an old writer and his words

  • THE SKY DEMANDS

    He stopped his walk along the country roadand stared up at the moonless sky.He knew he shouldn’t be doing so, just ashe knew we had no choice but to do so.The stars this far from the city were sodifferent than the city stars, somuch brighter, so much hotter, he saidto no one, infinitely hotter out…

    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

  • IN A HIDDEN CORNER

    As stars go, of courseit is rather nondescript,small, middle agedstuck in a distant cornerof a not all thatimpressive galaxy. Yet each morningit sweeps the skystoring all of its kin,even the biggestand brightest, intoits own celestial closetwhere they willremain locked awayuntil it decidesit needs a restand lets them returnto once againpaint the sky.

    Lou Faber

  • ETERNAL SPRING

    Spring has arrived, however begrudgingly,and the young woman pushesthe older woman’s wheelchairalong the paths of the great park.Neither speaks, but each knowsthis could be the last time they do this.That shared knowledge paintseach flower in a more vibrant hue,each fallen petal is quicklybut individually mourned for,its beauty draining back into the soil.The older woman struggles…

    Lou Faber

  • UNMOVED

    In the community parking lotin the center of Taos,and old pickup sat complacentmore than parked, rustingin spots, last paintedby someone in the late ‘70sperhaps. It might havebeen able to move, but itshowed no desire to do so,tires not flat but wishing so. That was thirteen years ago,and it is likely no longerthere, or collapsed into…

    Lou Faber

  • BETWEEN EARTH AND HEAVEN

    He is certain that the sky is always blue and when it seems cloudy it is just that Magritte has risen from his grave and brush in hand, painted the sky and clouds. She scoffs at the idea, knowing full well the clouds are merely rice paper cutouts floating on a gentle breeze.

    Lou Faber