Wednesday, October 22, 2025

The War Before This War

The War Before This War
L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2025
Original artwork available at Delaplaine 2025 Veterans Show




I thought this was settled in the war before this war. Equality. This winter, around the fireplaces, there is hot debate in the high houses and the lowlands about equality.  Who shall have it; who is unworthy.  After all, the firebrands say, man was given dominion over the lesser animals.
When I was a boy, once a month, my father, brothers, and I took the farm wagon thirteen miles to Fredericksburg for supplies.  While there we would take the Rappahannock Bridge to visit my aunt across the river near the ferry farm. On one winter crossing, we heard a crashing and splashing from below the bridge; a horse had bolted, turning a wagon, its dry goods, and its driver into the icy river.  I turned to my father, but he was already out of our wagon and running to the river. He jumped in the frigid water to pull out whatever life was struggling there.  He did not weigh the merits of the man or the equality.  Whether the drowning there was a man, woman, light, dark, two-legged, or four, life was leaving and my father was there to pull it back.  I am convinced the firebrands would let a majority drown without a second thought on the matter, but where I was raised, life, all life was precious and was not ours to rule or roll over.
Where I was raised, everyone works hard; the man and boy, the woman and girl, the draft horse, the bee, the bird in the wood; all have equal worth.  At day’s end, we all eat and sleep, appreciated for our contribution. Not one is thought to be the lesser being.
If man was given dominion over all animals, no one told the crows.

                                                                                              

                                                                        ~Michael Douglas Jones


 

 

Saturday, September 27, 2025

Cool Water of Freshet

Cool Water of Freshet
L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2025
Original artwork available at Gallery 322


  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, 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 the 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.

                                                                               ~Michael Douglas Jones


 

 

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Leave the War House Locked

To Leave the War House Locked ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2025
Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322



In my past, there was a warehouse where I stored my weapons of war.  My anger and hurt were in there, with my drawn out plans of vengeance against those that had wronged me. I locked it deep inside me as I went about my days, and now the lock has rusted shut; I cannot get back in, and I’ve forgotten what I was fighting about.

Perhaps it is time to forgive those that have wronged me and to leave the war house locked.


~Michael Douglas Jones



 




 

Wednesday, July 2, 2025

Rhythm of the World

Rhythm of the World
~ trompe-l'œil æssemblage art & essay by Michael Douglas Jones
Original artwork available at Gallery 322



We could see them,
from the parlor,
where we wavered with the waltz;
children dancing,
in the garden,
to the rhythm of the world.
      
                           ~Michael Douglas Jones 


The Waltz
oil glaze painting by Michael Douglas Jones
Original artwork SOLD




 

Wednesday, May 14, 2025

Over Oakwood

Over Oakwood
~ trompe-l'œil æssemblage art & essay by Michael Douglas Jones
Original artwork available at Gallery 322


  Over an oakwood fire, the water I had drawn from the well on Sunday, rose in a steam cloud from the kitchen kettle, and drifted dreamlike out the open window into the winter sky.

  I held my head back, and drank it in deeply from the spring rain.

  This water quenched my summer thirst, and a joy of recognition welled up in me.

  It rolled down my cheek as a tear, dropping onto the ground, where it joined a fallen leaf from the autumn tree.

  The leaf and water merged into the soil to become the budding oak beside the well, where I had drawn water on Sunday.

                         

                          ~Michael Douglas Jones



 


 

Sunday, May 4, 2025

Both Bowl and Spoon

Both Bowl and Spoon
~ trompe-l'œil æssemblage art & essay by Michael Douglas Jones
Original artwork available at Gallery 322





Journal Entry; Amelia Courthouse, Virginia; April 5

 

   There were gentlemen; there were heroes; there were common men, and cowards. Death was equal in its coming. That I survived is not enough; I must prosper, that those boys be remembered. I will remember them to my own sweet mother, and if I should meet their mothers, I shall describe them, each and all, as gallant troopers to the last breath; heroic sons of America.

   The many wars waged for causes, just and unjust, are eventually resolved; history is written and revised as years pass, but mothers whose sons never return will hold that simple truth in their eyes, and still continue to give again. They know no other way. 

   A mother is both bowl and spoon; filling, sharing, giving; seeking nothing in return; overflowing, holding nothing back.

   I have nothing to offer these mothers, only my eyes looking into their eyes, letting them know that they are not empty; that I too am their son, and they are loved. 

                         

                          ~Michael Douglas Jones



 


 

Monday, March 17, 2025

Courage is Quiet

Courage is Quiet
~ trompe-l'œil æssemblage art & essay by Michael Douglas Jones
№2 in the Courage series
Original artwork available at Gallery 322




 Breaking day sun slips through the thornapple branches in jagged cuts of light and night. I rise with its pain, and listen, but Courage does not call out commands, or curse from atop the porch step to the chattel below; she will not wait for reinforcements. Courage whispers, and walks toward the post road where the work will be done. She does not ask to be Courage, as I do; she takes the task at hand and handles it now, so I walk behind her for a time, in the early morning, as the fog lifts beyond the tree line. We are tasked this day to measure the moon, at the ridgetop, a full day’s journey, and the many that stay behind say it cannot be measured, it is beyond our scope, and the demons on the ridge are many. Courage wears the scars and creases of those demons, so I will walk behind her awhile, and ask to be Courage for this one day.

   I wear my father’s butternut overcoat, and deep inside the left pocket is the Colt pistol that he turned on himself, in the war before this war. I carry the weight of that Colt, the weight of that coat, the wet wool heavy on my scars and shoulders, and every morning, I reach into its worn pocket, moving my fingers across the blood and oil polished pistol grip, knowing that I am on his path; knowing that his way was thick with thorns and tangled honeysuckle vines, with deep mud, and deeper madness, and I ask to be Courage for this one day.

   Courage is quiet, and walks with a steady step through the tall grass, even as the grade steepens near the slip rail, a full furlong before the post road, where the work will be done. I fall behind in the high noon sun, my heavy boots caked with the drying mud of years lost, trudging the circling path of thorn and vine. By late afternoon, Courage is a shrinking silhouette on the west ridge, and I am remembering the cool shade of the hawthorn and the thick sweet scent of honeysuckle, its taste on my lips, so I sit awhile to consider my direction for tomorrow, and move the pistol to my right pocket.