an old writer and his words

  • CABERNET

    Sitting at the table lookingat a glass of cabernet sauvignonits legs long reaching from rimto dwindling pool I ask myselfif I could imagine tending the vinesin France or more likely Napawatching the purple orbs take formand cluster, caring for the canesthat have deemed themselvestoo old to bear any longer.My knees are tired and dirtycutting the…

    Lou Faber

  • GOING HOME

    They say you cannot go homeagain, although I have neverhad occasion to meet them. I’ve never been one to followthe dictates of them, unless theywere my parents or spouse, andin the case of my parents, oftennot even when they demanded it,so I went back to the homeof my childhood, a shockinglynew place as I remembered…

    Lou Faber

  • SWING

    The sax swings freely rising and falling on the notes he coaxes out, dancing around the bass’s rhythm, the brushes caressing the drum heads. You close your eyes and allow the music to carry you off. It is at the set’s end when he unfolds the white cane that you see you share a common blindness.

    Lou Faber

  • ALL MANNER OF THINGS

    Outside Itaewon she leans perpetually forward as though straining against the gales of life. Her cane beats a tattoo on the pavement, as she drives her bent frame to the bus. Nearing the door a young man bustles by, receiving her cane across his shin for his indiscretion. Assuming her seat, as though a throne,…

    Lou Faber