an old writer and his words

  • LEFT UNANSWERED

    NOTE: TODAY’S POST FOLLOWS BELOW: Dear poetry-lovers,           Thank you from the bottom of my heart for following my blog. Some of you have been daily readers since it began 9 years ago, some are more sporadic or more recent followers.  Thank you one and all. As you can imagine, it takes a fair amount…

    Lou Faber

  • NOT THOSE AGAIN

    Mother always bought Hydrox cookiesand I thought nothing of it, althoughI did wonder why my friends said thatkind of cookie was best dipped in milk.I dipped our Hydrox in milk and theyfell apart, a soggy mess and not quitea chocolate milk that anyone would drink.It was years later I learned thatthere was another brand which…

    Lou Faber

  • MURDER

    It is one thing to murder your little darlings, as writers like to say, but as a poet it is wholly another thing to murder your children, those you have raised from birth on the page, tended with care hoping they might one day leave home and find their place in the world. How do…

    Lou Faber

  • COLLECTIVE

    Don’t listen when people talkabout collective memories. We both know it is hard enoughremembering what you experienced and in the recalling we add filtersto bend it to how we wish it was. If there were a collective memoryhow could you despise the immigrant who only wants the better lifethat we talk about so much. You…

    Lou Faber

  • BUFFET

    At first there is one, a sentinelbut for what isn’t clear. He isthe first of his kind we have seenin quite some time, so we stare.Soon a few, others appear,then five, ten, the number keepsgrowing and all in white as ifthis was a wedding and wedid not get the invitation.But we soon realize that thisis…

    Lou Faber

  • PUEBLO CHRISTMAS

    The night is that bitter coldthat slices easily throughnylon and Polartec, makeschild’s play of fleece and denim.The small rooms glowin the dim radiance of propane lightsand heaters as the silveris carefully packed awayin plastic tool boxes.The pinyon wood is neatly stackedin forty pyres, some little tallerthan the white childrenclinging to their parents’ legs,some reaching twenty-five…

    Lou Faber

  • THE PARK

    He was taking a shortcut across the park. He saw the clouds building, about to bring the long-promised rain. He wasn’t sure why he decided to walk home rather than take the bus as he usually did. He didn’t like to walk, but the doctor had told him he needed to exercise more, and he…

    Lou Faber

  • THE RIVER OF SADNESS

    I have written poems about my grandfathersand the lives I was told they led,having met none of them, but I knewI was appropriating their stories, claimingthem as my legacy although all I was doingwas adopting them, as their children hadadopted me, none of the stories truly mine,and I only family by the thinnest of tiesthat…

    Lou Faber

  • INTO THE DARKNESS

    We live in an age when logic has failed and our days come with the darkness of night leaving all of our plans and dreams derailed. We imagined a world, fully detailed to leave our children, that was their birthright. We live in an age when logic has failed and the battles we fought, the…

    Lou Faber

  • AGAIN, REALLY?

    As you age, and I writefrom increasingly painful personal experience,life becomes ever more paradoxical.Things you once could easily do,wanted to do often, become difficultand some almost impossible(get your mind out of that gutter,I meant things like heavy liftingAnd home maintenance projects).And things you never thoughtyou would ever do becomethe stuff of daily life (just askyour…

    Lou Faber