Aloft

 

Aloft

L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2026

Original artwork available at Gallery 322

I am not distant; I am right here, calling to you; I am an untethered balloon that moves away from where I want to go. I drop letters and drawings over the basket side to tell you, but they get caught up in the wind and drift away. I am not aloof; I am aloft, and cannot reach you.

 ::

There is no way around it; I am a recluse. I love this world; I love people; I care deeply, but there is a deeper feeling that has always been inside of me, that keeps me inside of me. I can’t call it fear; it is deeper than that. It possesses the whole of me, but to call it phobia sounds foolish. Reaching out is the most difficult movement to make; my arms, my voice, they fail me. I reach out through my art, through my written word, to tell you how I feel, to show how much I love you.

I’m getting better, but you already know

I might never call you, though I want to know that you are well.

I might never email you, but will always give a warm reply.

I might never ask to be your facebook friend, but will eagerly confirm.

I will never stop trying to be a better friend.

I am not cold; my eyes well up with compassion complete.

I reach out to the whole world, but cannot move my hands.

If you would just give me yours;

I can be your best friend, I simply need a hand.

Blackthorn

Blackthorn

L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2026

Original artwork available at Gallery 322

  I was not the first to touch the thorns beneath the foliage, to taste the blood on the berry before I savored the sweet fruit. I was not the first to feel the pain, but still desire the taste again, and I can tell you of temptation, of danger, of sweet, and of pain, but I was not the first to touch the thorns, and you will not be the last.

❦

 

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

❦ 

 

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

❦ 

 

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

❦ 

 

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

 

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

❦ 

 

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

❦ 

 

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.

☽ 

 

On This Day

On This Day

~ trompe-l'œil æssemblage art & essay by Michael Douglas Jones

 Original artwork available at Gallery 322

On this day, I search for solace, outside my cottage door on the moss tinged cobblestone with my old friend, the cedar bench; the two of us, grayed with age, waiting for the moon to rise.  We sit silent, as a small audience to the sunset songs of cricket, frog, and creek; I collect my thoughts, which are always of you. Life is not what we have lost, it is the gifts we give, the miracles and mysteries we find at every turn, just outside the door. On this day, I see it from my seat outside on the cedar bench.

 ~Michael Douglas Jones

❦ 

 

The Line of Life

 

 

 

№1 travailler la ligne
№2 la ligne de vie
№3 faire bien le travail
№4 donne de toi

~ trompe-l'œil æssemblage art & essay by Michael Douglas Jones

 Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

 The Line of Life

  Tucked inside a pocket of my soul coat, deep behind my weary heart, I carry the ancient pages; fragments mostly, of stories told across the oakwood smoke of low winter fires, from fathers to sons, from nursing mothers to every baby born. The stories of those that worked the line of life, alongside their kith and kin, and gave generously to each and all; their small deeds growing like sown seeds through the generations,

  So, walk with me through the cities unseen, out beyond the empty stone towers. Carry no coins; sow seeds that are not for sale, along the side roads and forgotten railroad tracks and timber trestles on the west side, the wrong side of town, in the fallow fields where your fathers once grew cash crops of cotton and cover crops of red clover. Plant fruit trees and berry bushes close to the path, and know that someday, off from the distance, a hungry soul will walk that way seeking sustenance. Plant ideas of days where there is only one of us, and that is all of us, and all of everything there is, and know that someday, off from the distance, a hungry mind will walk that way seeking solace. Your name shall be alongside those in the ancient pages, and I shall be the annalist, to write your name forever.

                                         

                                                                          ~Michael Douglas Jones

❦ 

 

One Day

One Day
 Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones ©2024
 Original artwork at at Gallery 322

   She asked, and I said,
one day, I will build a small cottage down near the Wilderness Run, where I can listen to the cool deep waters of spring freshet. I will raise a red bank barn with a fine stable of Morgan horses. I will plant and harvest, and plant and harvest, and plant again. I will see the seasons; the spring growing, the winter resting, and all the days between.
   And she asked why, and I answered,
I long to marry and dance many a Virginia Reel in the parlor with you. I long to start a family; the tiny tickle of babies laughing, filling our rooms, filling our hearts, and I long to sit on our front porch in the still evening of peace and plenty into our old age.
  And she said, you should ask.

❦ 
 

The Still Evening

The Still Evening
 Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones ©2024
 Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

  In the dark days, we rode together; we weathered every inch, and we set our stories on another day when we would war no more, when you and I would sit in the still evening of peace and plenty on the kingless road.

  Now, cruelty rules on court street, as storm clouds roil with a rumour of revenge, and the fields are afire again. Flames unfurl and whip like swallowtail guidons in the furious wind across the ridge, and we are called to ride once more.

  Yes, you are scarred, and wounded, yet I see that you can still place your burnt hands together, showing a simple gesture of grace to find the divine in each and all. Your heart is war weary, this is painful, yet you are my continuing hope. I ride at your side, until we reach the still evening.

❦ 

 

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.

                                                

~ 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