an old writer and his words

  • WAITING FOR

    It was lying there, on the ground, waiting to be noticed, unsure of why everyone walked by, some glancing, most lost in thought. It hadn’t been there long, but certainly long enough to be seen, of that it was certain, yet there it lay staring crimson at the sun overhead, and even the one passing…

    Lou Faber

  • AFTERNOON STORM

    From twenty stories up lightning rends the fully fogged sky, a translucent gray curtain hung from an angry black ceiling. Nearby buildings and the streets below fade into misty oblivion. Even the approaching dusk sits back in wonder.

    Lou Faber

  • TRIPTYCH

    Origami cranes take to the sky, devour clouds denying winter. Zebra butterflies hover, dance on rays of light never tomorrow The pond imagines itself one day a great lake its shore dreams of spring.

    Lou Faber

  • BRIEF THOUGHTS (3 HAIKU)

    In the sunlit park the small dog watches the man go fetch the thrown ball Maple leaves emerge almost certain that winter is now history A rain of petals cherry snow covers the ground we await the fruit.

    Lou Faber

  • WINTER FALLS ON JAPAN

    Upon the peak of Mt. Fuji the first snow is shrouded by the mother clouds. In the shadows, rice shoots stare up in reverence.

    Lou Faber

  • WINTER’S NIGHT

    A fog settles in over High Wycombe gray clouds shroud a full silver moon great beasts, sinews drawn tight, ready to spring forward, instead crawl along the motorway, the faint lights of London cast a glow to the sky, my breath seems phosphorescent, falling coating the grass, stiff in the breeze.

    Lou Faber

  • UNGAN’S SWEEPS THE GROUND

    As you stoop to pick up fallen leaves are you cleaning spring, summer or autumn? What seasons are deep within the winter branch? How does your work and that of the tree truly differ, and what leaves do you shed? A reflection on Case 83 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye)

    Lou Faber

  • HARLECH CASTLE

    stones speak in lost tongues to sheep grazing by the wall clouds gather laughing voices of dead kings echo off cloud shrouded hills she whispers in dreams a November wind cuts deeply across the keep distant hills crying slash of claymore glinting in the morning sun bird with wings unfolded moss encrusted stones remember long…

    Lou Faber

  • RIVERS

    I have never been particularly one for rivers. Like everyone, I’ve walked along their shores, listened to them gurgle under remote bridges but otherwise never paid them much attention. There’s an old Buddhist saying you can’t step into the same river twice, but that presupposes you step into the river the first time. I remember…

    Lou Faber

  • ALLEGORY

    The sooty snow blankets the fields blowing like a still ocean off the precipice of the horizon. The clouds of ash tinged cotton hug the earth a blanket under which all life finds refuge from the ghosts of winter. To the wanderer which the cave mouth which the cave?

    Lou Faber