My Journey into Poetry and Art

Ann Johnson-Murphree

Reflections of Poetry CoverBeyond the VoicesHONEYSUCKLE MEMORIESECHOING IMAGES FROM THE SOULjourney into art

Thank you for your support

Ann Johnson-Murphree


In Celebration…

Today is my “birthday”, celebrate with me…I have lived a patchwork kind of life that brought me to this point where I can follow my dream of writing, painting and living life one-day at a time.  I will be off line for a few days, I intend to celebrate this one for the entire week!  Nonetheless, I want to leave all of you wonderful people who follow my blog and support my dream with this poem.

Chasing Destiny…

A red-wine sun laced with ginger clouds

dips in the western sky while darkness

invades a sleeping land; a cold moon

pierces through the shadows of night, the

world will now wait patiently for another

morning light.  The destiny of the spirit,

life events and the passion of time lies

suspended within the walls of the conscience

as the dust of yesterday settles behind

the winds of tomorrow.


May you have a wonderful week, if you have time check out my dreams, my work at and you will see my dream, what I am chasing and what I hope to be my destiny.

The Hour is Late

I would not allow you to

love me fair-haired boy, yet

your flaxen locks blowing in

the wind brought me joy.

Your knowledge was that of

the earth, your touch softer

than new fallen leaves; like a

spider, a web around my heart

you tried to weave.  Promised to

another I could not break God’s

law, you were a rare find, all

goodness and kind; my heart I

placed in a tower made to erase

you from my mind.  The years

have gone quickly I often wonder

where you could be; oh fair-haired

boy where are you now that I am free.





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.



Poetry and Art at :

Dream of Reality


The light of the moon dances off

lavender crocus, crimson tulips and

golden buttercups; their reflection

on the shimmering pond gives a

mirror image that only an artist

brush could capture.  The Adirondack

chair fits the curve of my body, I am

relaxed, my grandmothers’ quilt keeps

me warm, a candle glows close by adding

a sparkle to my glass of wine, I meld with

the shadows as the night bird sings.  Alas,

I wake to a snow-covered world, as my mind

clears from dreaming of the coming spring.





Passion Sings…

Love is an out of control fire

bringing splendor, pain, calm

and surprise, the results of

infinite desire.  Cheating lovers

are talons tearing at the heart,

bringing bewilderment, despair,

more than a soul can bear.

Loves flame smothered brings

darkness to the spirit, the world fills

with discord and strife; only the

winds of time can rekindle loves light.

Love is renewal, the return of spring,

laughter and passion, the voice within


A newly found desire blooms, a bud

opening to the pleasure of the heart

and soul, a new story waiting to be told.

Deserter, traitor, cheater fades from

memory, nothing from the past remains;

trust returns a gift from the Heavens and

love lives again.


©2014.passionsings.annjohsonmurphree…annjohnsonmurphree ebooks

Emerald Heaven…

In the emerald clover field,

love concealed; shapes made

aware, breathing in the

morning air.  Secret love,

clandestine thoughts roam;

times lost forget home; heart

ignores evil, wrong sheds away;

dreams are of only today.  Love

freely given without consideration

there in the clover field under heaven.



eBooks at

Excerpt from Biana’s Pond…

14.St. Ignace Countryside

Above book cover artwork by ann johnson-murphree 2010

Excerpt from draft “Biana’s Pond”

Writers note:  The story, based on the lives of Jesse Youngblood who has returned home to go on an end of life journey with her colorful aunt.


Excerpt from draft “Biana’s Pond”

Writers note:  The story, based on the lives of Jesse Youngblood who has returned home to go on an end of life journey with her colorful aunt.


Jesse Youngblood walked into the lobby of the Ayers Hotel in Birmingham, Alabama; right away, her body went ridged, childhood fears return as she stopped in front of the old elevator doors now covered with a fresh coat of “Gold” paint.   The doors opened, she shut her eyes tight walking quickly through them.  She did not need to have them open to know that a tarnished brass rail was next to her hand.   Jesse still associated the old elevator with a tragic episode during her childhood.

A childhood that was both happy and sad had confused Jesse more times than not, her eyes so tight that her nose wrinkled.   She did not know that an elderly man had walked in behind her; he waited for a few moments then began clearing his troth.

“Young lady are you going to just stand there with your eyes closed or do you intend to select a floor?”  The voice dripped of southern politeness, yet laced with attitude.

“I’m sorry sir, the tenth floor please.”   Her voice apologetic Jesse could feel his irritability, but she kept her eyes closed.

Assuming she was not going to surrender her hold on the railing, he reached out selected his floor and pushed the button for the top floor as well.  The antiquated elevator cables creaked and groaned as Jesse counted each floor that they passed, it stopped on the ninth floor; the old man grumbled under his breath as he got off.   The intimidating climb continued.

Despite her fear of the elevator, Jesse was excited to be back, five years ago her aunt made the decision to change the building from a hotel to apartments; of course, her Aunt Biana still occupied the entire top floor as she had done since moving into the hotel with her husband.  She could not help but wonder how the home she grew up looked with the changes.

Jesse did not have to wait long, the doors opened and so did her eyes, she stepped quickly into the entrance hall where nothing had changed.  The tenth floor was like stepping back into time.   Mirrors in gilded frames, drawings of known and unknown artists lined the walls; colossal vases filled with multicolored plumes stood tall like sentries at the entrance door.  Time had left its mark on everything, the building, maybe the life beyond the door.  Jesse did not know what she was going to find on the other side, but she was home.

Opening the door, Jesse found that her aunt Biana’s home was unchanged; the enormous living room still as bodacious as Miss Adeline’s girls over McNutt’s Tavern on the outskirts of town was bursting with familiar flamboyant furniture.  Windows draped artistically in imported silks and lace was as awesome today, as they had been the first time she had visited her aunt.  The walls, tables, and bookcases held pictures of Jesse, creating a scrapbook of her life.  She had grown up inside these walls of dark mahogany panels and swirling alabaster.  It had been her playground.  Her years in this place had been one of discovery and learning, a time that shaped her future.  Suddenly, the clinical smells coming from the hallway leading into the bedrooms assaulted her senses, reminding her of why she was back.

Jesse would soon know as the familiar voice of her beloved aunt Francis bellowed through the hallway.  Dressed in black that was only slightly darker than her skin, with a starched white apron Francis spread her arms; pulling Jesse to her sagging bosom hugging and crying until Jesse thought she would burst; she was truly home, home with both her aunts.

Francis cried out, “Miss Jesse you as pale as a ghost, don’t they have no sun in California”?

The person known to Jesse as her aunt Francis came to work for her aunt Biana long before Jesse cam to live with her.  Francis had been the grandchild of slaves.   To Francis, her baby Jesse unfortunately did not inherit her fathers’ Chickasaw skin, instead she was like porcelain like her aunt Biana; she pulled back from Francis.

“How is she”?

“Oh Miss Jesse, I am so glad that you are home, I can’t do nothing with that women, course never could.  Says she is going to that cabin of hers down south and nobody is goin to stop her, you need to talk some sense into that woman.”

Jesse did not get a chance to say anything; the whirlwind of frustration was already backing into the kitchen, Francis who long ago became her aunt Biana’s housekeeper, then nanny, Jesse knew she had become a close friend and confident.  Now she was her caretaker!


Ann’s poetry and art eBooks can be found at:


A Place of Adoration…

Inspiration, the design of life,

singing, forgotten in the night,

slivers of daylight.  Visions,

feathery wings swiftly take flight.

Images within the mind, phantom

sounds beneath the breast.  Smiling,

moans floats across plum skies,

impending destiny, beating hearts

rest.  shivering below that which is

divine, sacred bodies, loves shimmering




Then the Tomb…

Conflicts rampant in the world,

musty tombs fill quickly; tales,

rhymes of the times, repeat of

ancient crimes.  Vanity, regret,

no joy, plagues fester from hate;

fools come in the night, rob virgins

of their innocent light; children

unable to live their lives.  Women

fair in looks, proud, hear their

laughter, jaded, men chase after!

The aged they smile, sing a little

ditty, old and forgotten…what a

pity.  Moralized and wise, sneer as

you may, their looks have faded away.

Their life of treasures lay in wait for

the vultures; respect the elderly…lost

in future culture.  Marble slabs rolled

back, the open earth consumes, fear,

death and then the tomb.