an old writer and his words

  • TONGUES

    Ninety-six years ago today Women gained the right to vote. It would be another five before those who preceded the lot of us were blessed with citizenship, the least we could offer, after our prior gifts of disease, alcoholism and down sizing. Who, our forebears must have imagined, wouldn’t want to live somewhere they had…

    Lou Faber

  • ANCESTORS

    He clearly remembers standing on the edge peering down into the almost bottomless canyon, listening to the narrow river slide across the rocks thrown down by its walls over millennia. He was a visitor here, knew he would stay only briefly, then leave, his spirit hiding among the rocks in the nearby mountains, staring down…

    Lou Faber

  • FEATHERS

    He crouched in the hollow in the ancient cliff careful not to disturb the bones scattered just in the shadows behind. He waited patiently until he heard the sweep of the great wings and the mighty bird alighted on its nest. He reached out quickly and plucked two feathers never more, and pulled back into…

    Lou Faber

  • CHINDI

    Drum beats rhythm turtle rattle shakes Night walks eating sky earth swallows its children. Wolf howls stalking souls.

    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

  • AWAITING

    He strains mightily to hear the sound of a wolf. He knows the voice of coyote well, and here they are ever-present. But wolf is a different creature. He knows coyote will try to take the shape and voice of wolf. But an elder such as he can tell the difference. Wolf is his totem,…

    Lou Faber

  • GONE

    The salmon people don’t live here anymore you have moved them up the river, then inland so they no longer need to wander. The salmon do not swim here anymore you have dammed the rivers to draw out their power and penned the mighty fish where the river first licks the sea. The eagle doesn’t…

    Lou Faber

  • CANYON

    He stands  on the edge of the canyon and peers into the river etched below. At first you think he is considering jumping, but his gaze is too studious, as if he is waiting for some particular moment. You are correct, he is waiting for a particular moment and when it arrives he shouts at…

    Lou Faber

  • COYOTE SONG

    Down at the butt end of the arroyo is a pond, an aneurysm in the stream that runs down from the mountains for better than a month each spring. The twisted, gnarled mesquite cluster around it, like children gazing at a corpse in utter fascination who dare not approach lest it become real and touch…

    Lou Faber

  • ON THE MESA

    I sit outside, on the mesa, having watched the mauve, fuchsia and coral sky finally concede to night. The two orange orbs sit twenty yards away, staring back and in this moment coyote and I have known each other for moments, for generations, and we are content. Coyote tells me he was once an elder living…

    Lou Faber