Sunday, November 22, 2020

The Seeder


Four hundred years ago, we sailed west, and here, met our kin who had moved east long before that. Upon landing, there was great celebration, but the camaraderie was short-lived; the long separation had turned many hearts to flint and within fifteen years, the first of the twenty-seven wars began.


After all this time, there is still a divide that separates the blue tribes and the reds. Small skirmishes flare up often and the opposing tribes have gradually separated to camps and cities scattered through the land. After four centuries, it’s difficult to tell your red relatives from your blues and I would not choose between two wrongs. I’ve, also, never been accustomed to the babble and chatter of the cities and camps, so I lived off the land between the camps and became a seeder.  


There are other seeders like me; we ride between the camps, bringing books, sharing seeds and small deeds of compassion, giving credit to a neighboring camp. Our goal, perhaps impossible, is to bring the tribes back together. Mostly, we are seen as dreamers; naïve, harmless, like artists and poets. There are those that view us as gypsies, or perhaps spies of some vast conspiracy, so vigilance is always our watchword. When I meet other riders traveling between the camps, I have a cautious word with them, until I can be sure that they are seeders also. We never gather in groups; we pass short messages to one another about our progress, and where we have seen sparks of understanding.


We are not here to gain merit; most of us fell into this role when we were still quite young. We will ride until these tribes become one again. We don’t expect to be leaders of a new tribe; the seeders are a loose affiliation. My English ancestors sailed the tall ship, Mayflower; my Patawomeck ancestors paddled the poplarwood canoe on the river, Rappahannock. There are no enemies for me, only family, to share thanks giving.

Tuesday, November 10, 2020

Perigee Moon

Perigee Moon ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021
Original artwork available at Gallery 322 

  Milk glass sky, its curtain of clouds, wispy white, twilight, moving stage right for the star of the evening; perigee moon.  Firefly ushers, with soft light, show us to our seats, while passerines pair up in birdsong, the opening act. Perigee, her dance of veils behind the locust tree; each veil drops; the black, the gold, the red, the silver, as the artist pours a pint of ale.  Oh, Pensée; he is waiting for epiphany; perigee moon.