an old writer and his words

  • TY NEWYDD

    In the gently aging house,replete with writersthere are endless roomsin which the muse dartsdispensing her soul.I prefer to sit with the catcurled in an overstuffed chairher head risingand falling imperceptiblyour breaths harmonic.We commune in unspoken dialoga language of silencebespeaking volumesof our shared existence. First published in The River, Sandy River Review, March 2024https://sandyriverreview.com/2024/03/30/seeing-you-again-next-stop-riding-ty-newydd/

    Lou Faber

  • TY NEWYDD

    People wondered why I traveledto a remote part of Walesfor a writing workshopwhen there were a limitless supplyat home or in touristy places in the US.I could tell them I was impressedwith the two teachers, I could sayI was to be in Lloyd George’s home.I could say all of that, but in truthalthough I didn’t…

    Lou Faber

  • FALLING

    I fell deeply in love with herstanding in a small jeweler’s shopin Bangor, Wales on a November morning.In truth, cradling a small silverCeltic cross in my handsI knew then that Itaken that plungewithin moments of our meetingand recognition of itwas all that remained.

    Lou Faber

  • WRITING MY STORY

    With the stroke of a pen,they enabled me to write the story,gave a framework on whichI could hang all mannerof dreams and assumptions,inviting a search I neverquite got around to making. I wandered the beachesof Estoril in my dreams,stalked the avenues of Lisbon,looking for a familiar face,but found only ghosts. With the stroke of a…

    Lou Faber

  • ASK OF THE SEA

    When you ask me of the sea,living, as I do, fifteen milesfrom the nearest ocean, itis not the sandy beachesof Hutchinson Island I recall,nor the crowded sandboxthat is Fort Lauderdale’s beach. If you ask me of the sea,it is perched on the horizon,far in the distance, lookingout of the kitchen window,or perhaps that of the…

    Lou Faber

  • HARLECH CASTLE

    stones speak in lost tongues to sheep grazing by the wall clouds gather laughing voices of dead kings echo off cloud shrouded hills she whispers in dreams a November wind cuts deeply across the keep distant hills crying slash of claymore glinting in the morning sun bird with wings unfolded moss encrusted stones remember long…

    Lou Faber

  • CASTLE HARLECH

    High on the battlements of Castle Harlech the winter wind cuts through me like scythes slashing the grasses in the meadows that roll out toward the distant, mute hills. The plaintive cry of bowmen whose bones are dust taken deep into the Welsh soil are whispers lost in the wing sweep of the circling starlings.…

    Lou Faber

  • LLANYSTUMDWY

    The small church is tucked alongside the narrow road, its moss encrusted stones bathed in the November sun. The headstones in the churchyard lean askew, sagging under the weight of time. The weeds sprout up answering to a silent call. We are here, they seem to say, to reclaim our own, and we shall do…

    Lou Faber

  • FALLING IN LOVE, WALES

    I I fell deeply in love with her, I standing in a small jewelers shop in Bangor Wales on a November morning. In truth, cradling a small silver Celtic cross in my hands I knew then that I, taken that plunge within moments of our meeting and recognition was all that remained. II We poets stood…

    Lou Faber

  • BUDDHA IN WALES

    Sitting cross legged I dance between mindfulness and Samadhi, slipping the unmarked boundary until engulfed by the void. Buddha crawls into my lap an utter stillness until she touches my cheek with sand paper tongue and kneads my chest with rhythmic paws. I run my fingers down her spine. We purr, wedded in perfect enlightenment.

    Lou Faber