an old writer and his words

  • ALBANY, THURSDAY NIGHT

    It is a cheap moteljust off the highway,across from the mallnow almost empty of cars,a room not much biggerthan a bed, a desk anda small nightstand.The diet cola is sweatingdespite the breezeof the air conditioner,the television flickers.I have left a wake up callhoping I arise beforethe jangle of the phoneknowing I will not.Corso lies on…

    Lou Faber

  • THE OLD MAN

    My father was the old mancurled in the hospital bed,his mind and memoriesseeping into the sheetsuntil only the husk remainedand I knew that it, too,would soon be reduced to ash.In my dream I wasthe old man in that bedbut I knew it was not mefor I clearly rememberedmy fading father wellwhile he, in those days,remembered…

    Lou Faber

  • WRITING

    I have a Chinese friendwho says I should write poemsabout pomegranates and chrysanthemums.A Japanese business acquaintance sayspoems should be populated by sakura and Lotus.I tend to think of their advicein the deadest days of winterwhen snow presses against the houseas if seeking its faint warmth.As I thinly sliced the tender shootsof bamboo and dampen the…

    Lou Faber

  • NIGHT WALK

    I walked the cityin the heart of the night,streetlights casting the shadowsof ghosts of those long goneto bed, unknowingthat the city has beengiven over to ravening windsthat find no shelter.I step into an alcoveand the fading lightof the flickering bulb overheadurges me to move onlest she bury mein the darkness of her grave.By day, this…

    Lou Faber

  • NO ENTRY

    . Each night we go off to bedand close the bedroom doorbarring the cat from entryinto our sanctuary, the onlyroom in the house she is notfree to roam at her will.We do this because we are allergic,because she is a cat and cannotbe trusted not to do somethingwe might regret in the morning,because she is…

    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 CITY OUT THERE

    Somewhere out therein a city strugglingthere is a man dancingin the reflected lightof a street lampto the sound of the wind,there is a couplecaressing each other,wishing for just onecigarette,there is a babycalling for its motherfor a meal,there is a carparked in a drivewayits lights fadinginto the bleakness,there is a neon signflashing OPENinto the void of…

    Lou Faber

  • UNDER THE BED

    There was a ghostor two for a short while,that lived under my bedwhen I was three or four. My mother said theywere not real, she couldn’tsee them when she looked,so they were all in my mind. I had to tell her that youdon’t ever actually see ghosts,you just know they are therebecause you sense their…

    Lou Faber

  • SMALL REFLECTION

    It is that moment when the moonis a glaring crescent,slowly engulfed bythe impending night—when the few clouds give outtheir fading glowin the jaundiced lightof the sodium arc street lamp.It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—when touched, a twisted piece of root. I want to walk into the weed-strewnaging cemetery, stand in the shadowof the…

    Lou Faber

  • PURPOSES

    Life, she said, is all aboutfinding purpose not things. It was hard to argue with her,as she overwhelmed with examples. Rice filling a small bowlholds an incense stick up and catches the ashesas they fall quietly down.. A cracked plate can situnder a plant, catching any overflow from itscareful daily watering. And old fleece jacket…

    Lou Faber