an old writer and his words

  • UNFOLDING

    Wake into the morning’s lightunsure of how you arrived in this moment,of what this day may promise,of how it will unfurl before you, perhapslike a work of art of a dementedorigami unfolding randomly, everythingor nothing at all, no way of knowing.This could be a delusion, could bethe dregs of a dream that night left behind,could…

    Lou Faber

  • WATCHING

    We stand together on the precipiceknowing soon nothing will be as it wasfor her and I, a supportive observer only.In moments the world she knew willcollapse possibly, replaced by somethingno one has been able to describe to her.She is excited for this new world butthere is a fear she cannot shake for sheis venturing where…

    Lou Faber

  • LILAC

    It is the season, I remember,when the clusters of flowersrip free of their cocoons andgrasp the warming sun, spewingout their sweet fragranceto bees and people alike.They know their time is short,turn riotous in pastel shadeswhite, pink, purple, lilacthey hope we will not soon forget.It was always like that, an annualrite of beauty that we havegiven…

    Lou Faber

  • LOOKING IN

    You are standing on the edgepeering in, wondering ifit is always this way, alwaysundulating between sheer joyand frustration, swept upin the calm and maelstromthat is a large family, wishingyou had that family for yours.There is always great love,and you can sense that, butthere is a tension, a frictionof personalities rubbing againsteach other, building a heatthat…

    Lou Faber

  • NIGHT APPROACHES

    The clouds this eveningare the deep gray that so longto be black, but the retreatedsun just below the horizonlingers long enough to deny them. The space, shrinking, betweenthe clouds, is the gray of promisethat the night will soon deny,and the birds who take overthe preserve, chant their vespers,each in his or her own language,uncommon tongues…

    Lou Faber

  • THE SUN ROSE

    The sun rose this morning,as if the day were not in anyway out of the ordinary, daynumber far too large to countfor those with finite capacity. The birds begin, their harmoniouscacophony, though they thinkit their lauds, matins of reflectionburned off with the dew underthe gentle glare of a morning sun. They watch us begin to…

    Lou Faber

  • COCOON

    She imagines life is much like a cocoon in which she must remain or risk instant death. She does not recall coming here but know she must have done so in the not too distant past. That is the problem with cocoons, there is no memory prior to finding yourself within, but she doesn’t mind…

    Lou Faber