Brief Passage

Brief Passage

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

The rumble of the railcars on East Street, the rattle of the wagons on Market, the banter and chatter inside the city keep a man from thinking beyond the busyness of the morning, so by dayend, I search for solace down the moss tinged cobblestone of Court Street, south toward the Carroll creek once more, to hear the calming rush and roll of water, to sit upon the cedar bench.

My old friend, the cedar bench; the two of us, grayed with age, waiting for the moon to rise.  We sit silent, as small  audience to the sunset songs of cricket, frog, and creek; I collect my thoughts, which are always of you.

Here, by the water, under the black walnut, with the scent of sassafras, I buy brief passage to another time, a long ago September, when you would simply seduce every sense I possess.

                                                   ~ Michael Douglas Jones

                                                                 Parcel №9

Frederick in Spires

 

Changing Light

Changing Light

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

    In nature, the storm is swift, while growth is gradual. Let not the new day take you by storm; be gradual and gentle in your resolve.

    Be as the dawn’s changing light, behind the fog façade, moving west across the Chesapeake.
                                                                       ~ Michael Douglas Jones
                                                                                   Parcel №11


                         

 

Morning's Doves

Morning's Doves

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

   This war, waged in wilderness, in city streets, and in all directions therefrom, leaves a lawless landscape of  raiders, deserters, and ne’er-do-wells. At sunrise, we follow the smoke, over a ridge, to find burning homes where soldiers and looters are leaving with as much as they can muster. I have seen so many mothers starving, left with only the clothes they carry, holding hungry babies on their hips. Mornings find them foraging along the roads, like mourning doves, sorrowful in their song, scratching in the soil for bits of seed and sustenance. We give what small rations we have in our haversacks, but cannot give them the peace they seek. They do not cry or complain; their eyes hold no tears for themselves. If they hold hope at all, it is for the future of the children.

    I tell them that soon life will be better, but my eyes betray me, having seen the life leaving from too many children of other mothers.

    It will be better, morning dove, it will be.

                                                  ~Michael Douglas Jones

                                                           Parcel №10

 

The Late Supper

 

The Late Supper 

Trompe-l'œil L’Assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at Gifts Inn BoonsBoro

This art & essay is somewhat different from my usual fare, as it is more tongue in cheek, written in the tradition of the dark Mother Goose nursery rhymes, which are laced with murder and mayhem.—

Coarsely chopped scorn

and wild white venom

simmered

in the black beast stew;

she baked a loathe

of whole pain bread

and hate it by herself.

Her husband came home

in his cups;

much too late for supper.

She met him

with the cake knife

to serve him just deserts.

…

Already There

Already There ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

This night, so clear,

 with a sky full of stars;

 the blinking ones are travelers

 on their way somewhere;

 the rest are already there.

                      ~Michael Douglas Jones 

                       Parcel №8

…

May Storm

May Storm ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322

   After the blue flame and thunder of the eastward storms, in the valley branch, the water rolls, drip-rippling over stones, white foam rising, its rhythm repeats, repeats, repeats, as an ostinato of spring peepers, toads, and tree frogs rises, reaches me; redwings, nesting in the cattails, join that unseen symphony.

 This refrain repeats, as this  romance repeats, and becomes our song. This is our dance, again and again. 

                     ~ Michael Douglas Jones

                                         Parcel №7

…

 

An Unseen Symphony

An Unseen Symphony ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2022

Original artwork SOLD at DELAPLAINE

   In my memory of moments, there were too few early summer evenings outside on the cedar bench; my old friend, the cedar bench; the two of us, grayed with age, waiting for the moon to rise. We would sit in silence, as audience to the sunset songs of crickets, frogs, and creek; all in perfect harmony.

   Somehow, they knew which symphony was scheduled each evening. Too soon that faraway chorus was overwhelmed by unseen cicadas practicing a Philip Glass concerto behind a green curtain; too shy to let us see the performance. I applauded anyway, but the moon was rising; there would be no encore. Even the crows cawed out for more. 

   We waited, and wished; we wanted more, but all and all, it was enough to last me through this winter.

                                        

                                                                 ~Michael Douglas Jones

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