He arrived today
although none saw him coming.
He had been here before,
been quickly ignored,
despite his pleas and prayers,
they twisted his words
to suit their venal desires,
his message forever lost in translation.
They were not ready,
and in their hate fueled world,
they might never be.
Asking saints to intercede
is something quite new to me,
having never considered that saints
were people whom I might seek out.
I’ve started carefully, only
seeking saints who hang
on my family tree, Margaret,
Itta, Begga, Adela, Arnulf,
and I’ve vowed to ask nothing
for myself, for karma will
see to me one way or another,
so I ask only for those in need.
I don’t know if the saints
will respond, or how I would
know if they did, but my wife says
that prayer never hurts,
and I cannot argue with that.
We want to cry out,
but we have no words.
We want to scream
but all we give is silence.
We want to curse the invader
but cannot be heard
over the tanks, bombs
and rockets.
We want to mourn
but there are so many
innocents, where
do we begin?
We want to act,
but we are incapable
and can offer
only silent prayer.
Arising into night
the departing sun
tangos away with its cloud,
memories soon forgotten.
Other dancers take the stage,
now a romance, now
a war dance, feathers raised
in prayer to unseen gods.
Night will soon bring
its curtain across this stage,
the avian casts’ final bows taken
the theater will darken, awaiting
another performance,
a new script tomorrow,
but for this solitary moment
of frozen grace, it is we
who write the conversation,
our lines sung by actors who
know only nature’s
unrelenting song.
First Published in Half Hour to Kill, August 2022
https://halfhourtokill.com/home/approaching-night-by-louis-faber
I remember the afternoon
was cold and damp, with a persistent
drizzle that escaped
the clustered umbrellas,
the sky a blanket slowly shedding
the water that soaked it
as it sat out on the clothesline.
I suspect you would have
liked it this way, everyone in attendance,
everyone shuffling their feet,
wanting to look skyward,
knowing they would see only
a dome of black umbrella domes.
I recited the necessary prayers,
kept a reasonable pacing
despite the looks of many urging
me to abridge the service, but
the rain didn’t care about their wishes
and I knew you wouldn’t
so I carried on to the conclusion.
As they lowered your coffin
into the puddled grave, I imagined
you laughing, knowing in the end
you had this day gotten the last one.
First Published in The Poet Magazine – Featured Poetry
https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/august-2022
1
In Asakusa
amid the stalls
of trinkets and swords
why do the gaijin
all speak German,
Italian, Spanish and Swedish
and English is reserved
to a couple if Nisei.
2
In a small laundromat
in Akasaka
an old woman
clucks and shuffles
on wooden sandals
pulling kimonos
from the dryer.
My t-shirts
are still damp.
3
In Shibuya
there is a small
storefront pet shop,
its windows full
of cat ryokan
some with beds
others replete
with toys, balls.
In the largest
a tiger striped Persian
sleeps, her back
to the passing crowds.
4
At Meiji Jingu
I toss my coin
and bow in prayer
hopeful that the gods
speak English.
5
On the Ginza line
a young woman
all in black
carries a carefully
wrapped poster
of John Lennon.
In thirty years
she will look
like Yoko Ono.
First published in Around the World: Landscapes & Cityscapes, Sweetycat Press, 2021
Hands touch
silently
いただきます
we humbly
receive
the meal
a prayer
of thanks
to all
who planted
who harvested
who sold
who bought
who prepared
who enabled
いただきます
said each meal
a silent
reminder
of thanks
itadakimasu
Arising into night
the departing sun
tangoes away with its cloud,
memories soon forgotten.
Other dancers take the stage,
now a romance, now
a war dance, feathers raised
in prayer to unseen gods.
Night will soon bring
its curtain across this stage,
the avian cast’s final bows taken
the theatre will darken, awaiting
another performance,
a new script tomorrow,
but for this solitary moment
of frozen grace, it is we
who write the conversation,
our lines sung by actors who
know only nature’s
unrelenting song.
The birds in the wetland
speak to me in my dreams,
telling tales of what this place
was before we arrived
and forever changed it.
They don’t curse us, although
they remind us we are cursed
by our own actions, but
they do pity us, ground bound
living in our own waste.
In the morning the birds
have disappeared, a few
vultures carrying off the bodies
left by the bobcats whose
territory we have made our own.
At night I say a prayer
for the departed birds, and in
my dreams they come again,
and reject my prayer as hollow
and seeking only absolution.
When I was a child, a Rabbi told me
that I did have the ability,
to be used sparingly always,
to petition God for some good.
I filed this away with other stories
from the Torah, pillars of salt,
stone tablets, a flood worse than
the one that filled our basement.
At some point I needed something,
recollections are fortunately vague
now, and petitioned God in the most
humble terms I could imagine.
Nothing, happened, of course,
and when I asked the Rabbi, he said
either you didn’t need it, or perhaps
God was busy meting out justice.
I hope whoever was meted out
justice that day really deserved it,
because all the stories said God’s
justice was the end all of you.
an old writer and his words 