an old writer and his words

  • REMEMBERING CHILDHOOD

    There isn’t much to write about,not much recalled, now brief glimpseslike aged photographs, black and whiteor color but so time faded they bleednow into sepia, fragments, his face herehers never appearing as if she, not satisfiedwith how she looked, purged my memory.It may be a factor of age, but there areother contemporaneous moments stillin clear…

    Lou Faber

  • CHANGES

    The finches are strugglingthis morning, searching the lawnfor the odd clover seed that’s yet to be reduced to dust by a summerwhere the rain has paintedour world with a palette of parchment, ochre, leaving uswandering an increasingly sepia world.  We know that the rains will come again, that nature’s green will return, however briefly, beforewinter encases us all in…

    Lou Faber

  • DISCOVERY

    In a small storefront, in an older neighborhood of the city, I found it.  Sepia coated with a fine sheen of dust and neglect, it lay on the table amid a stack of others, as though a leaf of phyllo in a poorly made stack fresh from the oven.  I knew it as I looked…

    Lou Faber