an old writer and his words

  • GOOD RIDDANCE

    I still marvel at the waythe mind can rewritethe narrative arc of memories,taking away sharp edges,eroding or erasing sometoo painful to relive, andbringing others outfrom deep storage, somelargely forgotten, to bebattled with in dreams,demons wrestled to submission. In my dreams I have hada final conversation withmy step-sibling, whotold me of my father’sdeath in a text…

    Lou Faber

  • FINAL TEST

    If he were graded solelyon effort, he would havereceived a B+ but life doesn’tallow such a narrow view. He had no father, no modelso he stumbled through lookingat others, unsure which were rightwhich were botching the job. He bought an ancient firstbaseman’s glove from Goodwillthe only left-handed glove they hadand I taught him to use…

    Lou Faber

  • PRAVDA

    If I was in Russia Iwould have no problemfinding a title for this poemfor it would be The Last. I would write that I mournthe children, men, and womensacrificed to assuage hiswarped need for domination. I would write that I detesthis disregard of truth,supplanting it with his liesto justify his megalomania. I would write that…

    Lou Faber

  • SMALL REFLECTION

    It is that moment when the moonis a glaring crescent,slowly engulfed bythe impending night—when the few clouds give outtheir fading glowin the jaundiced lightof the sodium arc street lamp.It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—when touched, a twisted piece of root. I want to walk into the weed-strewnaging cemetery, stand in the shadowof the…

    Lou Faber

  • VICTOR

    In our timeof never-ending war,punctured by the briefestlulls we now call peace,someone, someonesmore likely, will talkabout whom will bethe victor, to whomshall go the spoils.Bierce, that perpetualcynic, reminded usthat peace was a periodof cheating betweentwo periods of fighting.But no one pausesto consider thatin any war there areno true victorsonly the victimsunwillingly offered upin sacrifice to…

    Lou Faber

  • LIFE, ABBREVIATION

    Arrival noted, 11:30 P.M.delivery normal, babyprepared for agency, motherreleased in two days, babyto foster care, thento adoptive parents. No memories, save one,a fall, bathroom, headbleeding, black and whitefloor tile, radiator harderthan child’s skull. Now 70, the same person,a lying mirror each day,a small cemetery, WestVirginia, a headstonea mother finally,a life of mourning.

    Lou Faber

  • WE FIND OURSELVES

    We are wholly innocentwe are wracked with guilt.There is nothing we did,but what is there that wedid not do, that we should have done, that wemight have said so it wouldnever have happened, orhappened less, or happeneddespite everything we did? We carry our innocenceas a badge, we wear our guiltas an albatross around our neck,dragging…

    Lou Faber

  • THE NATURAL KEY TO HEAVEN

    The hawk sits on a branchlooking up at the sky, knowingthis is perfection, lifting upchasing a cloud, floating lazily. The butterfly flits from plantto plant, tasting the fruitsthat nature has given her,perfection in a single moment. The cat sleeps on a rockerthe breeze rustling her coat,until waking for dinnerwhich appears at her request. We spend…

    Lou Faber

  • LISA, ONCE

    A phone call, a lawyer’s clerk:Can you tell me about Lisa Landesman?I pause for that is a name I havenot heard in forty years, savein a poem I once wrote,now long forgotten. She was my sister for twoor three weeks, adopted like I was,and then Mike, my then fatherdropped dead of a massiveheart attack and…

    Lou Faber

  • CASSANDRA IN FLORIDA

    She is large, and largely immobileand occupies the bench by the roadthat encircles the property like a noose. She does this each day, a crustor more of stale bread tucked awayin a pocket of her always floral housedress that envelopes herand the bench she occupiesas a monarch on her throne. The ibis see her coming…

    Lou Faber