Words…

th

Words, words, words,

black, brown red, words

for which my tears have

shed. The living word

speaks truth, yet one

must die to have real

proof.

Our birth from death

is taught in the Holy

text, we will not truly

live until this sacrifice

has been met. The sky

will open the “Just”

will fly away, the

“Wicked” given a

second chance must

stay.

Words, are they truth

or a means for the pious

to lie, and for the answer

are you willing to die?

I want to believe, to hope,

to live life to its fullest

here on earth, and I

choose to live until

that final rebirth.

To taste the lush berries

down in the blackberry

thicket, to smell the wild

rose on the side of the hill,

to find a love that will not

let my heart be still. I want

to lie in a clover field

watching bellowing clouds

float by, to gaze at a

summer’s cobalt sky.

I want to read poems with

my legs dangling over the

highest cliff, this…only this

will give my earthly heart a

lift. To stare out at forever,

on the landscape below, as

I pray that my time in the

here and now will travel

ever so slow.

I want to dip my toes into a

frothy sea, to feel the salty

wind upon my face and

know that I am in the

right place. Here on earth

with my love by my side,

yes, oh yes, God can wait

for a while.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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annjohnsonmurphree:

A tribute to Paul F. Lenzi who brings sight, sound and feelings to his work giving his fans and followers inspiration when they find themselves wrapped in his words.
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Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

"The Return of the Flame" Painting by Rene Magritte From rene-magritte.net

“The Return of the Flame”
Painting by Rene Magritte
From rene-magritte.net

What fame is there
In tawdry scenes
Reality not drama
Famous figures
Behaving badly
Naked of inhibition
In the public eye
Fallow morality
Captured crudely
By the public lens

What shame is there
When character
Of lazy virtue
Shows transparent
No makeup masks
No costume cloaks
Conceal the truth
Iconic clay
Too limp to stand
Folds in on itself

What blame is there
For undeserved
Celebrity
Which part is ours
In sordid plays
Enjoying fools
Felled by folly
Miscast lives
Deluded by
Self-importance

Or is the headline
All that matters

View original

Season to Live…

Season to Live…

Making yourself live without

contact with others, you are

doomed. Like the flowers of

summer without human

contact, the soul may cease to

bloom.

Time and stillness may be an

important need; to reject sharing

life with others, may be the

greatest form of greed. Purpose

has its seasons, life follows a

well-planned path; your journey

has a reason.

Clearing the mind and restoring

the spirit will smooth any rutted

road; listen, there is a plan of how

your life should unfold. You may be

on the right path today; the journey

may seem rough, the essence and

energy of your spirit will find the true

way.

Gratefulness, awareness and God’s

grace is woven within the fabric of

your being for a reason. Devote today

to discovering your true self create…

your own season.

©2010.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Childhood Memories…

thWA9PUSN6

 

Muddy Water…

Down a rutted country road from my

childhood home five miles or so, the

muddy Flint Creek flowed south

unhurriedly slow.

I could not have been over five or six,

when I walked that road, but never

without carrying a big stick.

I carried that stick with eyes open wide,

cause daddy said, if a rattlesnake bit you…

you might die.

In the summer, I would go there almost

every day skipping and hopping along;

I would jump from that rickety old bridge

into that muddy water; before the sun

went down I would go home.

Daddy never wondered where I had gone,

everyone who crossed that bridge told him

where I was, so you see I was never alone.

When I finally got home, he would just look

at me with a sly grin saying…

“Baby you’d better not let your mama

find out where you been”.

 

©2012.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

 

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…

“Dedicated to my Great-Grandmother”

 

When I was born, you were a young ninety-years old,

your hair pulled tight at the nap of your neck, still

black and bold. At night, you let it down to braid before

you went to bed, it fell to the floor; at first I would watch

in silence from a crack in the door.

The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the

room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick.

I quickly plucked it from mother’s only broom, and rushed

back into the dimly lit room. You showed me how to break

it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile

accented all of your dark wrinkles and creases.

It was then that my eyes opened wide as you put the stick right

through the lob of your ears, its magic I thought; but this is my

great-grandmother I have nothing to fear. As a child, I did not

realize that there was a hole, because when I would touch the

bangles in her ears, she would quickly scold.

Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her button up

shoes by raising the hem of her long dress, she did not have on

shoes, there were moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have

guessed. Yes, I was only a child without a care, and I spent many

hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.

I never tire of the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together

and now I can say it…as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she

called it “hell”. Her parents had walked on the “Trail of Tears”, proud

and strong, with every step wondering where they had gone wrong.

She help raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begin

to wander in those later years, I was sad, when she would tell her stories

she only remembered the bad. This grand old woman dressed in bangles

and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair and the nap of her

neck was a great-grandmother like no other.

She died only days before her birthday, she would have been one-hundred

and five, my father said, Ma would have scolded you saying…

” Don’t you ever let anyone see you cry”.

I was fifteen and the world was bright and colorful with the artwork of fall,

a befitting day to bury this beautiful and proud Chickasaw.

 

©2012.annjohnsonmurphree

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