November 11, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III

     The thing about a city is its diversity. It doesn’t get built by one tribe. It doesn’t rise to its heights nor extend to its breadth and length by one anointed species. It doesn’t run on one person’s moxie nor fall on the deceit and greed of just an individual.

     It takes decades, even centuries for a city to develop, and in that time of success and failure, wealth and poverty, war and peace, there are many running the show.

     No one can claim ownership of a city. It is literally of many colors.

And so goes a nation.


The writer is a retired newspaperman.



By Arthur H. Gunther III

Everything begins with “1” after there is zero. The first second of life. First awareness. First year. First grade. First friend. First joy. First love. First job. First success. First home. First child. First heartbreak. First loss. First acceptance. First uppercase. First lowercase. First anything. First everything. 

The writer is a retired newspaperman.




By Arthur H. Gunther III

What paths we take in this life, 

not knowing the why of the walk

nor the destination.

The marks of others 

are there to see, if we 

but look down.

Halted steps, skid marks,

a hurried pace, a leisurely one,

lessons for the observer.

The path is ours for

we are not sheep, but history

tells us to remember.


The writer is a retired newspaperman.



October 21, 2019

‘FOG’/acrylic on canvas


By Arthur H. Gunther III

Fog — le brouillard — particularly if  it comes on the broad expanse of L’Avenue des Champs-Élysées — is not merely mist in the air from a temperature change. It envelopes, and so you can be alone with your thoughts even in the crowd. Romantics savor such an envelope.

     But isn’t it the same in London, on the Waterloo Bridge, or in the East Village of New York on Bowery Street? Or in the majestic mountains anywhere in the world? Or in your backyard? Being alone so you can travel in a dream is one of fog’s blessings.

The writer is a retired newspaperman.



‘AT THE CAPE’/gunther

October 14, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III

      Seasons always end, leaving memories whether photographic, in the mind, in the heart, in the soul. They are there for renewal, reinforcement, reassurance.

     Each of us takes from our particular seasons what we will, perhaps tucking away the particulars until a later time, maybe much later, when we look or remember, and we see what it was all about

      To live is to have seasons, however crafted they may be, however stormy or calm, sweet or sour, happy or sad. To weather them, to luxuriate in them, to chill in them, to purr in them is the score in life’s music.

     The writer is a retired newspaperman.




October 7, 2019

‘TUNED TO WSM, NASHVILLE’/acrylic/gunther

By Arthur H. Gunther III

     Defining country music is like translating the ever-growing list of languages, including colorful, highly descriptive idioms, in this immigrant America. Listening to it, from the earliest 1920s radio programs through the metamorphosis that are today’s sounds on smart phones, is to hear a sound train’s lonesome wail and mighty rush on some of the tracks of our always-developing, changing history. 

    The roots of fiddle-playing/country-western/rockabilly/pop American music are gathered from many voices, especially African-American, Irish and Scottish settlers and Native Americans. Newer populations add lyrics written off hardship, love, loss and hope. 

     If ever a national candidate sought to win the hearts and minds of a full America, he/she would do well to listen to country music over the ages and then talk to those who have lived it, are living it, those whose hardscrabble lives have endured. It would do everything to dispel myths and prejudice in a land that sorely needs love. 

     The writer is a retired newspaperman.


‘COBALT IN OCHRE’/acrylic/gunther

September 30, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III

      Sometimes what you look at is not what you see, like when you dream and the events are not reality. In both “readings,” the perceptions already gathered in an individual’s life direct the show. 

     Is this painting a cobalt blue window in a yellow ochre field, an inner frame of red and brown? Well, yes, literally. But what sort of tune do those colors play on your senses, given your hue preferences in a gathered life? Do you want a window in cobalt blue? If you open it, is there color beyond?

     And if you look tomorrow, will it all be different?

     The writer is a retired newspaperman.


‘BARN AT SANDYFIELD’/acrylic/gunther

September 23, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III


     Thirty or so modest houses around a Pond called Beaver were more than just structure to the people within and about the meadows, the hills, the great quiet that is both rural and America. 

     Hardscrabble perhaps, basic, but life as sure as is the sunrise, sunset and all that is in between. The nights brought crickets, wolves, critters to their world.

      Then “progress” came, and though it took several pre-war decades, Sandyfield was no more, Beaver Pond damned for  216 acres of beach, picnic tables and a massive parking lot for other Americans, urban dwellers seeking respite from city heat. Sandyfield, N.Y.,  a 1760 hamlet, became Lake Welch, part of the Palisades Interstate Park system.

    American history gives and it takes. From Native Americans to African slaves to immigrants to poor and rich, to north, south, east and west, to opportunity and slammed doors, America is “progress,” manifest destiny.

     And the full story is yet to be writ.

     The writer is a retired newspaperman.




Acrylic on canvas/gunther


September 16, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III

CHANGE OF PACE: Song lyrics (mine) instead of an essay…


I locked the door last night, though it never had a key. You are gone, and I must forget.

Forget the soulful moments, the depth we reached without a word said.

Forget you in my arms, so well-fitted that your heart was in mine, my soul with yours, facing eternity.

Forget our plans together, though I never cared for detail as long as you were here.

Forget your eyes were blue and magnetic, that looking into them made me feel weak but so warm.

I locked the door last night, though it never had a key. You are gone, and I must forget.

Forget the calm we were at, our silence speaking for us.

Forget that being together was a book of understanding. 

Forget I came upon old doubt and could not trust real emotion. I left the embrace and could not return. 

Now I have locked the door, and there is no key.

You have gone away, and I must forget.



The writer is a retired newspaperman who can be reached at His work can be republished in any form, with credit given.



September 9, 2019

‘Lean on Me’/photograph/gunther

By Arthur H. Gunther III

(also on Facebook)


     Depending on the individual, “pride” is a variable. Some are too proud to accept help of any sort. Others extend their hands in need.

     Truth is, this is an interdependent world, more so every day, and despite the success, even necessity,  of rugged individualism, the idea that it “takes a village to …” is increasingly evident.

    “Lean on me” sometimes not a bad idea.

     The writer is a retired newspaperman., Facebook Messenger.