an old writer and his words

  • AROUNDING

    He had no idea why hehad chosen this place, hadno memory of how he had gotten here.The night sky poured forthits endless cascade of stars,bathed him in the waves of the cosmos.He reached up as if to touch heaven,knowing he was an insignificant beingon an inconsequential bit of rock and magma.that the gods had long…

    Lou Faber

  • FROM HERE TO THERE

    It is a marvel of engineering,miniaturization taken to a new level.Once it was a pound of coffeewhere sixteen ounces became thirteenbut they knew we would growused to the new quantity afteronly a short period of complaining.That there weren’t other optionsall but guaranteed they would win.But now they’ve miniaturizedthe inside of airplanes, your seatnarrower, you knee…

    Lou Faber

  • TWILIGHT

    In the twilight of the dove,that moment when the sun’sretreat has only just begunmy shadow stretchesever so slowly into oblivion. I hear it whisper to mea promise to return and Iwant nothing more thanto believe it, for the grantof another day is a smallwish granted, one I makewith the knowledge thatthe genie of age is…

    Lou Faber

  • HARLAN

    You came, Harlan, to Rochestersomewhere in an endless winter,“Ellison in Tundraland” you said.We all chuckled approvingly. You said a short prayerclimbing into the rusting Opel,sliding on the edgeof oblivion, andthe approaching snowplow. You stood, hoarse, smellingof Borkum Riff and English Leather,a tweed jacket over a polo shirtand thinning jeansand told us of the insanityof television,…

    Lou Faber

  • IMPENDING DEPARTURE

    They finally used the wordor one near enough to itand she was not surprised,she almost welcomed it.You can grow jealous of thosewith a depth of faiththat a sentence of monthsor perhaps less is receivedwith grace and a smile, a nodand a statement “I’m morethan ready to go home now,back to my husband.”I hope I will…

    Lou Faber

  • AFTERNOON STORM

    From twenty stories up lightning rends the fully fogged sky, a translucent gray curtain hung from an angry black ceiling. Nearby buildings and the streets below fade into misty oblivion. Even the approaching dusk sits back in wonder.

    Lou Faber