an old writer and his words

  • ETHEREAL

    She appeared without notice,not there, then there, shehalf angel, half siren, half mad. She appeared like Casseopaiea’sfaint shadow taking form,stepping out of the sudden fog. She was nymphlike, sylphan,demanding attention, cravingthe eyes of all who passed. No one spoke to her, whetherout of fear or disinterest and shegrew angry, larger still, until the full moon…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING SKY

    The morning skymaculate with tiny cloudsscattered about the endless blue,denied the promised rain. The wind grew angryhaving nothing to propelthrough the azure emptinessand rifled the trees seeking music. There is nothing to knowon such mornings, no languageneeded or permitted, there is onlythe sky awaiting the sun’s arrival. We are invited to watch,asked to gaze deeply…

    Lou Faber

  • FROM THE ASHES

    I would like to go backto the days when,after a fire reduceda commericial buildingto charred rubble,the onlookers andthe gawkers wonderedif it was an angrycustomer or employee,or sloppiness orpoor maintenance. Now, we watchas the fire marshalscomb through the ashesand the rubble, lookingnot only for the sourceof the flames but alsothe accelerant, alwayswondering as we dojust how…

    Lou Faber

  • TE SHAN CARRYING HIS BUNDLE

    Enter the room slowly and look carefully,since you are here to find something.There is much within this room, but youcan see nothing save the old man,sitting calmly, staring at nothing, staringthrough you at nothing in particular.You know he is the teacher, the onefor whom you have been searching,Still, he ignores you, staring at nothing.You walk…

    Lou Faber

  • E-MOTION

     She says she is angry and he finds that easy to understand.  He as given up on anger, he finds it too exhausting and ultimately of such little value he has moved permanently on to cynicism and disdain.  She says she finds little benefit in either, and having a certain amount of faith gives her…

    Lou Faber

  • ANGRY, BUT ONLY A LITTLE

    You want it spicy, but just so that the tongue remembers it a moment after the mouth has moved on, a lingering sense of having been present. It should be a mantilla, a shawl, not the blanket some claim, gently caressing, lighting up the plate. Its host, freshly from the rollers, was born for this…

    Lou Faber