Grandpa’s Jug…

On a cold southern night, reading under

The covers by a “coal oil” light, grandpa’s

Piano laughter ringing in my ears,

Serenading grandma both had a bit too

Much “cheer”.

I laughed so hard I pulled up the tail of

My flour sack gown to dry my tears,

Ma could not hear me I had nothing to

Fear.

Suddenly there was the smell of smoke,

Ma came in giving my covered shoulders

A poke.

It does not matter to me she exclaimed,

You may want to get out of bed before

You go up in flames.

Through the hole in my quilt I could see,

Smoke rising through it like a tepee.

Pa tossed a bucket of water at me from

The door, it missed the bed and hit the

Floor.

Grandpa jerked the quilt off the bed, folded

It ever so gently and pristine, then through

It out my window that had no screen.

My aunt walked in laughed so hard she peed,

Then said to the others, “Don’t yell at her, be

Happy that she likes to read.

Everyone begin to laugh, drying her tears

Ma said, “Well, it isn’t as if she’s committed

A crime”. It was then…I ran to the outhouse

Thankful for their “cheer” with the help of a little

Old jug of “moonshine”.

 

©2012.annjohnsonmurphree

All books are a collection of poetry created from tiny fabrics of life. These poems characterize the thoughts of innocence sold into a false world of adoration. Living in silence, God did not keep this innocence from hell, and death would be a long way off and life was between the now and then. Ahead lay sacrifice, pain and suffering. Life should be fruitful; the human life produces scenes of public, private distress and anger springs forth with hate and blood. Mortally led to the mysterious world of knowing the fist is not love, it is the slaughter of innocence. Innocence institutionalized because of disobedience, failing to comply with and act upon the orders of their controller, the answer asylum. Reality embedded within the soul of innocence, no future, no meaning to life. Innocence in truth wants and dreams of death; these are the true aspirations of the abused. Ann Johnson-Murphree Poetry Books – Collections of Exposé Poetry are coffee table books 8X11 that will display well in any area. The matte cover is classy and inviting. Within each book the reader will find soul poetry. A length pleasing to browse, read one or more; find a connection, a meaning and a purpose in each poem. These collections of poetry are filled with inspiring thoughts and reassuring words with a factual viewpoint on the many experiences in the life of the poet. Each collection serves as a prevailing reminder that life is complex. That happiness is in our hands alone; that the fear of unhappiness is deep-rooted in the spirit and soul. That depression and despair is real and each individual must find the freedom of mind, body and soul to move forward in their life. Each poem has been created from the fabric of a patchwork life, complex, stress-filled, finding enlightenment and cultivating wisdom. Anyone who will open their mind is free to pursue insight, to find their own nirvana. This collection of thoughts brings the reader along on the multifaceted journey of the poet’s experiences throughout life.

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_4_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408898942&sr=1-4&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

 

Bitter Recollection…

A crystal moon, a

frozen branch waving

outside a window, a

fire, ash, a crumpled

charred log; memories,

extensive and angry, like

streamers in the wind.

Remember, the day,

the hour, each day, each

hour, destiny, insistently

climbs, seeks, nothing in

life is forgotten.

 

©2014.bitterrecollection.annjohnsonmurphree

Mississippi River Nightmare…

Uncovered and wrinkled is my sack, a

gigantic hump on my back.  Frost

clutches to these old rags, my body is

covered with burlap bags.

 

My flesh like ashes, my face tinged with blue,

and my chest rattles, my lungs sucking in the

morning dew.  I have traveled on the railroad

back and forth, does not matter where, south

or north.

 

I sometimes walk city streets when they are

dark and dead, yet the side of a railroad is

where I make my bed.  I eat my food from old

tin cans; I will steal candy from little hands.

 

I scream for the warmth I see coming from the

riverbank, a bright fire, from this cold I do tire.

I think that I am burning, I smell smoldering hair,

and my arms are thrashing in the air.

 

I see evil darkness, what is this madness, I feel

spiritually ill, I gasp in horror when I realize that

I am dead.  Here on this cold and damp riverbank,

alas… someone has severed my head.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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

 

Fall is right around the corner…”Fingers of Fire”

Fall fills the air with the scent of burning leaves,

a brittle and rotting heap, soon the eyes begin

to weep.  Crackling like sparklers on a holiday

night, the fire becomes an attraction, a child’s

delight.

Fingers of fire will make the yard once again

Clean, while the trees are defrocked and the

bare limbs gleam.  Months will pass before

new buds of green, nothing to fear it is

just another season that will soon become

serene.

The holidays will soon be here, with relatives

and friends arriving from far and near.  Away

With the old splendor, and in, with what the

magical scents of the holidays will bring, that

goes too quickly and once again it will

be spring.

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

ECHOING IMAGES FROM THE SOUL

Poetry EBook on Amazon.com link in sidebar.