an old writer and his words

  • THE SEA

    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

  • CLINGING

    The small snail clings to the wallof the hotel room balcony, deafto the roar of the surf only yards away.He knows where he is going, knowshis purpose for being here.He moves at a pace youwould expect of a snail,and by the time we leavein two days he will haveprogressed, but it willbe impossible for us…

    Lou Faber

  • BUENOS AIRES ON THE GENESEE

    If this were Buenos Aires, if I were Borges, it would all make a great deal of sense. A man, older, and older still if you look closely, walks into an elegant hotel bar. A jazz quintet is playing, straight up, trumpet, piano, guitar, stand up bass, drum kit. The older man is wearing white…

    Lou Faber

  • OLD HOTEL, NARA

    Stepping into the hotel, it was like being dropped into a truly alien world. Nothing shiny, no excess of glass and marble. A simple dark wooden reception desk, a clerk in black with a white vest. A bow upon approaching. Your room is simple, no internet, a single light on a small desk. A tatami…

    Lou Faber

  • SENSO-JI

    By hour six, the plane was just a lumbering beast dividing the sky, halfway from God knows where to nowhere special. His body cried for sleep but he knew he had to deny it. That much he had learned from prior trips. For when he landed, made his way painfully slowly into the city, it…

    Lou Faber

  • WHEREVER I LAY MY HEAD

    You say that you are uncertainif this place yet feels like home,and look at me silentlyquestioning how I feel. I answer as silently thatyou are here, I am hereso it does feel like homejust as everywhere wouldwhen we are together there. Without speaking you remindme that even I would admita hotel room is not home…

    Lou Faber

  • DRINKING TEA IN KABUL*

    Rockets flash brieflyacross the chilled sky,plumes of smoke, ashcarried offby impending winter. Over the lintel of the entryto the Inter-Continental Hotel Chicago,carved deeply into the marbleEs Salamu Aleikumstaring implacablythrough ponderousbrass framed doorsonto the Miracle Mile.Countless guestspass below itunseeing. My son and Isit across a small tablespilling bits of tapasonto the cloth,laughing lightlyat the young boybathed…

    Lou Faber

  • ALTERNATIVES

    I would much rather be home, listening to Joan Osborne on the CD player, lying on the couch with you sleeping across the sofa curled under the cotton throw coiled against the winter battering the windows ca tucked into your knees. Instead, I sit on the bed CNN droning in the background and stare out…

    Lou Faber