an old writer and his words

  • TREPIDATION

    I approach it slowly, overcomeby fear and desire, warned to stepcarefully over the uneven earththat on this hillside haven set behindthe rusting wrought iron fence , itsmaster lock dangling askew, peersout through the trees to the Kanawha riverflowing unknowingly through the valley. The stone is set in line with the others,neatly incised, a name, Englishand…

    Lou Faber

  • NATURAL LOGIC

    Nature has a way of applyinga perfect logic that eludesits most complex creatures,we claiming to be first among them. Nature grants the houseflya quite short life, but allows itto see a thousand images at once,a lifetime of vision in mere days. The tortoise is consigned to crawlalong at a laggard’s pace, outrunby other animals, who…

    Lou Faber

  • SHELVED

    They speak of me, never to me,with terms like breakage, as thoughlife, mine at least, is a glass bottleon a shelf with so many others,and a certain percentage are pre-assumed to break and be discardedand no one will bat an eyelash. To them I am nameless, one of many,stock in trade, with no provenance,or at…

    Lou Faber

  • TOO LATE

    Do those, whoimagine themselves leaders,or smarter and betterthan the rest of us, andwho deny science, (no,the amassing of moneyis not a law of physics)plan to take up swimming? Or will they waituntil the bears areat their door, theirwhite coats grayedby the lastbelches of soggycoal, and then bemoanthe fact thattheir yachts havefloated off onthe rising seasthat…

    Lou Faber

  • ME ME

    Coming soon perhapsbut hard to saychoose carefully a moment whenmeme andavatarmerge and youcease to exist or exist twiceand whichyou isreal is leftto others but that youis immortalnow unlessbeset bya magneticcatastrophe, butyou’ll likelybe ashes andshould notgive a damn.

    Lou Faber

  • A LOST PEN

    I wrote a poem for my father,about how one afternoonthe oddly green ’57 Caddyappeared in the drivewayand he polished its chrome for hours,even waxed the black bumper bullets.It was the love of his lifehe said, except for his wife,he added after a moment.The years would provethat addition was most likely false.I could send him the…

    Lou Faber

  • INTIMATIONS OF MORTALITY

    It is easier to think about deathon a wintery evening, when so muchof life slips into stasis, and there isnothing to do but concede your mortality,and with good fortune, then slipinto sleep before being lostin a sea of depression. I must be thankful for my dreamsfor they keep the night from becomingthe little death of…

    Lou Faber

  • I SPEND THE EMPTY HOURS

    I spend considerable time thinkingabout what it is that I am, what is I,whether Descartes’ God or Spinoza’scould possibly exist, or must if I can havemeaning beyond self-reflection, needinga godly mirror, and image reflected.Cogito, on what basis can I draw that conclusionwhat logical proof, carefully constructed willnot fall under the weight of the axiom, cogito…

    Lou Faber

  • BATTLESHIP

    As a child I played Battleshipon a square grid, the ships markedby hand, one for each of the players,we were efficient by necessity. My sons played Battleship, thoughunder a different name in deferenceto my hatred of things martial,on an electrically wired board. My grandchildren haven’t yetdiscovered the game, now playedon their iPads and iPhones, but…

    Lou Faber

  • ANCIENT AMONG ANCIENTS

    As we walked slowly through the Forumthe Coliseum receding into the lateafternoon, the Virgins stood patientlyas befits a priestess trained to avoidthe stares of passing men, even touristssuch as we were, the columns staringdown reminding us of our youth despite the birthdays that we celebratedwith the joy of togetherness, andthe nagging knowledge that we wereanother…

    Lou Faber