an old writer and his words

  • IMAGINE THAT

    There is a certain joy in writing fiction,for many readers will assume the protagonistis the author or at least partially basedon the author, never pausing to considerthat the villains and lesser charactersare just as likely to be based to some extenton the author or bits of his or her life.And often the readers are not…

    Lou Faber

  • THE HERMIT

    The hermit livesin the shadowof the great mountainlistening to the symphonyof the bluebirdand the wild Roseengulfed by the sky,the meandering streamhis constant companion.I live in a cityin a sea of city dwellerseach of us prisonersmarching from cellto cell, with passing nods.we hear only solitudeand are blindto the ever shifting clouds.Kuan Yin sitsin her templeand whispers…

    Lou Faber

  • DYING TO KNOW

    Last week my doctor saidI really needed to updatemy Advance Directiveand Living Will. There isnothing more joyous thantelling doctors whento pull the plug and let youslip away into the crematorium.And now that I did, I realizeI must redo it for it is onlywhen I can no longer writea poem that I will be sufficientlyfar gone…

    Lou Faber

  • WHY, OH WHY

    He was awash in questions. What, he wanted to know, did they use to cut the mustard? A knife seemed excessive, or did they mean some lesser powdered spice. Why was the cat in the bag? How do you learn anything by bruising your hand on books? Do buckets cause foot infections that kill you?…

    Lou Faber

  • ONE THING

    It is probably a good thinggranddaughter, that you have neverbothered to ask me what one, whatsingular piece of advice I wouldleave you with, not that I amanticipating an imminent departure. It isn’t because I doubt that youwould care about or believe what Ihave to say although I may wellstand corrected if you asked onlyout of…

    Lou Faber

  • ELAPSED TIME

    Time measured outin a slow twistingof a fork, pitchedinto day’s heartbleeding heatas pulses fade.Tequila breezeblows acrossthe verandahpalms rustlingto rhythms of lifebodies snatchedcarried off, placesunseen, unimagined.Wings float upliftedher face in sleepserene, feline.Night’s morphine dripedges into sleepdreams of her touchcloses eyesto phoenix’s ascension. First published in The Berlin Literary Review, Issue 01, May 2023https://theberlinliteraryreview.com/issue-one/

    Lou Faber

  • FELIS CATUS

    When you live with the cat,which is to say when a catallows you to live in her home,you quickly learn a wholenew language, a few words hers,mono- or bisyllabic, words for yes,food, brush, clean up my litter,and in our case even thank you, rarely used.And you expand your own vocabularyas well, for English is often…

    Lou Faber

  • FOR THE DEPARTED

    I have a good friend wholikes to say that divorce isthe worst thing you can experience.He has never married, we allnote, and wonder if it is becauseof a fear of divorce or of failure.Those of us who have beenthrough the sausage mill that ismore than a metaphor for divorcewould tell him that divorceis a return…

    Lou Faber

  • WINDOW 101

    I thought I heard the weatherman say there will be intermittent weather tomorrow. Perhaps I misheard, and in a rare moment of absolute honesty he said there will be intermittent periods when the forecast will be accurate tomorrow. That was probably it. It makes sense, and there is a fair chance it will prove to…

    Lou Faber

  • SO TO SPEAK

    One of the obvious problemswith growing older is the tendencyto begin using phrases you always detestedwhen young: “back in the day,” and it’sequivalents maddened you in your youthand are now a common element of your vernacular. Worse still is the knowledge that the dayswhich you seem to lovingly recallweren’t all that good as you lived…

    Lou Faber