an old writer and his words

  • SHEPHERDING

    Today I paused to considerhow odd it must be for thoseborn, bred and always livingin a city, say New York, andto sill be a lover of poetry.So many poets, from Keatsto Hirshfield will take youinto nature, bathe you in wordsbeneath a star lit sky, sit youin a meadow, breathing airthat has never known the exhaustof…

    Lou Faber

  • INTO THE BRUSH

    I have carefully peeledback the skin of a hundred snakesand left their twisted formscurled around mesquiteas so many skirts. Canadia geesefollow carefully worn pathsacross an October skyundeterred by storm cloudsgiving chase from the west.A wolf wanders downfrom the tree line to the edgeof the highway. She can tastethe approach of winter,bitter on her tongue, her…

    Lou Faber

  • UNMOVED

    In the community parking lotin the center of Taos,and old pickup sat complacentmore than parked, rustingin spots, last paintedby someone in the late ‘70sperhaps. It might havebeen able to move, but itshowed no desire to do so,tires not flat but wishing so. That was thirteen years ago,and it is likely no longerthere, or collapsed into…

    Lou Faber