an old writer and his words

  • WANDERER

    He wandered into the labyrinthin search of what he could not remember,perhaps sudden enlightenment, perhapsa haloed monk, perhaps his history.He wondered if Buddha wassecretly a saint, if he could bea working man Buddha, if anythingreally mattered, if there was no exit,if there was a way out and at what cost.He hated the silence, knew that…

    Lou Faber

  • SEEKING

    I always wanted to date a Bodhisattvabut despite my efforts I never did find one.I did come across a goddess quite by accidentand it is possible she could becomea Bodhisattva but she is too interestedin worldly affairs to make the gradeand she is certain she is at least two miracles short of sainthood.If she did…

    Lou Faber

  • FOR A WORD

    Consider for a moment justhow different things might betoday, perhaps only in small ways,if one particular Mary hadnever been sainted, for thenthe asylum in London might wellhave had a different name, notSt. Mary’s of Bethlem for Bethlehem.If that had happened there wouldbe no bedlam in the world, tothe obvious frustration of politicianswho would have to…

    Lou Faber

  • FAMILY

    Of the few remaining cousins, nowas old as I, a number we do not mentionor want to believe that he was her onlylover, as though she was the young girlwho left Charleston for Washington, D.C.They cite, as justifying empirical evidence,that she never married, alwaysthe beloved aunt, nothing more allowed.My later discovered existencelaid waste to their…

    Lou Faber

  • THE SAINT OF UNCOUNTED NAMES

    A desert again,always a desertand she the saintof uncounted names,her crying eases, nosmile appears for thisMadonna of the coyotes,her orange-orbed eyesshuttered against theslowly retreating sun.Once her tears wateredthe desert sands, mixedwith the blood of a Christnow long forgotten, trans-substantiated into a spiritwe formed in our image,no longer we in his.The Blessed Motherwatches, holding hope,holding space,…

    Lou Faber

  • WAITING IMPATIENTLY

    Waiting rooms are usually somber.That is true of most hospitalsand every mortuary. It isn’t like we needto be prepared for whatmight happen next. In the hospital the surgeon,at the direction of lawyers,has given us the worst case. In the mortuary we are certainthe departed was no saintso resurrection is out of the picture. I’m not…

    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