an old writer and his words

  • HAIKU

    The small house fly hasno arachnophobiaonly once in life. In the Norway Sprucepine cones threaten to descend.Squirrels sit waiting. In the sunlit parkthe small dog watches the mango fetch the thrown ball Maple leaves emergealmost certain that winteris now history A rain of petalscherry snow covers the groundwe await the fruit.

    Lou Faber

  • THE PROMISE

    The moon has gone past full and as waning as I write, it’s slow retreat hopefully taking with it the burden of winter, that we now must measure in feet, the inches having been heaved up, one upon another. Spring will come soon for a taste of it, for spring is an inveterate tease, preferring…

    Lou Faber

  • THE DARK TIME

    The trees, bearing up strongly against the still falling snow remember leaves, though the memory has run deep into the sap and slowed. Beneath the frosted bed the bulbs imagine summer, try to picture their blooms, but quickly returned to frozen stasis. The cat thinks of venturing into our yard, sinks its paws into the…

    Lou Faber

  • DEEP WITHIN

    The finches sweep from bush to feeder in a gentle inverted parabola appear head high with a pride reserved for those who fly. The chain link fence is for them no barrier but a honeycomb of perches, full on a warm February afternoon, their song threatening to silence the heart of winter.

    Lou Faber

  • WINTER MEMORY

    As I stare out the window and watch the snow slowly build on the limbs of the now barren sugar maple, painting it with a whiteness that bears heavily giving the smaller branches a better view of the ground in which their fruit of the summer lies buried. I am forced to wonder if the…

    Lou Faber

  • SUMMER SONGS

    the dangling green orbs hang beneath the verdant leaves dreaming of summer. sweat rolls down my back the noon sun stares angrily forgotten winter evening sky darkens is it the approach of night or simple summer rain?

    Lou Faber

  • SATURDAY MORNING, WINTER

    The radio is suddenly blaring and the clock of the stove says seven o’clock but the window retorts it is winter when there is no time. You pull up your collar as you prepare to leave. At the store, pick up a baguette, it will go well with a pork tenderloin with a sauce of…

    Lou Faber

  • GAME, SET, MATCH

    As a child, a Jewish child no less, December was always a bit difficult. We had Channukah, which no Jew would dare claim grew solely to compete with Christmas, although we all knew that was precisely what had happened. The problem was Christmas, but had nothing to do with Jesus, or the church or even…

    Lou Faber

  • CRAFTY MOON

    The moon hid from me last night in a cloudless sky, and only a week from full, so we both knew it was there, peeking for a brief moment from behind the old oak in the neighbors yard. It wasn’t the first time the moon had done this, it will not be the last either,…

    Lou Faber

  • COUNTING TIME

    I was honored to have this recently published in Arena Magazine: A Magazine of Critical Thinking, Issue 162 from Victoria, Australia This river has for endless time flowed from the distant hills on its winding path to the waiting sea. The river has no need of clocks, cares little whether the Sun, Moon or clouds…

    Lou Faber