an old writer and his words

  • MY SORT OF SISTER

    I don’t remember her crib,but it was probably the one that Ihad only recently outgrown, butthe wood was polished pine,the rails topped with plasticthat I had dented with some cribtoy or other, the mattress soft,a mobile hanging off the end.She cried a lot at first, and mothersaid that was what babies did,but she said I…

    Lou Faber

  • A FROSTY RECEPTION

    I truly wish Robert Frost was still aliveso I could ask him where he foundthat yellow wood of his poem.The woods I know are mostly pinein the Adirondacks, or mixed hardwoodsand when autumn arrives they greet itin shades of green, red, orangeochre and yes, some yellow,but hardly enough to givethe forest that titular color.And even…

    Lou Faber

  • WHITE BREAD

    He was nondescript, innocuous. He named his dog Dog. His cat was called Cat. He grew daring with his parakeet and named it Wings. He wore beige from head to toe. Even his Sunday best, his “weddings and funerals suit” he called it, was beige. People wondered if his underwear was beige. He swore that…

    Lou Faber

  • WE ARE IN KANSAS, TOTO

    In my dream, the worldwas at peace, and I was ridingacross Kansas on a unicycle, towingmy car, packed to the windows,my dog walking alongside urgingme to speed up because shewanted to visit South Dakota.I am due for a tricycle, Iremind the dog, “the gravemore likely,” she respondswith a sneer that teeters betweenlove and spite, always…

    Lou Faber

  • RINZAI PLANTS A PINE 鐵笛倒吹 十八

    If you have a seed in your pocket what will you do with it? Even a small seed planted carefully in the middle of a forest may take hold and grow. Tamp the soil with your toe three time, three times again secure in knowing this tree will never provide you shade. A reflection on…

    Lou Faber

  • DRAPERY

    It was draped over the fence, a bridge for squirrels who would otherwise would go through the chain. There’s a sadness to its needles, many burying themselves in the accumulated snow, cast off by the great Spruce as extraneous, an old coneless branch, “that is the reason” the trunk whispers in the wind “why I…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING

    one thousand fingers gently fold one thousand cranes our tears are countless. red sandstone plateaus coyote stalks through scrub pine chindi howl assent in the Norway Spruce pine cones threaten to descend. Squirrels sit waiting.

    Lou Faber

  • HAWKING AUTUMN

      The hawks have been circling more frequently of late, but in the early autumn laziness of merely riding the breezes that seem to pick up in the mornings, before the midday sun bids them be calm so it can make its transit. By afternoon, they tend to roost high up in the giant pines,…

    Lou Faber

  • ON THIS NIGHT

    On this night the moon retreats from the sky, leaving the stars to play hide and seek behind broken clouds. The silence is enfolding, save for the whistle of a distant train traversing the city, and the whisper of the wind caressing the needles of the pine who answer wih a passionate moan.

    Lou Faber

  • HAWK

    A red tailed hawk watches carefully from the tall pine that stands proud in the next yard. It is not clear for what he is watching, perhaps it is nothing at all, or something my human vision cannot discern. I stare at him, but he does not return my stare, and after some time lifts…

    Lou Faber