This night
in cold moonlight
earth rises up
clouds float down
ghosts walk the margin.
Old ones sing
now shall be then
older ones still sing
then shall be once
to wolf and coyote.
In this season of north winds
sun’s heat barren
spirits rise up
dreams descend
man lies interspersed.
Women sing
we are bearers
men sing
we are sowers.
First appeared in Dipity, Vol. 3, April 2023
Yesterday is but a shadow
and tomorrow an illusion.
Do not wallow in the mud
of attempted memory, do
not sink in the mire
of deluded anticipation.
Stop, listen to the sun
and the moon sing
of the Dharma, hear
the silence it brings
for you are alive
in this moment,
and there is
no other moment
in which you can live.
A reflection on Case 3 of the Blue Cliff Record (Hekiganroku 碧巌録)
Across Bedford Avenue
in the fourth floor window
the antique bird print
is bathed in the light
of a Chinese ginger jar lamp.
Her shadow dances
across the wall, arms
wrapped tightly around herself
in the sway of Terpsichore
singing her melancholy song.
I hear only
the cacophony of the drunk
on the corner
braying to the moon
and the rumble
of the lorry
on Tottenham Court Road.
First Published in The Globe Review, Issue 2, April 2023
https://heyzine.com/flip-book/4f02f9b80a.html
In yet another sign of age
I realize I simply cannot
enjoy much of today’s music.
I know it has merit, I know
most love it, sales and downloads
don’t lie, but it doesn’t work for me.
I want the music of the 80s, the 70s,
or even the late 60s, but with,
dare I say it, a bit of a twist.
I want the older music to come
from a different room of the house
the older the farther from my ears,
as though distance and time
were intimately related, and
when one song piques my interest
I can walk back into
my youth to hear it more clearly
as I did when it first touched my ears.
Step outside
listen carefully
to the morning breeze
hear its song
enjoying it
silently
lips not moving
your voice
a chorus.
Why is it that so many songwriters
have an intense need, a desire really,
to leave the listener wondering
in frustration at how the story ends.
I can forgive Leonard Cohen for his
Hallelujah for no one is quite certain
how many verses he wrote, although
more than 80 seems to be the number,
so perhaps a missing one or ten
concludes the various stories
the song has told through time.
And Harry Chapin did give us
an ending of sorts to Taxi,
in his song Sequel, but even there
he left the door ajar, but he died
too young, so any subsequent sequels
went to the grave with him.
And one offender I cannot yet forgive
is the Ode to Billy Joe, since really,
he’s gone but that wasn’t enough
for brother, and you’d think
he would have a name since
he married Becky Thompson,
and what kind of store did they buy,
why in Tupelo, was she from there, and
what, if anything, do we know about her?
This morning as the bell
signaled the end of morning zazen
the whistling ducks took up
their song, circling the wetland
as if inviting me to photograph them.
They quickly grew bored waiting
and flew off to a place
I do not know, can not imagine.
Perhaps they will return
this afternoon, circle
in a duck like pose as I capture
them with the long lens, and this
will satisfy them for another day,
but perhaps they will not return
and punish me again
for my morning absence.
You misunderstand me, he said,
I did not ask you to write a poem
about a flower, anyone can do that,
I asked you to write a poem with a flower.
Do not ask me what the poem
will be about, ask the flower, but
first you must learn to speak
the language of the flowers.
If you find this difficult, consult
the sky, it is fluent in almost all
species of plant life, mother to
them at one time or another.
When you have finished, cast it
to the morning breeze, that
it might find purchase somewhere
and sing its song to a new audience.
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
We took private dance lessons,
she already versed in the dance,
a natural grace and flow, and I
moving with seemingly fused hips,
unsteady, bordering on clumsy.
As we went on, it began to come
to me, never graceful, but no longer
embarassing to myself nor her,
and the teacher said I could be
a natural, a kind and gentle lie.
At our wedding we glided around
the floor, a slower Eastern swing,
and when the song ended, I smiled
knowing that I had found the one
an old writer and his words 