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

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November Sales at Amazon.com…

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IN SEARCH OF WORDS

 

Ann Johnson-Murphree Poetry Books – A Collection of Poetry
http://www.amazon.com/Sachet-Poetry-Adoration-Aspirations-Asylums/dp/1500483354/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1413302456&sr=8-1&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1413302456&sr=8-3&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

http://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Poetry-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500168645/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1413302456&sr=8-4&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Voices-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500426709/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1413302456&sr=8-5&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

http://www.amazon.com/Echoing-Images-Soul-Journey-into/dp/1500366811/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1413302456&sr=8-6&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

New in Paperback…

 

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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

Honeysuckle Memories

My Journey into Art

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_8/180-3788204-9515117?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ann%20johnson-murphree&sprefix=ann+john%2Caps%2C379

 

 

 

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!

©2014.annjohnsonmurphree

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

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_7?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree&sprefix=ann+joh%2Caps%2C189

 

Honeysuckle Memories at Amazon.com

On a warm summer day, an old soul returned to a place where parts of it had remain for years.  Waiting while misplaced pieces of it floated through life on waves of tears.  Many gathered on this day all had the same ancestral blood flowing through their veins.  Some came out of respect; the unbroken circle… was there for gain.

These mortals had tried to keep the old soul away from this final commemoration. They did not care about its many years of painful isolation.  Death had not fractured the unbroken circle had gone unchanged for years. The return of this old soul brought to the cloistered multitude panic and fear.

Disregarded, invisible with no right to be heard, the Old soul was damned in their every fearful word.  Watched closely, made to feel like a thief, an intruder daring to be a part of their hypocritical grief. The old soul tried to enter this circle of mourning, doors slammed in its face.  A reminder of why it was not wanted in this protected place.

Unwanted at birth, cast out on a journey at an incredible cost, to penetrate the unbroken circle was a battle that would forever be lost.  The old soul believed there was a time to grieve, a time to pray.  A time to remember when an innocent soul simply forgotten and tossed away.

On soft breezes, those that gathered could be heard with a pretense of moans.  Their voices echoed memorials where truth was silenced the real story hidden, inside of the unbroken circle truth forbidden. The old soul stared down at a mound of dirt waiting for love that the grave could not offer, while the unbroken circle gathered and divided their coffers.  A loving soul had returned to where a part of it remained years, it gathered up the pieces of its heart and wiped away its tears. The shattered old soul had returned on that warm summer day, to grieve the loss of never hearing “I love you” or feeling a parent’s gentle touch.  It needed to tell the unbroken circle when children are unloved their lives are crushed.

copyright.2010.honeysucklememories.annjohnsonmurphree

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

Poetry eBook on sale at Amazon.com 

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-ebook/dp/B00CG61816/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371425651&sr=8-1&keywords=honeysuckle+memories%2C+ann+johnson-murphree

A Red Bird Day…

Revisiting childhood…

It is a Red Bird kind of day as I carefully walked the bramble-hedged path through the forest that edged our home.  I could hear leaves crunching, not from my shoes… but a lighter slower movement. 

I can hear the crusted creek running beside the path flowing gently through vein like openings in the ice.  I can smell the wood smoke from our potbelly stove. 

I know that on the warming shelves of the old wood cook stove are hot;  biscuits and ham waiting for me to get home from scurrying the woods for nuts and berries, a treat while we sit around the stove listening to grandpa’s latest tale of the war he fought during his youth. 

Then I saw mother watching from the window for signs of my bright colored hat she knitted me for Christmas, she opened the door and waved; I was late and she was worried.  I showed her my overflowing basket, she smiled…I wanted keep her happy so, I did not tell her about the Wolf!

 

copyright.2013.honeysucklememories.annjohnsonmurphree

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:

Beyond the Voices

http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2

 

Love is Tiring…

Coalescing into an ineffable infinity of

serendipity evenings of peculiarity and

fiery.  There have been times that I

wanted to weep.

Weep, angered that I ever met you.  A

stone, yet I am patient as I gaze into your

eyes.  Never understanding completely,

your mind not pliable.

Oh, this despoiled flesh the path to

happiness, the consummation of my brain.

I think this thing called love is very tiring,

very, very, tiring as the tides of life flow

onward.

 

****

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

All eBooks at the address below:

Beyond the Voices

http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2

I Write…

In writing poetry, one not only finds an outlet for releasing the quandaries life might bring; creating also gives one a reason to share joy.   AJM

 

The Voices…

I am a writer, from me you shall read

the sounds  of insistent voices of those

characters whispering in my ear. They

are fierce, burning with passion, their

messages clear.

They speak to me with the force of a

turbulent sea, at other times like the

surge of the tide, yet always protecting

me… “within me they reside”.

I am a writer.

 

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2