an old writer and his words

  • IF ONLY

    If there were truly justiceat least of the poetic sortperhaps Van Gogh couldhave been born 75 yearsearlier, and in Viennanot Holland, so that whenhe decided to be ridof an ear he could haveoffered it to Beethovenneither of his workingin his later years. Andif a poet could arrangetime travel using his licensethen he could just as…

    Lou Faber

  • LAMBERT FIELD

    The gravestones, in random shapes line the hill the morning chillcreeps between them and onto the runway until washed awayby the spring sun slowly pushing upwardas the jet noise washes the hill unheard He passed away quietly in his bed ending his dreadof the cancer slowly engulfing him his vision dimmedby the morphine that pulsed…

    Lou Faber

  • ORIGIN

    I am told that I should writeabout my origins, that is the stuffthat long poems are made of, orrather the soil from which they bloom. I have written about my birth motherand visited her grave in West Virginiaseen those of my grandparents, meta cousin, I’ve written all of that. So its time to write aboutmy…

    Lou Faber

  • ASHES TO ASHES

    He says he wants to knowwhat I want done with my ashesknowing I want to be cremated. I tell him I need to thinkabout that for a while, knowingthat “while” could be an evershortening lifespan, but Idare not tell him that, itsimply wouldn’t be acceptablehe would respond, setting offanother endless discussion. I don’t say that…

    Lou Faber

  • CALLING

    In the dark heart of nighttime is suddenly frozen,the clock’s hands stalactitesand stalagmites, unyieldingdenying the approach of morning,leaving the sun imprisonedunder the watchful gazeof its celestial wardens. It is then you appear,call out to me, beg mebe silent, not askingthe lifetime of questionsI have accreted, providingmy own hopes andimagination for answers,but you have faces, notthose…

    Lou Faber

  • REAL TIME

    Reality is clearly something to be avoidedto be dressed up in tattery, tied in ribbons,perfumed, yet its fetid stenchis always lurking in the backgroundwaiting to pierce your nostrilsin an incautious moment until you retchand bring up the bile that marksthe darker moments of your life,the kind that lingers in the throatwhich no chocolate can erase.Reality…

    Lou Faber

  • AFTERLIFE

    In the farthest reachesof the afterlife, the old mengather each day, althoughday and night are meaninglessto them, just assignedfor purposes of the writer. The Buddha recites sutrashoping the others willbe in the moment with him,while Hillel smiles, standson one foot and dreamsof a lean pastrami on ryewith a slice of half sour. Christ muses on…

    Lou Faber

  • ENFORCED SILENCE

    The city is a ghost town,the ghosts peering warilyfrom windows they nowwish they had takenthe time to have cleaned,and now there is timeand no one to clean. They fear the silence,cannot fathom the smellof the air, somethingfaintly like a cool morningfrom their suburban childhoods. They have found pots,pans cast aside or usedfor any purpose otherthan…

    Lou Faber

  • ETERNAL SPRING

    Spring has arrived, however begrudgingly,and the young woman pushesthe older woman’s wheelchairalong the paths of the great park.Neither speaks, but each knowsthis could be the last time they do this.That shared knowledge paintseach flower in a more vibrant hue,each fallen petal is quicklybut individually mourned for,its beauty draining back into the soil.The older woman struggles…

    Lou Faber

  • IN MOURNING

    I will soon enough bein mourning for literatureand philosophy for the momentis approaching when theywill be lost, or I supposesimply subsumed, swallowedup in a cloud appearingmomentarily then gone. The day is rapidly approachingand if you doubt itfor even a moment, goto your local library, ifit has not closed, and notethe diminishing numberof books, replacedby computers,…

    Lou Faber