an old writer and his words

  • SEASONS

    Here we measure seasonsby small changes in temperatureand for one, heavy rainfall. We are the calendar reliant,otherwise left to look at the moonand count to ascertain roughly what month it might be, butwe now live in a solar calendarworld so our lunar effortsare necessarily doomed to failure. And holidays are different here,Christmas has no snow,so…

    Lou Faber

  • HARLECH CASTLE

    I stood on the rampartsthat cold, wet morninglooking out over the waitingIrish Sea, this day offeringonly rain and a November chill. Write haiku, she said to usand I thought of Bashoand Issu who never stoodon a 13th Century Welshfortress and never imaginedwriting about Llywelyngreat or not nearly so. In the rain and chillI scribbled furiously,retreated…

    Lou Faber

  • WEATHER KARMA

    It never rainedwhen I visited Senso-jiand Todai-ji Temples.I attributed this to goodfortune, the Buddhaclearing the skiesfor my visit.The young monksaid the Buddhacares nothingfor weather, soI should thankthe Japan MeteorologicalAgency although theynever seem to givehim the weatherhe truly wants.

    Lou Faber

  • UNANSWERED

    There are so many questions for which I have never gotten an answer. What, for instance, does one who is lactose intolerant cry over? If the rest is history, can’t we just stop now and read it later? And if every cloud has that silver lining, it has been well seeded, so why isn’t it…

    Lou Faber

  • SIX FEET UNDER

    I remember the afternoonwas cold and damp, with a persistentdrizzle that escapedthe clustered umbrellas,the sky a blanket slowly sheddingthe water that soaked itas it sat out on the clothesline. I suspect you would haveliked it this way, everyone in attendance,everyone shuffling their feet,wanting to look skyward,knowing they would see onlya dome of black umbrella domes.…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING SKY

    The morning skymaculate with tiny cloudsscattered about the endless blue,denied the promised rain. The wind grew angryhaving nothing to propelthrough the azure emptinessand rifled the trees seeking music. There is nothing to knowon such mornings, no languageneeded or permitted, there is onlythe sky awaiting the sun’s arrival. We are invited to watch,asked to gaze deeply…

    Lou Faber

  • SPRING

    She says her favorite monthis May, when spring’s gripis tightest, but most of allshe cherishes the rain.She is intimate with the rain,there is a privacy that onlyshe can concede, if she wants.She can take a drop of rainand it is hers alone, she needonly share it with the sky,it is always clean on her tongue.She…

    Lou Faber

  • LAMBERT FIELD

    The gravestones, in random shapes line the hill the morning chillcreeps between them and onto the runway until washed awayby the spring sun slowly pushing upwardas the jet noise washes the hill unheard He passed away quietly in his bed ending his dreadof the cancer slowly engulfing him his vision dimmedby the morphine that pulsed…

    Lou Faber

  • RETIRED

    God sits at his easel, brush in handand thinks about the butterflyalighting on the oak.This man would rather paintthe nightmare of hell, buthe has been cast out andhis memory has grown dim.He remembers being a small childamused by the worm peeringfrom soil in a fresh rain and howwhen he split it, both halveswould slither awayin…

    Lou Faber

  • SHOWERS

    We sat on our lanai last nightin our twin rockers, the catcurled close by but carefullyremoved from the rockersand stared into the sky hopingmeteors would grace uswith their fleeting presence. The moon did appear, shroudedin thin clouds, spectral ghostwaxing slowly in hiding, butthe stars had fled this night,fearing the rain thatthe cloud mantle promised. We…

    Lou Faber