an old writer and his words

  • WATCHING

    We stand together on the precipiceknowing soon nothing will be as it wasfor her and I, a supportive observer only.In moments the world she knew willcollapse possibly, replaced by somethingno one has been able to describe to her.She is excited for this new world butthere is a fear she cannot shake for sheis venturing where…

    Lou Faber

  • OBSERVING

    He stood alone, a stoic observerin the midst of the maelstrom,deaf to the cacophony,bathed in a golden silence.This was not a gin dream, hehad let go of alcohol and drugsfor they crowded his thoughts,forced them into places henever wanted to be, his dreamsonce his holy salvation and hea penitent to Saint Morpheus, whopromised him freedom,…

    Lou Faber

  • A SIMPLE PROCEDURE

    The needle slips into the armjust above the wrist, it isa bringer of pain, a bringerof relief from pain, it is coldunder the now tepid blanket.The nurse, ever cheerful, saysit is time now, raises the bed railand the anesthetist presses gentlyon the plunger of the hypodermicand the drugs ooze slowly intothe patiently waiting vein.As they…

    Lou Faber

  • WHENCE

    When you ask me from wheremy family comes, do notlook surprised when I answerthat it depends on the directionof the wind, but with natureas no more than a passive observer.In my case it is the fickle windsof war and diplomacy that markmy origins, my maternal rootsdeeply planted in soil Lithuanian orperhaps Russian or briefly Polish.And…

    Lou Faber

  • IN HIDING

    The truth lives in the interstices,increasingly harder to seeamid the morass of desire,lost in the tides of alternative truthsas some prefer to call lies these days.If you look for it you will find it,for it burrows in, refusing to leave,to be dislodged, transmuted, forgotten.For most it cannot be seen but need onlybe assumed, but those…

    Lou Faber

  • FESTIVAL

    They ebb and flow like tides down the half-empty street from venue to venue, many with that lost look of years in the desert, driven on by promised the land of honey notes, the mother’s milk of jazz. The event passes flap in the breeze created by their wake, some checking programs, their personal map…

    Lou Faber