Friday, November 2, 2018

Here We Are

Angels in the Air ©Michael Douglas Jones
Prints available: http://goo.gl/ue83F




Here we are. We are here to vote again, to voice our wishes, our choices, as to who we are, where we came from, as we made this our world, and in this voting, this voicing, we honor our ancestors that lived, that died, that came here to this land, to this life, to this day, to be the best that humankind, that human kindness could be. We are here to make humankind the best kindness for our children, and their children, and their children.  Our vote, our voice, in fact, our entire life, is based on one choice, and that is this; Love or Fear. At day’s end, what is it that you love; what is it that you fear? I do not fear inclusion; I do not fear diversity; I do not fear the other, because there is no other.


   I have read the volumes about angels in the air, seen my share of Sunday sermons, stood inside the stunning limestone cathedrals, and sat beneath the vault of heaven, but this is my experience of faith, as I find it in every moment of the everyday.


You breathe out
and I breathe in;
where you leave off
and I begin,
I cannot say.
Where you leave off
and God begins,
I cannot say.
This is my faith,
simply said.



Friday, October 19, 2018

The Innkeeper's Journal

Innkeeper's Journal ©Michael Douglas Jones





My unrequited love, she is the innkeeper, rising before sun to care for the ones she keeps, and not resting until midnight when all are abed. The inn is a respite for all travelers, but the keeper is alone with her memories of an unspoken sorrow; she is the attendant, the confidante to her guests, and her own sadness is kept, secluded, in her journal. My innkeeper, she is there, locked up inside herself; the only key tied to her chatelaine, and I sit here on the veranda outside the inn, on the cedar bench, watching her eyes, hoping to see behind the hurt, yet helpless in my own fetters of rust and worry.

My innkeeper, she walks the halls in the afternoon, with tea and biscuits, and parcels for the favored ones. She receives no parcels herself, except my pitiful postcards, professing my love. Those she puts aside; that poor farm boy, that sweet, but shy, swain from South Mountain.

I tell her, and in time, she may know; life is not what she has lost, it is the gifts we give, the miracles and mysteries we find at every turn, just outside the door. I see it from my seat on the veranda. There is mystery in a simple bundle of letters; an almost adolescent anticipation; where any day holds hope; where a dream might come true within the letter bundle. On his appointed morning rounds, the postman, that romantic carrier, shuffles the bundle small to large, and then ties it with a string. A gift wrapped with ribbon could not promise so completely.

What news this day comes; what joy, what sorrow. Pleasure, pain, each as it is, comes in a bundle with the mundane.

We are the lucky, the blessed, on this bench, on this veranda, outside the inn; the breeze blowing away the day.

Wish you were here.
J'ai souhaité que tu étais ici.
                                             

                                             ~ Michael Douglas Jones



Sunday, October 14, 2018

Long Night Moon

Long Night Moon  ~ L'assemblage ~ ©Michael Douglas Jones 2018





   Midnight of the long night moon, and like far away thunder, the battery wagons rumble across the train track, south of the railroad cut; you stir slightly in your pinewood cot, beneath a worn, but warm, wool blanket. Your redtick hound lifts her ears, but does not bark. The crick crackle of the fireplace settles you back to sleep, after a weary day of the world at war.

   I place my artillery at the crest of the distant ridge, and wait until the light of predawn. The first shell drifts left, hitting the well house; the second takes the cottage chimney, collapsing brick and mortar, sending oakwood smoke and flame through your room, until all that is left is ember and ash. Your redtick hound howls, but does not leave you. You keep your silence and stand, with no surrender, accepting the smoke and flame.

   I know this, because I am you, and the deeper demons at work here, beneath the long night moon. You and I, we are the battle worn veterans, we are the hunters; we are the hunted. Logic is my lantern, and yet, I lift the linstock and light the slow match.

   Tonight, I return home after this weary day of war, the road north of the railroad cut well lit by the waning moon at my back. My cot is cold and old pinewood; the fire is welcome and warm. My redtick hound sleeps at my side, and stirs only slightly at the sound of far away thunder.


                                           

Sunday, September 23, 2018

The Sharp Knife

Mother and Children ©Michael Douglas Jones





Do not listen to the dividers, the sharp knife cutters. We are all children of the same ancient mother. All of us. We laugh out loud, we live out loud, we love, and we are timeless; we are legend.


Sunday, August 12, 2018

Toward Cool Water





Toward Cool Water ~   L'assemblage ©Michael Douglas Jones



Toward cool water, we walked north and west in the first days; Magdaléna, Pensée, and me. We fashioned canoes from strips of alder and ash, and moved toward cool water, away from the tribal fires on the ridge, away from the war before this war, away from the past, toward cool water, and toward the quiet of candlelight and concord.


Just south of the Patuxent River headwaters, we walked a furlong east of the buffalo road, at the midpoint where the slope between ridge and valley branch calms to a level large enough for a small cottage; there we made a home, facing east, to welcome each morning in the neverending season of forevernow.  


Now; now, we are older, we are timeless, yet vernal equinox moves in from the valley early, across the eastern horizon of old oaks, with promises from passerines heard above the first forecast of crows. Morning wakes, taking me up to the ridge to watch winter, with her worry, fade in the dawn brightening day. Behind me at the cottage, the melancholy cooing of mourning doves atop the terracotta chimney pot, predawn’s last song, softening to silence as I climb the hill beyond the tall pines. Silhouettes of robins in the redbud offer a new song, another chance to start, and a spring season to plant life anew; the past washed away in the floods of freshet, the cool, cool water of freshet.


Sunday, April 8, 2018

Thank You Again

Michael Douglas Jones 2018. photograph ©Natoma Vargason

Thanks to everyone that came out last night for the First Saturday opening at Gallery322. I haven't had a Frederick based gallery in a while, even though I moved to Frederick proper five years ago. That is a story for another day; today I am so grateful for all of the support you have given me. Thank you again and again. 


 

Saturday, March 31, 2018

Tallying The Miracles

Tallying The Miracles ~ l'assemblage ~ ©MichaelDouglasJones





I am as you are,
we are of the ancients.
We are of the now,
and the forevernow.
These are the books we carry;
this is who we are.

We are the waking; taking our first full breath.
We are the words we whisper, when we turn the page.

Breathing in, we are the blending of all books,
the scribbling pencil points,
the overwhelmed annalists listening for the silence
between crow caws and motorcars.

Breathing out, we are this that is not named.

Breathing in, we are the gathering of grace;
the last scribes in the retinue, tallying the miracles,
illuminating manuscripts of unseen symphonies from
early morning mockingbirds.

Breathing out, we are this that is not named.

Breathing in, we are all that ever was.

Breathing out, we are all that ever will be.

Breathing in, we are.

Breathing out, we.

Breathing in.

Breathing.
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