Death
November Sales at Amazon.com…
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
On Sale…
IN SEARCH OF WORDS
Ann Johnson-Murphree Poetry Books – A Collection of Poetry
The 8×11 coffee table books that will display well . The matte cover is classy and inviting. Within each book the reader will find approximately fifty poems. A length pleasing to browse, read one or more; they will find a connection, a meaning and a purpose in each poem.
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Ann Johnson-Murphree
Before the Voices…
Before the Voices…
You left the world to early, free from a life that
left you filled with doubt. You lived the lives of
many, the voices, always hoping just to be
I now wait for that spark from heaven, I willed
you not to go, God did not agree. Was your life
fulfilled in such a short time, will I ever know.
You had beginnings, disappointments, new starts;
you worried about tomorrow, unable to feel happiness
in what you accomplished today.
I suffer your being gone, sadness wretches my days, the
glow died there was no hope. It seems like one long unhappy
dream.
Roaming within my mind, I walk the fields of your life. A
time of clouded joy, then time was blown away. Born in
innocence, fresh, life clear, before the voices took over,
bringing fear. I could not help you in your solitude while
you nursed your unconquerable fears.
As the moonlight pales, I yearn for lost years, before the
mental strife. Before the voices took over your life. It was
after sunset that you died, a void that cannot be filled, you
will never grow old. I miss your smiles, your red tresses
flowing down your back, your light will always shine; your
radiance will never fade.
Sleep my child in eternal rest…
2014©annjohnsonmurphree
Memories…
I have enough memories from the past
to last me for the rest of my life. My
benevolent 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 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 wind surrounding the Oaks embrace
The rocker on the porch is stilled, no hand
waves goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of
the room, tattered sun struck curtains dance
in the nearby mirror. Childhood is dead.
©2013®annjohnsonmurphree.echoingimagesfromthesoul
Pseudo Heavens…
The bitterness, the misery of life, questions for God.
Was it his goodness that took my child, I can believe
in an avenging god if he would tell me what I have done.
I have been imprisoned in a chrysalis, beaten, withered,
dust covers my soul. There is no one to find me, no one
to free me from pain and heartache.
Hate is a strong word, yet it dwells within my mind, in the
shadowy corners. It hides, waits like a rain cloud that
threatens to spoil the rays of a sunny day.
I use to stand staring at the sky, praying, questioning, it may
as well have been a black void. A pseudo path to the Heavens
outside my windows.
©2014.annjohnsonmurphree
Amazon
Rebecca’s Story…
Thank you Elouise
http://tellingthetruth1993.wordpress.com/2014/02/13/where-is-my-mother-part-1/
for this comment which touched the heart of the story…”Southern culture. The look, the smell, the ungodly expectations and the heaviness of tightly guarded secrets. You’ve captured it so well.” ajm
The story below was the inspiration for the book of poetry called “A Sachet of Poetry – Adoration, Anger, Asylum and Aspiration”. The poems with thoughts of adoration come from the possibility of love. The anger poems come from thoughts of being placed in a position of abuse. Asylum poetry is derived from the position she was placed in by her mother and the man she was forced to marry when only an innocent girl. Apparition became the final voice for Rebecca, her desires, her wishes, her thoughts on her life and how her innocence was lost behind the walls of an asylum in the mid-1950. Her goal, her most needed aspiration was her death, her death meant freedom.
Rebecca’s story is one of a developing collection and this is an excerpt from her story…
Rebecca watched her father walked through the double door without looking back. Her mother and husband was telling the family doctor how she had been upset with her marriage and threated to kill herself. When she looked at her arm, the rubber tubing, the syringe was freighting then her mind froze in time. Her vision blurred and the fleur-de-lis wallpaper in her parent’s living room became waves of beige and gold swaying in an invisible breeze. The reason she was there dissolved into an ocean of oblivion.
Still dazed, she woke lying on an examining table in the Shelby County Medical Clinic, beside her was the doctor who had given her a shot and a nurse she knew. Standing in the corner of the room were her mother, husband and two sheriff deputies. She did not protest when the doctor gave her another shot of his magic that sent her to a place where she no longer cared. The wheelchair bumped over each crack in the sidewalk, each time giving her the feeling as if she was falling into a dark black hole. The doctor and nurse put her in the back of an ambulance as her mother began to tell Rebecca’s husband that his wife would never leave him. She steps into the ambulance, and in her own heartless way said in a low malicious voice…
“You see what happens when you try to disgrace me, putting you away for being insane will be more acceptable than have you leave your husband. You’re a southerner, southerners don’t leave their husbands”
Quivering beneath the threadbare blanket she fought violently against the straps confining her to a bed as her mind battled with drugged hallucinations. When she slept they became chaotic dreams. Mostly, she lay quietly watching other unwanted souls shuffle back and forth in a dimly lit hallway or being carted off to where the black box was kept. She knew that she had been admitted to Challis Manor located at the edge of the Appalachian foothills it provided medical treatments for the mentally ill. A place where wealthy Tennesseans paid to have members of their families placed to avoid embarrassment; Rebecca was not there because she had a mental or physical problem, she was there because she tried to leave her husband.
Praying in God’s Waiting Room…
Again, death is in the air, the room
is silent but the sound coming from
the hearts of those there speaks
loudly…stop we are not ready for this.
Death forces people to take leaps of
faith, see into the skulls of the one
fighting to live, pray that they are ready
to write these words on their souls…
the end!
In death no one knows the hour, hearts
stand still waiting for that last breath,
words fill the air from the silence…
stop we are not ready for this. Is death
this secret club that no one wants to join;
each on an invisible island trying to look
into the picturesque past?
In death the finality, the value of life comes
closer, a silent cry for help, help me, in
death everyone reaches for God…stop we
are not ready for this. Waiting…
the minutes become hours, the hours a day,
in the silence the spirit cries please let me go,
in the silence those who wait cry give us
another hour another day…is anyone ready
for this?
©2014.annjohnsonmurphree
My Books are located at:
In the Mist of Grief…
Memories emerge from the darkness
of the night becoming one with my soul
like the rivers that flow into the sea.
These hours before dawn are like a cold
rain pounding into my heart. The grief is
fierce as it raises then returns to consume
my spirit, assaulting my senses. The depths
of my courage wounded, I am listing in a sea
of sorrow my life filled with more grief than
many can bear. I search for a miracle, hope
merges with despair, is my destiny to lose
all that I have ever loved. It is the hard cold
hour before departing this misery.
©2014.annjohnsonmurphree
ann johnson-murphree 