Call of the Night

Rene Magritte, The Eternal Evidence (1930)



Dark, and the wind-blurred pines,
With a glimmer of light between.                                                                                                                      Then I, entombed for an hourless night
With the world of things unseen.


Mist, the dust of flowers,
Leagues, heavy with promise of snow,
And a beckoning road ‘twixt vale and hill,
With the lure that all must know.


A light, my window’s gleam,
Soft, flaring its squares of red—
I loose the ache of the wilderness
And long for the fire instead.


You too know, old fellow?
Then, lift your head and bark.
It’s just the call of the lonesome place,
The winds and the housing dark.

By Djuna Barnes

riding an old bike




Avoided accidents thanks to:

twin droopies on a leash

incoming trailer, passing

Who lives in that school bus?

“Hi, Ma’am”

dead possum on the road

“Are you Max’s friend?”

that house is pretty

“This is the first time I’m seeing this house.”

dead end

“You be safe, now.”







Image: Cynthia Via


The subtlest strain a great musician weaves,
Cannot attain in rhythmic harmony
To music in his soul. May it not be
Celestial lyres send hints to him? He grieves
That half the sweetness of the song, he leaves
Unheard in the transition. Thus do we
Yearn to translate the wondrous majesty
Of some rare mood, when the rapt soul receives
A vision exquisite. Yet who can match
The sunset’s iridescent hues? Who sing
The skylark’s ecstasy so seraph-fine?
We struggle vainly, still we fain would catch
Such rifts amid life’s shadows, for they bring
Glimpses ineffable of things divine.

By Henrietta Cordelia Ray

Story of the day: Wind


The wind is frantic and I’m reading
The wind is whistling
The wind scares me, and I read
Nothing but a glass window
Outside the trees sway, bowing, and curving
To the blowing wind
Sounding like an impending wave about to crash
Washing out the tiny colored houses
There’s a tall palm tree which I will hang to


Pink Orchid

Photo Credit: Cynthia Via
Photo Credit: Cynthia Via

He asked, what’s wrong? I said, nothing, and made something up:

I don’t want to go upstairs.

—I’m tired.

Look at my orchid. In the photo:

long stems, light white petals with faded pink tips, sitting near a window.

Is it real? I said, somewhat dismissive.

Of course it’s real. I watched it grow.

Girl at the door

Summertime. Edward Hopper (1943)
Summertime. Edward Hopper (1943)

We said our byes and headed out the door

                                                       We walked to the car

She was left standing pensive on the porch,

above the stairs

Her arms, folded over as if calmly waiting

I looked back

The white color of the house enveloped her,

the blond hair, the folded arms, her smile