Saturday, April 13, 2024

The Two Ways

 

The Two Ways
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2024
Original artwork available at Gallery 322



I would save, she would share;
we were opposites attracting.
I would rage, she would whisper;
I was cold to her compassion.
I was sinner, she was saint;
together, we were all the world;
the way that it will always be;
for you would not know her warmth,
had you not felt my chill.


 


Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Snow Shower

Snow Shower
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2024
Original artwork available at Gallery 322




 Snow shower, sugar powder,

 dry and drifting

 down the White’s Ferry road,

 where I walk,

 winter warm,

 recalling summer girls,

 with funnel cake faces,

 waiting for the Ferris Wheel.


 


 

Wednesday, January 10, 2024

Aviary

Aviary
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2024
Original artwork available at Gallery 322



The cage was in the eye of the gaoler;

the song was in the heart of the bird,

and the bars could not hold it,

no matter the size of the cage.



 


 

Sunday, December 17, 2023

Season of Angels

Season of Angels
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023
Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322


   A flutter of dark-eyed juncos trill, and scratch at the pine needle floor, searching, in this day's leaving light, for the last sunflower seeds of the season; the dance slowing into winter rest, and I am listening close, attuned to the breathing in, and breathing out.
   In that moment before the rising of moon, before the setting of sun; autumn leaves, like tiny wings, starting the season of angels descending.
                       
    ~Michael Douglas Jones


 

Monday, October 9, 2023

The Weathered Inch

The Weathered Inch
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023
Original artwork available at Gallery 322



    In the dark days, we rode together, weathered each mile, every inch, and you set your stories on another day when we would war no more, when you and I would sit in the still evening of peace and plenty. Now, storm clouds roil with a rumour of rain, and the fields are afire; again. Flames unfurl and whip like cavalry swallowtail guidons in the furious wind across the ridge. Now is the time that you are needed; now is the time to heal the hurt, and only you can do that. Practice grace and mercy. Hand out love, asking nothing in return. Yes, you are scarred, wounded once again, yet you can still place your burnt hands together, showing your simple gesture of grace to find the divine in each and all. Your heart is war weary, this is painful, yet you alone are our last hope. You alone; there is no other.
Now, storm clouds roil with a rumour of rain, and the fields are afire; again. Flames unfurl and whip like cavalry swallowtail guidons in the furious wind across the ridge.
Now is the time that you are needed; now is the time to heal the hurt, and only you can do that.
Practice grace and mercy. Hand out love, asking nothing in return. Yes, you are scarred, wounded once again, yet you can still place your burnt hands together, showing your simple gesture of grace to find the divine in each and all. Your heart is war weary, this is painful, yet you alone are our last hope. You alone; there is no other.
                                                
~ Michael Douglas Jones 




 


 

Thursday, August 3, 2023

The Beekeeper's Boy

The Beekeeper's Boy
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023
Original artwork available at Gallery 322


I was the beekeeper’s boy. I learned early on to weave the willow, to keep the skeps in good order, to keep us queenright during the years of colony collapse, after the beekeeper was conscripted in the war.

My mother is the mistress of the house; the keys on her chatelaine control the locks and secret doors. She keeps the inside; I keep the outside. The house is her hive, but she, in turn, must tell the bees her secrets, her sorrows; tell the news when the letters arrive. She was taught by our ancient mother to tap, three times, on the hive with her door key; to drape black crepe on dark days, when the carriage climbs the gated hill; she was taught to place white cake on wedding days, when the carriage winds its way past the Queen Anne’s Lace on the churchouse road. Just as we share the sunflower, the bees share the capped cell; we are family, we share joy; we share sorrow. We keep together. Home and skep, kept together.

From the bankbarn, I see her in the garden, on the path to the hives, leading a swarm by ringing the handbell, tanging the bees through the cornflower and bramble blossom, past the honeysuckle, towards the hickory tree and the swarm trap. She is the mother bringing them home, keeping them calm; home and skep, kept together. Pollen peppers the black dress, the mourning dress her mother wore, in the war before this war. She could not bring the beekeeper home; he is buried, an unknown soldier in a Cold Harbor field.

I was the beekeeper’s boy. I am the beekeeper now.


                                                        ~ Michael Douglas Jones



A swarm in May is worth a load of hay; a swarm in June is worth a silver spoon, but a swarm in July is not worth a fly.’ ~ 17th Century saying



 

Thursday, June 8, 2023

Above the Spires

Above the Spires
Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023
Original artwork available at Gallery 322



  Looking east towards Court Street, one hand span above the spires, behind the fog façade of predawn dark, November’s first waning moon is a soft chalk smudge on the washed blackboard sky, and I, on the rain wet road, watch and learn; teacher’s pet.
            

                           ~ Michael Douglas Jones
                              Frederick in Spires