an old writer and his words

  • MORNING SONG (Awdl Gywydd)

    The sun creeps down city streetsdew retreats from the grassesand fills the air, with sweet scentuntil spent, the bus passes. The robin sits in the treeas worms flee into the lawn.The morning foretells the rainthat will slowly drain the dawn. The city quietly wakesand stretching, shakes off the sleepit slowly comes back to life,the sun…

    Lou Faber

  • WHY, OH WHY

    He was awash in questions. What, he wanted to know, did they use to cut the mustard? A knife seemed excessive, or did they mean some lesser powdered spice. Why was the cat in the bag? How do you learn anything by bruising your hand on books? Do buckets cause foot infections that kill you?…

    Lou Faber

  • BANZAN’S A BETTER CUT

    At the butcherbe careful what you askfor if it is a better cutthe wise man with the knifemay slice off your handand present it to youwrapped neatly in paper. But will it beyour rightor your left? A reflection onCase 21 of Dogen’s Shobogenzo (The True Dharma Eye)

    Lou Faber

  • MOURNING

    You never know how the news will arrive you are just certain of its arrival. You know it on some level, even as the event is happening, but that doesn’t blunt the piercing tip of the blade that finds the soft spot in you and cuts deeply. You hoped for a miracle for her, for…

    Lou Faber