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 –
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
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
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.
WEEKEND COUNTDOWN ALL EBOOKS $.99
Note: Someone I admire very much is having some health problems, I had written this short poem before I knew of this and now it seems that thoughts must have transferred through a time slot and inspired me to write these words. ajm
The Passing of Time
My body aches, after years of “beating it up” this is what it has come too. Giving in to the grace of gravity. I do not live these days in awe or fear. Yet, a baby’s breath can take mine away and these troublesome times we live in can instill fear in me for the future of this wonderful world. My spine tingles in the presence of a gentle man both young and old. I know that the passing of time is like a cool wind on a hot summer’s day, I no longer count the hours or days. Love still leaves my heart leaping.
Where do dreams start, first in your heart (desire), second in your mind (the process), third set them in motion, if you can dream it, you can make it come true. This I believe, and time or age should not be a factor, think big then appreciate the small blessings.
I have had comments on my blog that are positive when I post poetry or prose, those that indicate that efforts were a waste of time, I trash! I am doing what I want with my life and I will always run into the naysayers, doubters and those who believe that my butt should be planted in a rocking chair and my hand should be holding knitting needles. Instead, I sit here with laptop balanced on a rickety old table pounding out poetry or a short story idea and scoff at those who would try to kill my dream, a dream in the making over a lifetime and the last ten-years spent in learning and creating. Of this creation process has been born three poetry books and one of my personal art.
I am not intimidated with rejection slips, I am a member of the rejection slip club and our membership is huge; yet, we refuse to give up our dreams. In this club, I am in the presence of good writers, and creative excellence that has yet to fulfill their dreams. We are all on a journey to find ourselves, to meet the excellence of who we were intended to be. It is a roller coaster ride, for every ten “no’s” there is a “yes”, we dream of one day hearing “YES, YES, YES”!
You must not only follow your dreams, you must fight for them, again age, time, place, and conditions cannot stop our dreams. If you do not go after your dreams, you will be responsible for them being “crushed”. At the end of your life, have no regrets. Look around, dreamers created all of the many things that you love. So, your dreams may not come as soon as you would like, be patience the side trips toward your dream could inspire you in other ways toward your greatness. A part of your personal growth in life is because of your dreams, without them would you be who you are today?
Doing what you want in life attracts those who are jealous, ignore them; do not try to justify your dreams with these people; they are not worth your time. Following your dreams may give them the inspiration to find their own dreams.
Again, age is not a factor in following or finding your dream, stay motivate, look at failures as a learning ground for growth and always remember that there are no rules in life where dreaming is concerned. Never set boundary around yourself, or let others wall up your dreams. Take a chance on finding greatness.
Thank you for your support
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.
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 Amazon.com and you will see my dream, what I am chasing and what I hope to be my destiny.
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.
Waking with a poet’s sigh, always alone,
in a fantasy world, mind and heart has
gone to live, to write a poet’s song. Heart
made to live alone, words abundant
thoughts strong, the poet always alone.
Cut the strings that hold back the tide
that carries words like a bride; to the
blank page a groom of her dreams,
bonded together to the page they cling.
Happiness, humorous, sad or deadly,
at last it laid upon the poet’s desk, the
last word written; the poet did their
best. Within the poet, darkness
dwells as it looks for a brighter sphere,
a home for the well of words, where
words may find a home; but the poet is