an old writer and his words

  • DEEP

    Deep beneath the Arctic icethe whale songs shimmerin the harsh lightof a frozen sun.We strive to hear them,hear nothing, hear onlyour thoughts echoingthrough cavernous memories.With thoughts of what was,what we wish had been,we are ambient noisein a universe whichcradles hope, craves silence.Dolphins dream of dayswhen the sea was theirs,lives lived in a slow paradisea world…

    Lou Faber

  • “Geography”

    People of the mountainare quiet, some say taciturnpreferring to listen for the cryof the eagle, wind whistlingits familiar tune through a passsnow rent from the facetearing down in a crystalline cloud. People of the shoremerge with the songof the waves, feel its tempopunctuated by the barkof the whale, the hornanchored in the harbor,the tavern disgorgingits…

    Lou Faber

  • BIG ISLAND

    It is his hands you notice first – dark fingers bent and gnarled, several banded in silver, knuckles scratched by the cat curled at his feet, the tip of his index finger sacrificed to a distraction and the saw, untrimmed nails, rough, ragged a torn cuticle, liver spot rubbed raw. The fingers curl gently around the…

    Lou Faber

  • RETURN FROM NINEVAH

    Jonah, what color is the sun at dawn?           Black as the night preceding it Jonah, what is the odor of spring?           That of rotting rincinus Jonah, what shall we say to a crying baby?           The gates of Ninevah will be…

    Lou Faber