an old writer and his words

  • CABERNET

    I should pause for a momentand mourn the plump orbsvinaceous in the morning sun,torn free, placed in basketsand carried off to be crushed.But the cabernet beckons,its first sip telling the taleof the California summer,the oak having long forgottenthe tree from which it was cut,and I watch as the sunreluctantly retreats,a flaming farewell, the promiseof a…

    Lou Faber

  • THE ROOM

    It was a strange room,that much I recall, with heavyvelvet curtains coveringwhat should have been a window, and might once have been, but no longer.  The only light was a bare bulbin the ceiling, casting a soft amber wash across the time worn oak floor,and once white walls. There was a chair, nondescriptand now long forgottenand a small…

    Lou Faber

  • INSIDE THE PAGE

    She asks innocently,listening to the wind whisperingthrough the bare branches of the oak,“How long have you livedin this poem,” pointingto the page of markedand remarked typescript.He looks at her as if discoveringshe’d grown another head,peeking out from betweenher well-polished teeth.“I have no idea what you mean,”he says, “I write the poems—it is up to you…

    Lou Faber

  • CRAFTY MOON

    The moon hid from me last night in a cloudless sky, and only a week from full, so we both knew it was there, peeking for a brief moment from behind the old oak in the neighbors yard. It wasn’t the first time the moon had done this, it will not be the last either,…

    Lou Faber

  • DAWN, AUGUST

    They cut neat incisions across the slate blue sky. The wounds they leave slowly peel back the white edges slowly spreading until the sky hemorrhages its cloud-like streaks. The oak drops yet another acorn and the squirrel scampers to gather it in before the sky flees under its gray-white blanket.

    Lou Faber

  • CECI N’EST PAS UN PARC

    This morning over the Park a Magritte sky is hung. Several birds gather in an old oak to discuss this, twittering thoughts in surprise. Their conclusions fly off at the approach of a black lab joyously frolicking in imagined freedom.

    Lou Faber

  • DUSK

    As the afternoon fades, the gray of the sky deepens, the crows gather in the highest branches of the older trees, until the leafless branches seems suddenly burdened with great black leaves. As the already waning light fades they take up their hymns to the passing day, approaching night, and we wait patiently amid the cacophony…

    Lou Faber