Poetry 2014…

 

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418359355&sr=1-2&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks

http://www.amazon.com/Echoing-Images-Soul-Journey-into/dp/1500366811/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418359355&sr=1-3&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks

http://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Poetry-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500168645/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418359355&sr=1-4&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks

http://www.amazon.com/Sachet-Poetry-Adoration-Aspirations-Asylums/dp/1500483354/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418359355&sr=1-5&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks

http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Voices-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500426709/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418359355&sr=1-6&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks

 

 

Who is Blogger/Poet/Fiction Writer/Artist Ann Johnson-Murphree?

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO EVERYONE

2014

5.Holiday Snow

HOLIDAY SNOW – ACRYLICS

BY

Ann Johnson-Murphree

Ann 6.8.2014

Ann Johnson-Murphree

Author Bio…

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 –

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_2_10?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks&sprefix=ann+johnso%2Cstripbooks%2C522

A Sachet of Poetry…

Sachet of Poetry the “final” poetry book to be written by this author on a lifetime of experience growing up in “poor” southern conditions, living with depression and through the loss of two children. The other coffee table books in the collection are Echoing Images from the Soul, Reflection of Poetry, Honeysuckle Memories and Beyond the Voices. There is also a book of artwork, personal therapy created during the year following the loss of her children. These poems a tiny fragments of mind, heart and soul. The author is currently working on an accounting of her young life growing up in Alabama.

A Sachet of Poetry: Adoration Aspirations Anger Asylums

Authored by Ann Johnson-Murphree

Coffee Table Book
List Price: $5.24
8.5″ x 11″ (21.59 x 27.94 cm)
Black & White on White paper
54 pages
 

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…

Purchase this book at:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Sachet-Poetry-Adoration-Aspirations-Asylums/dp/1500483354/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1409872528&sr=8-1&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

 

Harvest Moon…

A harvest moon slivers over the tops

of the trees, glows upon the white lilacs

shadowing the wall by the sea. The night

birds call as evening falls.

Boughs of spruce grow green in winters

cold, the willow tree weeps as the earth

becomes old. A moonlit night that will never

die, memories in time watched over by God’s

loving eyes.

Mist across a nearby brook lies low under

dimming stars I see fireflies dancing afar.

Rain seeps into the earth as vines cling to

ghostly streetlights; in the shroud of silence,

my soul takes a heavenly flight. Life and death,

time and lack of memory are all lost on youth,

breath taken away, there will only be truth. I

thought this was a dream with spikes of purple

bloom, pain sharp I ascend from this place of

doom.

 

©.annjohnsonmurphree
http://www.amazon.com/Sachet-Poetry-Adoration-Aspirations-Asylums/dp/1500483354/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409806050&sr=1-1&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

 

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

The Storm Pit… (An excerpt from a story in progress)

The Storm Pit…

Daddy dug a big hole in the side of the hill that edged the land near our tiny clapboard house.  With shovel and pick in those big calloused hands he worked all day at the crimson clay dirt, I played while he labored making me a safe place to hide from the evil of the tornado’s that claimed domination over our valley. I ask why he was working so hard, I wanted to go fishing. “The Spring House is not safe”! He kept digging. The day over, the promised fishing trip complete and months passed when daddy looked at the sky and told me to get a jar of water and come with him to the storm pit. I entered the dark hole in the hill, daddy lit a lamp.   Roots ripe as old bait dangled from the ceiling covered by old mildewed crates. Their wicked necks looked like snakes. It stank, leaf mold and slippery planks. Even the dirt kept breathing small claustrophobic breaths.  I never entered the “pit” again, I would take my chances with a tornado!

2014©annjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405934856&sr=1-3&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

Acceptance…

(This piece was written for a dying friend)

 

Acceptance

The future is viewless, that undiscovered mystery, and will I feel death’s lifeless wings. No one wants death, to know of ending things. Sick of this wasted body, the mortal strife, the pain of taking a breath. Now sorrow is the course of my life, my soul is in combat with death.

I hide behind curtained windows to keep the world from seeing my dying eyes, my face bathed in the dew of morn, before me a snowy landscape spreads. A world in which I was born, the world that will be gone from me, when I am dead.

I pray for calmness within me, please let it grow, before my wilted spirit must go. Life is beginning to be all too clear, I am not afraid, for soon I will be gone from here. Into the Heaven’s I will fly, too live with love ones who have gone before to our homes in the sky.

2013©annjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/Sachet-Poetry-Adoration-Aspirations-Asylums/dp/1500483354/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405934856&sr=1-1&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

 

 

 

Clandestine Self…

I meditate on the splendor of my existence, the magnificence

that I exist at all, and without warning I might hear loves tender

call. Without lamentation, I enjoy the sensation. Outward beauty

is a word that has no importance, beauty is naught to me, look

deeper the real me is what you will see.  The stream of my sensation

is clear, I am content, for the moment, let me be, I believe that love

resides here. Yet love is a word that has no meaning, it means nothing

to me.  I cannot be persuaded, I am tranquil, see the flesh of my being,

take it, sate yourself, and leave my thoughts to me.

 

 

2013©annjohnsonmurphree

 

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-Murphree-ebook/dp/B00CG61816/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407438538&sr=1-1&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree