Small Deeds

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

 Journal Entry: July 1, 1862

 Tonight, we will sleep along the wet roadside near the Chickahominy River. This falling rain may wash away the blood of the thousands lost today on Malvern Hill, but if this destruction continues, every person will be gone, as every structure, every tree will be burned, and all that shall remain will be the detritus of this once sylvan paradise. There is little trace of the past and little hope for a future; there is only now, and all that I have to give now are the seeds from my pocket. I have a habit of keeping seeds from any fruit I had the pleasure to have eaten, because of stories told by my Ohioan relatives; the tales of Johnny Appleseed, who died around the time I was born. Now on the grim days, when I feel as though I have so little to give, I still carry a seed to remind me that it is not these great armies that change this world; it is the small deeds, the small seeds planted for someone you might never know. Perhaps, amid this destruction, if I can at least plant a seed, I have accomplished some small act of compassion. Perhaps one day, a tree grown from these small seeds might provide shade or sustenance to some other weary traveler.

❦ 

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.

❦ 

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.

❦ 

 

Aviary

Aviary

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2024

Original artwork SOLD 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.

❦ 

 

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

 

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 

❦ 

 

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