WINGS

 

WINGS ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322 

Butterfly emerges

when it can no longer hide its wings.

…

Ride the High Wheel

Ride the High Wheel ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322 

    In the veiled light of predawn, I ride the high wheeler from Market Street, south toward the Monocacy river bridge, past the cornfield and Queen Anne’s lace, into the fog façade, the grey above green, a watercolor wash atop the cover crops, as quiet as a cloud.

 

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.

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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.

                             

 

One o’ them two dollar words...

Clarence Douglas Jones, U.S.Navy 1942

     After Pearl Harbor, my father enlisted in the Navy to fight Fascism. On December 11, 1942, his ship, USS SCOTT was torpedoed, and sunk off the coast of Africa during the Allied invasion of French North Africa. The torpedo hit the Starboard side; the ship burst into flames and foundered, but owing to the availability of landing craft for rescue, casualties were limited to 59 men. My father was a landing craft pilot. He was only 17 that day.

    Now, Fascism was too big a word for a 16 year old Virginia farm boy with a sixth grade education, but he knew it by its true names. He knew the bully harming weaker folks, too young or too old to stop them; the bigot hating the “coloreds” and the “come-heres”; the big man belittling women and treating them as chattel; the straw boss rewarding his buddies; the revivalist bathing in the baptismal font with a gifted jug of bootleg whiskey, before launching into an hour of fiery brimstone, and eternity in the sky. Yeah, fascism was one o’ them two dollar words, and where he was raised, and where I was raised, life, all life was precious and was not ours to rule or roll over.

     Here we are, nearly 80 years later, still fighting Fascism; we just have to VOTE.

#VOTE 

Telling the Bees

Telling the Bees ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2020

Original artwork SOLD / Gallery 322 

 

I am 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 into the war before this 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, through the cornflower and bramble blossom, past the honeysuckle waiting for the heather; the pollen peppers the black dress, the mourning dress her mother wore, in the war before this war. My mother walks the widow's walk, carrying the black crepe tied with a grey wool ribbon.

Three times, she taps on the hive with her door key,

three times, she taps on the terracotta top;

three times, asking them to spiral up and over,

three times higher than the vault of heaven;

Three times, she whispers,

telling the bees,

telling the bees,

telling the bees.

I was the beekeeper’s boy.

I am the beekeeper now.

 …

EQUALITY2020

EQUALITY 2020 ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2020

Original artwork SOLD / Gallery 322  

"Fight for the things that you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you."

                                                ~ Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg

·

    In the middlenight, we plant by moonlight; when we falter at the ridge on the burnt hill road of equality, we will not fall, we remember your promise on that last day, and keep climbing.

    We do not grieve for you; we will miss you more than all we’ve lost, but grief is for the suffering and you did not accept suffering. Your reach is wider now; we did not think that possible. No longer from anywhere, you are not of any age; you have always been, and will always be the voice, the plan of the planter; sowing the slow growth of equality.

    They that seed are everything; they are the breath, the whisper, the promise of all that came before. Your lantern shines through the chiaroscuro, from every starlit flicker to the blueblack wings of night, and we will hold that ageless flame before us, and go, as you would go, to the ridge where the hardwood seeds will grow. 

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