an old writer and his words

  • FOOTHILLS

    The clouds well upover the foothillscasting a gray pall,bearing the angry spiritsof the chindi who danceamid the scrub juniper.Brother Serra, was thiswhat you found, wanderingalong the coast, tendingthe odd sheep, Indianand whatever elsecrossed your path? The blue birdhopping across the dried grassespuffing its grey breastplate and capesitting back, its long tail feathersa perfect counterbalance.It stares…

    Lou Faber

  • THIRST

    A man stands on the peak of a hill,staring down into the valley below him,but it is not clear what he is staring at. Standing in the valley, by the bankof a slowly flowing river, I stareup the tall hill to its peak, and see the clouds gather around the manas if soon to swallow…

    Lou Faber

  • A DAY

    a day,clouds drop rainreplacing tearslocked insidestones and clothred and blueunseparatedstill worlds apartorderly ranksall at attentionand silencethundering angera mad worldsoaked in peaceonly untilmidnight. Publsihed in New Feathers Anthology (Summer 2020)http://www.newfeathersanthology.com/a-day.html

    Lou Faber

  • TUESDAY TRUTH: THE SPIDER

    Several things you need to understand. First, and foremost, a waterspout is a term no one around here has used in centuries, unless you mean a tornadic columnar vortex of water, and trust me, we spiders avoid those like the plague. Shocking, I know, but with eight legs we cannot swim. At best some of…

    Lou Faber

  • WRITING MEMORY

    It is well past time I wrote a poem about the great joys of my childhood, for memory should bubble up like lava through the crust of time, they should rain in flashes as so much matter dropping into the atmosphere in their ultimate light show. This isn’t going to happen, of course, whether because…

    Lou Faber

  • CARTOGRAPHY

    On the map are neatly etched lines drawn by a fine stylus in a skilled hand separating blue from yellow. This soil is cinnamon there tending to mahogany no line, only a post here, one there and a gun emplacement to deter those who cannot see a line writ on water. In the wind the…

    Lou Faber

  • SUMMER SONGS

    the dangling green orbs hang beneath the verdant leaves dreaming of summer. sweat rolls down my back the noon sun stares angrily forgotten winter evening sky darkens is it the approach of night or simple summer rain?

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING SICKNESS

    Early this morning the sky was pregnant with the rain that would inundate our afternoon, the sun a struggling visitor then, deciding the battle was lost and sliding away behind the clouds. It is afternoon now and our thoughts of the morning have been washed away, the plants no longer thirsty, risk drowning. We live…

    Lou Faber

  • LOWERING

    When they lowered my grandmother’s casket into the sodden earth, there wan’t a dry eye, shoulder or leg, around. She would’ve laughed aloud, her children always too busy for a visit now soaked to the skin in a cold, windy downpour, all but me, the one she chose to conduct the service, the funeral director…

    Lou Faber

  • PALETTE

    He is for it or he is against it, and if you could predict the vacillations you could develop the means of measuring the flux of sanity. You could as easily grasp the water flowing downriver and by asking select questions determine the next heavy rain, but the odds are good you will be outside…

    Lou Faber