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

  • FORESHADOWING

    In my dream we are sittingin a small Italian restaurant.Just where it is located isnot at all clear, but it doesnot matter in the least.I am peering at you overthe menu, you are simplyreading yours decidingon what you will order.We have been here beforeand I know we will beholding hands acrossthe table once we order.I…

    Lou Faber

  • APP-LICATION DENIED

    I can still recall my grandmother saying,whenever she thought I should be outsiderather than sitting in my room with a book,that “idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Jewsdid not believe in the devil and that,in any event my hands were engagedin holding the book and turning pages.I…

    Lou Faber

  • TEMPUS

    The clock chimed the hour.How long had he been here,inside the works of the great timepiecemarking imagined units that had meaningonly for him, for all, for no one?He knew his time was limited, alltime would someday be depletedand then what — that was the questionno one dared ask, everyoneanswered. Time was a mazethere was no…

    Lou Faber

  • VULCAN’S FLAMES

    The ark of hope had sailedalmost empty, their realitywas free falling, their dreamsconsumed in the furnaceof their greed, their arrogance.Time was hanging suspended,they were grasping at the handsof the clock perched now inover the growing abyss.Once they had been gods, orimagined themselves so, nowthey were fuel for Vulcan’s flames.Once they were prophetsof an unbounded, unbridled…

    Lou Faber

  • HOME AGAIN

    You can go home againdespite what the author saidbut home won’t be home anymoreso perhaps the author was right.It used to be a little used beltwaystrangling the already smalldowntown, a sunken dream ofsome city planner with myopia.Now they have filled that inand lined it with apartments;here an array of identical, stacked boxes,the blocks of an…

    Lou Faber

  • SMALL REFLECTION

    It is that moment when the moonis a glaring crescent,slowly engulfed bythe impending night—when the few clouds give outtheir fading glowin the jaundiced lightof the sodium arc street lamp.It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—when touched, a twisted piece of root. I want to walk into the weed-strewnaging cemetery, stand in the shadowof the…

    Lou Faber

  • STRING QUARTET

    The violinists’ laughter and tearsare flung from her flying bow,drip from his elbow,and wash over the stilled audience –we can taste the seaas we threaten to capsize. The viola is the older brothernow steadying, now caughtin the wave, ridingits dizzying course,dragging us in its wake. The cello is a torso, the cellista surgeon, her handsplucking…

    Lou Faber

  • RINZAI’S BLIND DONKEY

    When your teacherhands you the dharmawhat do you find in your hands? What will you dowith the dharma you are given,where will you keep it,or will you give it awayin silence, and in suchgiving have it with youat all times and places. A reflection on Case 13 of the Book of Equanimity (従容錄, Shōyōroku)

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING

    In that momentwhen the gentle chirpingof a small birdresounds as a poundingspring deluge, washes awaythe creak and thrumof passing cars, when she singsonly to you, her small voicedrawn in to your ears, yourmind, until it fadesslowly like the belland you wait for itto strike again, to feelit seep down your spine,ooze into your fingersand toes,…

    Lou Faber