an old writer and his words

  • PLAYIN’ WHAT’S NOT THERE

    Some say Miles said it’s the space between the notes –that’s where the music is.We heard him, we smiled,we anticipated the nextnote and the next.Outside my windowa blue jayrecites his morning prayer,the child’s laughbreaks the frozen skyand shivers the maple.Then all is silence –even the windholds its breathnot in anticipationbut to create the voidthat nature…

    Lou Faber

  • VICARIOUSLY

    I wonder how my life would bedifferent if just once duringmy childhood I had imaginedthere was a ghost under my bedor a skeleton buried in the garden.I read books with thosescenes and I felt deprived.My friends said that I lackedimagination, and I was ableto imagine them fallingvictim to ghosts that inhabitedtheir homes, were carried offby…

    Lou Faber

  • A FROSTY RECEPTION

    I truly wish Robert Frost was still aliveso I could ask him where he foundthat yellow wood of his poem.The woods I know are mostly pinein the Adirondacks, or mixed hardwoodsand when autumn arrives they greet itin shades of green, red, orangeochre and yes, some yellow,but hardly enough to givethe forest that titular color.And even…

    Lou Faber

  • BANG

    His day ended much as it began, nothing happening. He wanted something to happen if only to break the eternal monotony. Yes, people came and went outside his window but that hardly counted as something happening. If one had taken flight, that would be something. If one instantly vaporized, that would be something. If the…

    Lou Faber

  • NEATLY PRESSED

    I have decided to stopwearing the only suit I now own.It is the one I only wear to weddingsor to funerals, or a bar mitzvah.the problem is that it needsto be a happy, if only slightly,suit and lately it seemsdeaths outnumber weddingsand Bar or Bat Mitzvahsonly count as neutral nowthat I no longer practice Judaism.I…

    Lou Faber

  • STORM

    We walked slowly alongfeet sinking in the sandafter waves swallowed the sun.We could smell its approachbefore the first winds sweptashore pushing sands againstbeach chairs turned for night.Two dogs ran over dunesknowing what would come,drawn by clatter of hammersplacing plywood shuttersover windows and doors.Clouds, an ebony pall, gatheredmocking, waiting for a momentwhen the lid would be…

    Lou Faber

  • ACCORDING TO PLAN

    It was all carefully planned and scripted. It had been rehearsed and modeled to account for and correct any possible failure. This one would go off without a hitch. Her first certainly, but finally attainable after years of close calls but ultimate failures. Nothing would, could, get in the way of success. The music started,…

    Lou Faber

  • IT’S BACK

    Professional football is here againthe only real question is whichof us, and many of us shallgrow frustrated by our team,will curse their ineptitude andheaven forbid, write offthe rest of the seasonand watch games based solelyon the quality of the teams playing.Then there are the occasional onesof us who are certain they are a jinxand only…

    Lou Faber

  • A STRANGE LIFE

    The sun rose this morning,as if the day was not in anyway out of the ordinary, daysgone far too large to countfor those with finite capacity.The birds begin, their harmoniouscacophony, though they thinkit is their lauds, matins of reflectionburned off with the dew underthe gentle glare of a late spring sun.They watch us begin to…

    Lou Faber

  • JAILER

    The purpose of a photograph is simplyto capture a memory, to imprison itmore accurately, to allow it to bewhere you can always find it. Never mind that any prisonergrows prematurely old, losesvitality, slips down a slope thatinevitably result in death . Often, the photo will fade, losecolor as the event slips intothe fog of time,…

    Lou Faber