets, anarchy is the…

    Lou Faber

  • ANSWERS EVERYWHERE

    You assume you know the answer, and wait patiently for the question which is not forthcoming. This becomes your dilemma. You have acquired a catalog of answers, all awaiting questions that never come forth. Of course it isn’t fair, you know that full well, but that, too, is an answer that must await a question…

    Lou Faber

  • HIGHER ORDER

    Among certain species of spider at the moment of arachnidal orgasm the female devours her mate for the protection of the young. The lion stalks his prey, then leaps tearing flesh to sate a hunger born of the endless sun beating down on the grassy plain. It is left to man to hunt for trophy,…

    Lou Faber

  • ROAD DREAM

    It’s 12 degrees the night air slices through my sweater my teeth chatter. Standing in the lot fetching my cell phone from the glove box my breath congeals around my face a cloud. I look up at the moon snowflakes dancing on my forehead. Luna’s face is shrouded by a cirrus veil, but her eyes…

    Lou Faber

  • FOOTHILL ROAD

    In the hills that rise gently from the concrete valley two hawks play childlike, rising, falling in gentle circles, grazing the redwoods that reach up to stroke their breasts. To a visitor from the East New York, Tokyo there is awe at the hawks’ grace, slicing the sky into cloudy ribbons but there is no…

    Lou Faber

  • GYOZAN’S HIGH AND LOW 法眼蔵 二十三

    Stand on the hill and look into the valley. Stand in the valley and look upon the hill. Do you see yourself in either place, do you see yourself in both or are they one place hidden from your vision. A reflection on case 86 of the Shobogenzo (Dogen’s True Dharma Eye)

    Lou Faber

  • ON AGING

    Ensconced on the couch, the cat hears a bird singing outside the window. Once, she would have pressed her face against the screen, imagining a great chase. Now she listens, content to let the birds sing into the fading sun.

    Lou Faber