South
Who is Blogger/Poet/Fiction Writer/Artist Ann Johnson-Murphree?
HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO EVERYONE
2014
HOLIDAY SNOW – ACRYLICS
BY
Ann Johnson-Murphree
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 –
Wild Mountain Rose…
There is a legend upon Mossy Ridge children hear while listening to the old folks weaves their tales around their supper table at night
About…
Two gentle spirits walking the rutty mountain roads under the mystical Tennessee moonlight. These stories begin many years ago about an old Cherokee and a little girl he called his Wild Mountain Rose –
Folks …
First saw her drinking from a cool mountain stream all legs and dirty yellow hair, abandoned by her family, so the story goes, but no one is sure of that, if the truth were told. The first time the old Cherokee saw her she was sleeping under a bush folks call the Wild Mountain Rose –
Afterwards…
She was with him no matter where he would go. Folks would say that without old Willie Youngblood she would not have survived –
Willie…
Knew that without her, he himself would have died. The years went by quickly and they both grew old, time had touched their hair with gray –
And…
They could only dream about their younger days. One cool spring morning, Willie woke to find her gone from his side; he sat for hours head hung low as he cried –
Later…
He found her lying peacefully; she had died under a familiar bush on a soft bed of leaves, a mournful death chant was the only way the old Cherokee knew how to grieve.
Now if you know where to look, it is in the Tennessee Mountains where Willie Youngblood’s Wild Mountain Rose can be found –
Beneath…
The damp rotting forest floor in a shallow grave, up on Mossy Ridge near the entrance of Chicopee Cave. The following winter Old Willie died, and they buried him next to his Wild Mountain Rose –
Folks…
Say in the moonlight two ghostly spirits can be seen sitting on the banks of Chestnut Creek, or floating along the rutty mountain roads.
When the sun comes up, they disappear…
Or so the legend goes, but everyone on Mossy Ridge knows that it is Old Willie and that golden haired pup he found many years ago that he called his…
Wild Mountain Rose.
New In Paperback a Third Book Collection of Poetry Released at Amazon.com July 9
Also at Amazon.com
Reflection of Poetry and Beyond the Voices
On a Mocking Bird Day…
Spring, bright and fresh, birds sing as a cool
morning breeze floats through magnolia trees,
thoughts of long ago day’s surface into the now.
A gracious woman of the South rises from past
memories into the present, ice eyes, cheeks a
natural rose-colored, speaking with the sound
of dripping honey.
She leans toward a honeysuckle vine dreaming of
what was and what will never be, her chained heart
tugs at the sealed door.
A mocking bird sits and sings deep within the lilac
bush, as she dips her fingers slowly in a pebbly brook,
her reality; life passed her by, and the depths of her
sorrow never known.
Nevertheless, in her place of selfishness she never
denied her hate for the child she brought into her
unwanted world, does she deserve the name “mother”.
©2014.annjohnsonmurphree
Books at Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree
Supper in the Churchyard…
The fall wind has swept the
leaves from the yard it is still
warm as the sun sets; evening
twines its shadows among the
gravestones, hand in hand men,
women and children are silent
in the coming twilight.
Their breath a vapor in the departing
day, the pines sway, the evening is
taking on a mystery of its own; the
winds still and each gentle soul begins
to pass the broken bread.
Clouds gather, the hues of the season
spread across the landscape, the church
tower like a shrine points toward the
Heavens; supper in the churchyard
ends.
Oak, pine and wood shavings spring to
life as pyramids of fire leap toward the
Heavens; a slow melancholy hum flows
throughout those gathered and the night
air is filled with the spirit of the moment,
”Oh that circle want be broken…” rises to
meet the stars.
Childhood memories revisited, a little
white church, sweet secrets beneath the
tablecloths, children playing, old folks
praying, hope grew in the hearts of the
people; and in the hands of God, they
left their heavy loads.
©2013.annjohnsonmurphree
Liberation…
Listen to the roar of the
thunder; in those days I
could meld with a storm,
before my heart turned to
stone. I remember when
the blood in my veins
flowed with a fire, a fire…only
mine.
The last time that I said
goodbye, I felt like soaring to
the heavens, at last, me the
storm alone. Lock the door,
light the candles pour the
wine; at last my life, my life…
only mine.
Your voice lingers in the
doorway, grateful I am that
you will not be back. Outside
the light fades on a field of
wildflowers, the sun sets
behind the Pine’s, the world,
the world…only mine.
A moonbeam flows through
the window, pale, straight,
silent like my heart, that once
beat innocent. It is time for a
golden celebration, a celebration…
only mine.
I will teach myself to live simple
and wise, to look to God, and
then I will come back. With God,
the stone that is my heart will
soften, the fire will return to my
cold veins, and I will once again
savor all that is mine… only mine.
****
2013.annjohnsonmurphree
All eBooks at the address below:
http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2
Words…
Words, words, words, black,
brown, red, words upon which
my tears have shed. The living
word speaks truth, yet one must
die to have real proof.
Birth to death we are taught 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 azure sky.
I want to read poems with my legs dangling
over the highest cliff, this…and only this will
give my earthly heart a lift. To stare 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
All eBooks at the address below:
http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2
Benevolent Memories…
I have enough memories
from the past to last me
for the rest of my life. My
bountiful memory will not
bury them from which they
were born.
A small country church, a
chorus of crows; the splashing
sounds of the brook running
through the Birch trees. The
wind caressing the colossal
row of Oaks in the field.
Death, a road away from the
weathered house of worship,
followed by black feathered
angels. No longer will the water
beneath the Birch cool, nor will
the winds surrounding the Oaks
embrace flesh.
The rocker on the porch is stilled,
no hand waves goodbye. In a
cobwebbed corner of the room,
the sun shines through a cloudy
window, as the image of tattered
curtains dance in a nearby mirror.
Childhood is dead.
****
2013.annjohnsonmurphree
All eBooks at the address below:
http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2
ann johnson-murphree 