an old writer and his words

  • BACKROADS

    When you drive on back roadsyou develop a differentsense of direction, of place.You know you’re in the Southby the trees, Spanish mosshanging like heavy rainand stealing the leavesof smaller trees, andall manner of thingshanging from or affixedbetween trees, a tire swing,something passing for a hammockand endless clotheslinesannouncing that herethe seasons are measuredby rainfall and temperaturesthat…

    Lou Faber

  • A FROSTY RECEPTION

    I truly wish Robert Frost was still aliveso I could ask him where he foundthat yellow wood of his poem.The woods I know are mostly pinein the Adirondacks, or mixed hardwoodsand when autumn arrives they greet itin shades of green, red, orangeochre and yes, some yellow,but hardly enough to givethe forest that titular color.And even…

    Lou Faber

  • EIRE

    They say you must cherishyour memories lest they slipaway in the night, trying fora freedom you deny them. I remember Ireland, knowingit was home although at the timeI thought I was Ashkenaziand Portuguese, but my geneswere trying to tell me something. I remember driving a stickshift down narrow roads,always keeping in mindthe advice, “if you…

    Lou Faber

  • SOZAN’S FOUR DON’TS 鐵笛倒吹 九十二

    You may seek to follow the path of the dove, for a fool knows many roads. You may wrap yourself in fine linen, an infant wears only his skin and knows this moment is already gone. Think long before you speak of how to walk along the path, of where it leads. The baby says…

    Lou Faber

  • HAWKING SANITY

    I am not the least bit certain why the red-tailed hawk chose that lamppost that day and peered down over the Expressway. Nature has her own logic and we question it at our own risk. Staring into his flaming eyes, for one small moment we both saw the foolishness rolling by below and alongside us.

    Lou Faber