Words…

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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“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

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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

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Childhood Memories…

 

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

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_4_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409195210&sr=1-4&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

 

 

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

Echoing Images from the Soul eBook Sale

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ALO – Personal Art Collection of Ann Johnson-Murphree

11X14 Acrylic Sponge Painting

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Grandpa’s Jug…

On a cold southern night, reading under

The covers by a “coal oil” light, grandpa’s

Piano laughter ringing in my ears,

Serenading grandma both had a bit too

Much “cheer”.

I laughed so hard I pulled up the tail of

My flour sack gown to dry my tears,

Ma could not hear me I had nothing to

Fear.

Suddenly there was the smell of smoke,

Ma came in giving my covered shoulders

A poke.

It does not matter to me she exclaimed,

You may want to get out of bed before

You go up in flames.

Through the hole in my quilt I could see,

Smoke rising through it like a tepee.

Pa tossed a bucket of water at me from

The door, it missed the bed and hit the

Floor.

Grandpa jerked the quilt off the bed, folded

It ever so gently and pristine, then through

It out my window that had no screen.

My aunt walked in laughed so hard she peed,

Then said to the others, “Don’t yell at her, be

Happy that she likes to read.

Everyone begin to laugh, drying her tears

Ma said, “Well, it isn’t as if she’s committed

A crime”. It was then…I ran to the outhouse

Thankful for their “cheer” with the help of a little

Old jug of “moonshine”.

 

©2012.annjohnsonmurphree

All books are a collection of poetry created from tiny fabrics of life. These poems characterize the thoughts of innocence sold into a false world of adoration. Living in silence, God did not keep this innocence from hell, and death would be a long way off and life was between the now and then. Ahead lay sacrifice, pain and suffering. Life should be fruitful; the human life produces scenes of public, private distress and anger springs forth with hate and blood. Mortally led to the mysterious world of knowing the fist is not love, it is the slaughter of innocence. Innocence institutionalized because of disobedience, failing to comply with and act upon the orders of their controller, the answer asylum. Reality embedded within the soul of innocence, no future, no meaning to life. Innocence in truth wants and dreams of death; these are the true aspirations of the abused. Ann Johnson-Murphree Poetry Books – Collections of Exposé Poetry are coffee table books 8X11 that will display well in any area. The matte cover is classy and inviting. Within each book the reader will find soul poetry. A length pleasing to browse, read one or more; find a connection, a meaning and a purpose in each poem. These collections of poetry are filled with inspiring thoughts and reassuring words with a factual viewpoint on the many experiences in the life of the poet. Each collection serves as a prevailing reminder that life is complex. That happiness is in our hands alone; that the fear of unhappiness is deep-rooted in the spirit and soul. That depression and despair is real and each individual must find the freedom of mind, body and soul to move forward in their life. Each poem has been created from the fabric of a patchwork life, complex, stress-filled, finding enlightenment and cultivating wisdom. Anyone who will open their mind is free to pursue insight, to find their own nirvana. This collection of thoughts brings the reader along on the multifaceted journey of the poet’s experiences throughout life.

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Magic of the Seasons….

I dreamed that I was a butterfly,

floating with the pale gold sequins

spilled by the Locust tree, from a

cocoon I was set free. I woke to a

cool autumn morning the season

where all things change, many of

Mother Nature’s children drop their

cloaks returning to the earth from

which they came.

The nearby brook reveals a frozen

sparkling bank as ice crystals form

at its edge, the pure water will always

run free, of winter it has no dread.

Dreams floating within a liquid eye,

relives the wonders of spring that

brings the lovely butterfly.

Alas, we must wake to these frosty

days; wait for the early darkness, the

harvest moon shining down upon

mounds of freshly mowed hay. Masters

of cadence the landscape transforms,

winds leap and the maple trees weep,

soon Mother Nature will put her

children to sleep.

The language of Mother Nature is never

old and never new, as she speaks to the

world under a sky of blue. Then spring

will once again arrive, and the earth will

warm, the chicory plants will bloom; with

it, the butterfly will be released from its

magic cocoon.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Voices-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500426709/ref=sr_1_6_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408684399&sr=1-6&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

Tongues of Fire…

The mind in a caged sleep, tears shed,

the thoughts of false caring that others

portray is a lie. Their spitefulness in

thought held captive the sleeping mind

not allowing it to wake. There are those

that cannot be trusted, they show concern

for their own selves and their own greed.

They are always on the prowl to take, take,

and take. They cause pain to the minds of

the blameless and find in it joy, their tongue

of fire knows not the truth. Yet, they will ask

you for your prayers, to engorge their own

needs. If they touch your life, it will never be

the same…

Run, Run, Run…

 

©2014.annjohnsonmurpree

http://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Poetry-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500168645/ref=sr_1_7_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408653156&sr=1-7&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree