an old writer and his words

  • ADOPTING A NEW SELF

    At some level, he always knew. It was what he hoped, but he had given up hope. He was glad when he was Portuguese, imagined himself on the beach at Estoril or Cascais. Imagination was free and unfettered, and he was a bronze god in those dreams, chiseled of flesh, wanted by all. You don’t…

    Lou Faber

  • ORPHAN

    I was a foundling wandering from Guinness Stout to Ouzo and back, in search of identity. In Schul I would cry out to Him asking, “Who am I?” and He would answer, “you are, you are.” The balalaika of my mother’s grandfather sounded tinny, a cacophony lost in Oporto, Lisboa. On the streets of Vienna…

    Lou Faber

  • SEASIDE VILLANELLE

    The ocean wind swept through the city a sudden rain washed sidewalk, shop and street, carried both dreams and sins back to the sea. For the young child, time slid by easily, life a campaign that allowed no retreat. The ocean wind swept through the city, rattled church windows, so that all could see the…

    Lou Faber

  • CLIFDEN MORNING

    They were meanderers, gypsies of sorts, but never Tinkers, never an lucht siúil. They never travelled far, preferring the comforts of where they called home. They knew they wheren’t liked, weren’t really welcome here. They would be tolerated here perhaps, never fully accepted in good company. But they’d grown too numerous to ignore. They walked slowly across…

    Lou Faber