an old writer and his words

  • WORKSHOP

    Grace settles into the chair,less an act of sitting thanof floating down onto the seat.She has borrowed my grandmother’ssmile, kind, gentle, inviting.She pulls a book from her bag,its pages or most of themdog eared, and I glimpsesome annotations in the margins.We sit around her like childrenawaiting presents on a holiday,as acolytes seeking knowledgefrom a font…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING

    In that momentwhen the gentle chirpingof a small birdresounds as a poundingspring deluge, washes awaythe creak and thrumof passing cars, when she singsonly to you, her small voicedrawn in to your ears, yourmind, until it fadesslowly like the belland you wait for itto strike again, to feelit seep down your spine,ooze into your fingersand toes,…

    Lou Faber

  • ON THE MESA

    On the mesa you can step outsideand look up at the sky,clouds building mountainsthat threaten to eat the sun,swallow the moon whole. On the mesa you can step outsideand feel incredibly small,listen to the coyotes withthe ears of scared children,unable to run like the jackrabbit. On the mesa you can step outsideand look up at…

    Lou Faber

  • ARIA

    After years of embarrassmentI have finally come into the light.It isn’t that my writing has improved,although I surmise that wouldbe a narrow space to fill,or that I can now draw thingsthat were once stick peopleand animals and things. What has improved, andimproved significantlyis my singing voice, oncea three note range, and onenot known to music,but…

    Lou Faber

  • TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT

    I am there, a classroom,elementary or middle school,Charleston, West Virginia1930’s, girls in proper skirts,saddle shoes, the old womanat the front of the room,first day of a new year. “Jones”, a hand goes up,“Murphy”, another rises slowly,“Padlibsky, what kindof name is that, Jew, orsome kind or Ruskie maybe?”A small voice answersLithuanian, ma’am. A scene that neverhappened,…

    Lou Faber

  • SOTTO VOCE

    For reasons I cannot determinethe cat sings to us each morningat 4 A.M. and why I am awaketo hear her songs is alsosomthing I cannot determine. She has a sweet voice andshe does know several tunesbut when I do get uptwo hours later, she refusesto tell me what the lyrics were. I suppose one morningat…

    Lou Faber

  • FOR RAIN

    The clouds build slowly, turning the sky from blue to ever darkening shades of gray. He hopes it will rain, rain heavily, as the ground is parched, the wetland a bog, and the birds have moved on in search of water. He watches the build up, the clouds accreting, and he waits for the first…

    Lou Faber

  • TECHNICAL SERVICE

    At some point in each callto a customer service representative,or worse still technical assistancewhich is a painful oxymoronin and of itself, I pause and wonderhow the conversation might goif I could reach throughthe ether of the phoneand grab the script.Would the voice on the other endsuddenly become attachedto a person, rippedfrom its computer home?Would that…

    Lou Faber

  • OF DREAMS

    Last night in my sleepI though I heard an angelalthougn I could not, for trying,understand what it was saying,and it is odd since Ido not believe in angels. Perhaps it was the cat,but if so she has come upwith a new voice, using wordsnot formerly in her vocabulary,but you put nothingpast a cat, ever. I…

    Lou Faber

  • A VISIT

    I’ve always imagined that one of these nightsI’d see my mother’s ghost. I would welcome the sightwelcome she that bore me, not she that stepped inin a way,absolving my birth mother of her sin,while assuming adopting me would make her complete. She hasn’t visited yet, neither has done so,but I hold out hope, it is…

    Lou Faber