an old writer and his words

  • HAIKU

    I picked up a bookoff the shelf this morningone hundred haiku it was like sitting downa word starved man, tiredof searching for an alwaysdenied sustenance, and herelaid out before me, a repastof the sweetest grapes,bits of sugar caressinga tongue grown usedto the often bitternessof ill-considered prose. As midday approachedI knew that this was a mealto…

    Lou Faber

  • TEMPUS FUGIT

    She parked her cart across the face of the bin, she fills the only gap. She has a look of determination that says “give me space if you know what’s good for you.” She examines each banana with the care of it gemologist and you imagine that she wears a loop. She pulls bunches apart,…

    Lou Faber

  • MEMORY OF THE VINE

    The conversation flows freely, piles up on the table, amid dishes from a meal now fully consumed, as the last of the wine reluctantly cedes its grip on the bottle and settles into the glasses. In Abruzzi, the vintner imagined this, staring at the grapes pulled lovingly from the now ancient vines. As night draws…

    Lou Faber

  • VINO

    The vines cling to the hillside, the small buds soon yielding fruit but now simply soaking up the spring sun. You dream the grapes are fat, the deep purple orbs holding in their Syrah, Grenache, Mourvedre, and you only wish it would wash down the hillside and stain the sometimes fetid River. The boats flow…

    Lou Faber

  • VERITAS

    It is the promise of the grape that lures us, that allows us to imagine the glass stained purple, or a deep golden yellow, an alluring pink. It may be accompanied by words that suggest the approach of a moment not to be forgotten, deep, vibrant, tobacco, stone fruit, a veritable catalog to entice us,…

    Lou Faber