As kids every couple of weeks
we’d take our allowances,
go down to the variety store
and buy the latest DC comic.
Larry and I would spend
that afternoon imagining
we were whatever superhero
was featured in our new,
and now most prized book.
Jimmy was with us
all the way, but admitted
he wanted to be Lex Luthor or
or the Joker, or better still
Solomon Grundy.
So we probably should not
have been surprised that
while I became a lawyer
and Larry a classics professor,
Jimmy became a politician.
He said he sent God an email
but got no response until, after three days,
he got a bounce back saying the account
had been closed for lack of payment.
A few hours on the internet yielded
a heavenly website, and after another hour
digging down into the site map, he found
a tiny hot link to the Contact Us page,
and there a phone number he
immediately called. What could be better
than asking God directly, he figured.
He should have known better, and did
when on the third ring the phone was answered
and the recording began, “For Jewish, Press 1;
for Catholic and most Protestants, Press 2;
for Muslims, Press 3; For atheists
and non-believers, Press 4.
He pressed two and was told the office
was only open for calls on Sunday from 6 AM
until noon, and occasional Saturday afternoons.
Unsatisfied he called back, pressed 1 and learned
the phone would only be answered Friday night or
Saturday, though he doubted anyone worked then.
He tried 4 on the next call and was transferred
to a line that seemed to be answered in Norwegian
by someone who he thought said was in the branch
office in Stjordal in Nord-Trondelag.
The afternoon was growing short
and he realized he didn’t really care
about the answer, wasn’t sure
he’d believe it anyway.
First appeared in Dipity Online Literary, February 2023
https://www.vevnaforrow.com/post/heaven-must-wait-by-louis-faber
NOTE: Jazz K, the editor did an amazing job with her treatment of the poem. It is worth a visit for that alone.
There are no monsters
in this lake I tell
my granddaughter, answering
her unasked question.
There are bears in the woods
around here and there
used to be an owl which made
an afternoon visit.
There are deer, certainly
and there could be a coyote
or two. If you don’t
believe me, ask the crows,
everyone knows that they
can never keep a secret.
First published in From the Finger Lakes: A Memoir Anthology, Cayuga Lake Books, 2021
Platform shoes, velour
Nehru jackets, what the hell
were we thinking, and pink
velour, seriously, for men.
At least it was Hendrix, Byrds,
and not Pat Boone and Andy
Williams, almost the death
of music as we know it.
Reefers were evil, told us so,
and when we figured out it was
pot, we begged to differ, frequently
between hits on the bong,
after all joints required a certain
amount of dexterity in the rolling
and tjat progressively slipped away
with the afternoon sun.
Now it’s chardonnay and pinot
and a good reposado or anejo,
or a blanco if company appears
and triple sec then, never Cointreau.
I spent much of the afternoon trying
to imagine you, spending a small part
of an afternoon reading this poem.
I have no clear picture of where you are,
but the chair is well cushioned, and
you sit deeply in it, a glass of some
amber liquid on the glass and metal
end table, just within arm’s reach.
I suppose, since it is early afternoon,
it is iced tea, bit I wish it were a fine
IPA or better still a fine single malt,
though that much would give my poem
a meaning I never imagined, but
that might be an improvement, and
I think I’ll stop here and join you.
The finches sweep
from bush to feeder
in a gentle
inverted parabola
appear head high
with a pride reserved
for those who fly.
The chain link fence
is for them no barrier
but a honeycomb
of perches, full
on a warm February
afternoon, their song
threatening to silence
the heart of winter.
He drops suddenly
from a branch of a tree
which you don’t see
for all of the others.
He lands a foot from you,
you pause suddenly
and he looks up at you,
trying to determine if you
are friend, foe, or lunch.
He concludes you are
not lunch and scurries off
under a nearby bush
on the edge of the pond
where the rocks will
provide the sun
for an afternoon nap.
You gather your wits
and thoughts, knowing
you will retell this story,
but for him, it is just
another day it the life
of your average iguana.
In southern winter
odd-shaped and ungainly birds
fly in gracefully.
The egret peers in
and we peer right back at him
Florida morning.
Alligator lies
still in the afternoon sun
ignoring the birds
and just imagines himself
lying in the mid-day sun.
The afternoon sun
glares off the polished roof tiles
the bells strung on the pagoda
of the small temple
tinkle in the wind.
There are so few
birds in Osaka.
an old writer and his words 