an old writer and his words

  • EIRE

    There are two principal problemswith Ireland, and I found bothto be utterly insurrmountable. Every town, even Galway Cityat any time of day or nightlooked like it should be a postcard. Add to that the horror that inevery pub I visited it was assumedthat if asked I would sing a song or, realizing I have no…

    Lou Faber

  • WRITING MY STORY

    With the stroke of a pen,they enabled me to write the story,gave a framework on whichI could hang all mannerof dreams and assumptions,inviting a search I neverquite got around to making. I wandered the beachesof Estoril in my dreams,stalked the avenues of Lisbon,looking for a familiar face,but found only ghosts. With the stroke of a…

    Lou Faber

  • WAR

    I have yet to wander the medieval battlefieldsof Europe and it increasingly seems I never will.I have visited my share of castles in Ireland and Scotland,but the acoustics there are not good, and I did nothear the anguished cry of soldiers falling in battle, I have seen rivers, quiet now, where the bloodof the vanquished…

    Lou Faber

  • ROUND ABOUT

    The great minds in Transportation have decidedthat the answer to all traffic problemsis simple, you replace troublesome intersectionswith traffic circles, but you call them roundabouts.They know that the young and wish they werein their muscle cars will avoid them like the plague,for even they cannot defeat centrifugal force,and inertia is one thing they never lack.And…

    Lou Faber

  • In any half respectable pub in Galway, and in Ireland the county of place hardly matters, when enough pints have been passed, and night grows thick, even such as I, claiming to be part Irish, claiming two left feet, can feel the ceili deep within, and step out on the floor to do what I…

    Lou Faber

  • THREE HAIKU

    Giant cranes are perched on thin spindly legs, necks bowed steel beams scratch the clouds. Needle-like church spires reach through the gathering mist clouds begin to bleed. Walls stand in the field one stone piled on another grass withers in shade.

    Lou Faber

  • CLIFDEN MORNING

    They were meanderers, gypsies of sorts, but never Tinkers, never an lucht siúil. They never travelled far, preferring the comforts of where they called home. They knew they wheren’t liked, weren’t really welcome here. They would be tolerated here perhaps, never fully accepted in good company. But they’d grown too numerous to ignore. They walked slowly across…

    Lou Faber