an old writer and his words

  • ODE TO THE GODS

    You, who have walked herethrough the ages,who have watcheda million suns swallowedby untiring waves,what is it you expect?There is nothing here for youthe spirits of the old oneshave long since fledour sharpened blades,retreated with the starsinto the hillsthat rise from forest.The animals will cometo you no morefor we have served them upas a sacrifice to…

    Lou Faber

  • IMMIGRATION

    When you got off the boatyou must have been scared,but getting away from that lifemade the fear bearable. I have no idea how you endedup in West Virginia, it wasn’tat all like Lithuania, and Jewsmight have had two heads I imagine. But you all made do, madea community, invited othersand were tolerated if odd,and I…

    Lou Faber

  • INSTRUCTIONS

    Go into the hills an bring back logs, straight, peel the bark and smooth them satin fibers, the main pole at least eight arms the cross no less than six. Lash them well so they will not yield under the weight of the body where you might hang. Do not speak to the shepherd, he…

    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

  • ANEW

    The front of winter slowly seeps up from the sidewalk into the street unveiling the last falling of autumn’s leaves. A gentle fog rises shrouding the fact that winter, or the most of it lurks just over the distant hills, which mark the margin of our vision. Even the birds sing in our confusion they…

    Lou Faber

  • RAPTOR

    Bald eagle perches tree top winter barren gray and stares at stunted pines. Hawk, head tucked under massive wings reaching for distant stars rides a thermal coaster waiting for squirrels. Hills cry out raging against dawn tears flow puddling in footprints of a distant god.

    Lou Faber

  • HIGH DESERT DREAM

    The mountains rise, bluer blacker than real against a faded sky. The ancestors have fled these hills, no orange eyes stare out of the night, no voices of the trickster take up chorus against the stars.

    Lou Faber