HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO EVERYONE
HOLIDAY SNOW – ACRYLICS
Born in northern Alabama, father was a Native American (Chickasaw) sharecropper who managed a farm for a businessperson from Decatur, and a mother who worked in the local cotton mill during the Depression to pay for Beautician School. Although her mother lived in the same house, she was emotionally absent since the Author’s birth. The author, raised by her father, Native American great-grandmother and an African-American woman all were great storytellers.
Instead of playing like most children, she roamed the countryside alone or with her father and at night she sat at the feet of these strong-minded individuals listening to the stories of their lives. During the summer, she lived with her fathers’ sister in Birmingham, Alabama; it was there that she would discover a library, and mingle with her aunt’s circle of friends that included local writers, artist, and politicians. A cabin deep within the Black Warrior Forest was the weekend retreat and filled with these people from a different life than her own. This aunt encouraged the imagination of a young Ann with the gift of her first journal, which she filled with stories over the summer. Planted was the desire to write, a seedling waiting to spurt from the warm southern heart of a child.
Nonetheless, with adulthood, the desire to create buried itself deep within, the dream wilted but did not die. It lay dormant, gaining experience all written in hidden journals. These experiences, the contents of these journals became short stories and poetry reading to share with the world.
Throughout the years along with her father, great-great-grandmother, and her beloved Aunt Francis, other influences were, Faulkner, Capote, Fitzgerald, and Harper Lee. Later in life, I discovered the warm and comic writing of Grace Paley. The Collected Stories, the vivid poetry of William Carlos Williams; the strong poetry of Phyllis McGinley, and the world’s most exciting women, Maya Angelou are some of the poets at the top of her list.
The harshness that shrouded her life would cause her to withdraw from most of the world; it fills the pages of her writing, the heartache, the abuse, and the denial from her mother. Today, at a stage of life where she enjoys her children, grand and great grandchildren, her four-legged companion Mason, she lives in Southern Wisconsin…far from her southern roots, writes and paints daily.
ONE OF THE MANY REVIEWS ON HER WORK:
Southern living, tragedy, memories, and nostalgia… 2014
By Dr. Karen Moriarty – Karen Moriarty, Author of “Defending A King ~ His Life & Legacy” [about the incomparable Michael Jackson]
“As a former teacher of English and creative writing, I approached the reading of Ann Johnson-Murphree’s “Honeysuckle Memories” with real enthusiasm. Poetry is not a wildly popular genre currently. However, I have always enjoyed it, partly because it can be consumed in bits and pieces and at any time of day or night. This book did not disappoint. I consider poems the poet’s personal journey of heart-soul-and-mind. This collection of poems is about Southern living, tragedy, death, and memories. The poet-author’s background as a child who grew up in northern Alabama, a sharecropper’s daughter who farmed for his living, colors much of her work. I enjoyed the flow of her writing, her style of combining prose and poetry, and her reflecting the imagery from her earlier memories in vivid terms.
I recommend that you buy and read this book. It is priced well — to entice the potential reader to venture into the realm of poetry. Ms. Johnson-Murphree enjoys, above all else, sharing her love of writing with others who will enjoy it, understand her better, and share her personal journey.”
THE POETRY OF ANN JOHNSON-MURPHREE AT AMAZON.COM –
Published in Kindle eBooks and paperback at Amazon.com:
Echoing Images from the Soul
Beyond the Voices
Reflections of Poetry
Sachets of Poetry on Adoration, Anger, Asylums and Aspirations
My Journey into Art
As humans we are like the Black Birds
collected in a globe of pecking gloom,
an awakening before the coming of death;
wise souls searching for a revelation for
We are a race that battles, a race of
warring souls unsatisfied until the end,
living in unrest under the breath of Heaven,
always gathering our possessions close to
us before our journey ends.
Banded in a world all the while as the Eye
of God knows who will be saved and who will
be destroyed, collectively, selectively
Reaching out into the night, silently watching
the armies, watching man’s destiny, destruction,
listen people and you can hear… the breath going
out of the world!
A silent shore, seductive Moon, a sinister Sea, clouds in the wind, a shadow lies upon the white sand alone.
Stilled on the sparkling crystals, almost villainous, primeval and water worn with broken sides.
Once imperturbable, aloft upon white shafts of waves, beautiful and bold, now ancient and vacant.
The old sailing ship finds its burial ground upon a deserted island in the mist of morning.
My poetry and art book are at Amazon.com:
My sincere apologies “My Journey into Art” offered as a free download on April 15 cannot be downloaded. Just received word of the problem at midnight! I will have this available as soon as possible.
My books are at Amazon.com
All books at Amazon.com:
ECHOING IMAGES FORM THE SOUL
BEYOND THE VOICES
REFLECTIONS OF POETRY
JOURNEY INTO ART
Watercolor 10×12 ©2010.annjohnsonmurphree
Ask me not where a love
that has been taken goes;
maybe it slips slowly away
with the summer like a fading
rose. Did it go peacefully to
sleep, unable to hear its lovers
Was it a love that heaven created,
sweet, fair, like a sandy beach, blue
sea, and salty air. Quivering bodies
will no longer be able to keep each
other warm; they parted sorrowfully
under darkened skies during a midnight
Now each lay still in the dead of night,
alone, the light from one gone out. Sunrise
and sunset, he pretends to see her
soul fly, mesmerized, as the fragrance
of her bosom will never die.
Winter by the creek and below…outside my door.