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

 

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

❦ 

 

Bennett's Creek

Bennett's Creek

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023

Original artwork available at Gallery 322

 

  The recent troubles have taken a toll on each and all of us.  I, who had never raised a fisted hand against another, now carry three revolvers; one holstered on my hip and two in pommel holsters on my saddle, in case you might measure me at a distance by my colors, as the old mare moves slowly up the corduroy road on the last day of May; a hot afternoon.  Her pace is just enough to lift a breeze above the dust, and her hooves on the wood, work a lullaby rhythm.  High to the west, is the sugarloaf mountain, but, closer, I catch sight of a young groundhog standing in the new corn, both only two hands high; both searching the sky for a taste of rain.  The old mare knows the high clouds have none; she waits for a drink from Bennett's creek.  Along the east side of the road, an oriole savors the honeysuckle blooms on the remnants of a split rail, its scent a brief kiss from a childhood sweetheart, and I dream in the afternoon of a brown-eyed Susan, while the old mare moves slowly up the corduroy road, away from the troubles, and every day, closer to home.

                     

                                                                                       ~Michael Douglas Jones

                                                                                            Frederick in Spires 

 ❦ 

Wintersea

Wintersea

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023

Original artwork available at Gallery 322

   Once, we worked the wintersea, along the coast of Chesapeake; we learned the rhythm of the days, and kept them through our years.

    Eastern horizon quickening, lightening; sea of sun rising, readying, raising the mainsail of morning, as dawn’s winter wind roars like stevedores on the dock of this day. Swaying ship masts of high hill pines creak and caution, as icy hatch hinges slam and shudder, as flags snap and shiver. The crew of crows comes aboard from the valley, cawing commands; all is ready before the mast, this day may get under way. Day breaks cold against my face charting a northwest course; with the western moon over my left shoulder. I turn and face into this fine adventure.

                       ~ Michael Douglas Jones

 ❦

 

Cover of Cottonwhite

Cover of Cottonwhite

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

   East of Reich’s Ford, the slightest snowfall overnight, fresh cover of cottonwhite, and a clean page for the day's poetry.

    Up and over the ridge, written on the paperwhite of fresh snow, the meandering graceful script of buck and doe.

                       ~ Michael Douglas Jones

                                    Parcel №16

 ❦

 

This Day

This Day

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2023

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

   There is one moment, in the frosted hour before dawn, with the full moon melting, moving low, in the west behind the tall line of pines, with the fog façade on the Monocacy valley trees, before the crow caws the morning message, before obsculta in the deep silence is overwhelmed by the transient noise of aeroplanes and motorcars.

   There, in that full circle surrounding, I can turn in any direction, take a moment, take a breath, and begin this day. That moment, when the fullness of nature nods knowingly, and wakes the world. That is my moment.

      

                                                                       ~Michael Douglas Jones 

                                                                                 Parcel №15

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