an old writer and his words

  • SEPARATING

    We sometimes speak of continentspulling apart, land bridges severed,the route taken to get here now gone,no going back, no back to go to.The continent of my youth, myyoung adulthood is gone, recededinto the fog of fading memory, and Iam now a prisoner of sorts on thisnew continent of life, moving evermore quickly to an unavoidable…

    Lou Faber

  • HELPLESS

    When night finally concedes,and departs for the horizondragging off my dreamsand pulling its shadow behind itinto a thickening fog, a scrimthat hides the dawn’s arrival,I realize what has been lost.I have tried to grasp dreamsas they recede but it is graspinglimpid mercury that obeys nodirection or request save thatof gravity, and that reluctantly.They will be…

    Lou Faber

  • GAZING

    She says that for a small fee shecan guide me through my prior lives,introduce me to former loves, let mewatch the battles in which I fought,shield me from scenes of battlein which I died or was wounded.She says I will see many I now knowin my present, recognize how wewere once connected so our presentconnections…

    Lou Faber

  • NOT HERE

    There were those January nights whenwinter wrapped us in its chill, but withdrewits frequent blanket of clouds, and Iwould go outside peering throughthe fog of my breath and lookinto the sky at the aurora borealis,watching the electrons danceon a black scrim dotted with myriad stars.Years later and miles away I missthe occasional night shows for…

    Lou Faber

  • SAVANNAH

    The morning clings to youlike a damp sheet, the foglifting slowly, a magnifierpulled away from the square,the live oaks edging into focus. You sit at the table, wipingthe crumbs from you reallydon’t want to know when,a steaming cortado waitingpatiently for the first bitesof the large scones onthe mismatched plates. In the background a cry,“vanilla soy…

    Lou Faber

  • JAILER

    The purpose of a photograph is simplyto capture a memory, to imprison itmore accurately, to allow it to bewhere you can always find it. Never mind that any prisonergrows prematurely old, losesvitality, slips down a slope thatinevitably result in death . Often, the photo will fade, losecolor as the event slips intothe fog of time,…

    Lou Faber

  • 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

  • THE FOG

    I speak to my father every week or so our conversations are as long as ever but we are rapidly becoming little more than a skipping record. He mostly recalls my name and the various parts one with the other of us has had rebuilt but even that is quickly slipping into the fog that…

    Lou Faber

  • NOT _____ AWAY

    There are moments, he said, when everything is suddenly clear, and obvious to me. But they slip away and their shadows quickly fade. She said, if you’d stop looking for the fog, the clarity might linger. Besides, she adds how do you know what is clear and what is not.

    Lou Faber

  • WINTER’S NIGHT

    A fog settles in over High Wycombe gray clouds shroud a full silver moon great beasts, sinews drawn tight, ready to spring forward, instead crawl along the motorway, the faint lights of London cast a glow to the sky, my breath seems phosphorescent, falling coating the grass, stiff in the breeze.

    Lou Faber