Jagged Words of Hate…

Words of hate destroy the

souls of those who speak them,

Listen…

Do they really help bring final

separation, severance from life,

from truth, has but One reality,

one certainty…

Isolation…

On the dreamscapes of time,

chosen paths encounter many

illusions; look intently into the

pitch-black pool of life.

Try to see beyond that which is

touchable, is disillusion the fear.

Jagged words of hate are born

in the beastly nightmares of life.

They are broken remnants of our

inter-selves and the mind will deny

the images of what it will see or hear.

Those words of hate have reached

their destination and have destroyed

the soul intended now in isolation,

so let this be hates final separation.

 

Registered©2012annjohnsonmurphree

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Slipping Away…

Moonlight, alone in silence ascending my

Stairs once more, below the stars waves

Crash upon a white sandy shore. On the

Hillside my garden too is silent I look out

Over the sea, alone, a star shooting across

The sky, an invisible hand, a fireball thrown.

I wait in the dark, between space and space,

I lift my hands to my face. Who am I, my

Name is unknown to me, I look into the

Mirror yet my eyes cannot see.

The flesh is pallor and pale, the wrinkles…

Each with a story to tell. Hair, white, long

Tied up in a bun…I would leave this place

Nevertheless, I have nowhere to run.

A mournful melody spins in my brain, a tune

That I cannot recall…roses to smell and

Mouths to kiss, in a locked room I hide

From it all. Never will I feel rain drops on my

Cheeks, it is the shadow of death that I try

To cheat.

The heavens are dark and deep, I will forget

These things before I slip into a silent sleep.

From this room I can hear the ocean roar, rain

Falls and dead gutters come alive once more.

Yes, I will forget all of these things before I slip

Into a silent sleep.

 

©2013 ®annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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Pseudo Heavens…

untitled

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

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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.

 

The silhouette…

shadows

Battered moonlight,

shadows fall from the

feet, neither warm nor

cold; the shadow follows

down a sandy moonlit road.

 

Emerging from the sidewalks,

scaling the face of a building,

sometimes trembling, it fears,

sometimes wavy with broken

lines; yet unbroken it moves in

perfect time; its own life it cannot

find.

 

It moves forward both day and night,

sometime with menacing fright; its

only possession rooted in time; an

unloving thing, one of a kind.

 

©2014.thesilhouette.annjohnsonmurphree

Crying for the Children…

Bitterness, misery, goodness,

cruelness, to be afraid is that

the teachings of childhood.

Soul’s chrysalides in youth,

imprisoned in the beliefs of a

grown-up world, no way to

escape to their own reflections.

The chrysalis sealed, dust

collecting in the crevices of

thought, hate; potential drained,

silence must remain.  Roads long,

the climbs steep, and the tiny soul

a relic; life is bleak.  Torn, dingy,

life damned; the prison walls never

come down.  The question must be

who will avenge the children, why

was their childhood crushed.  God or

“Human Free Will”, who allows a

child’s life to wither and die; who hears

the cries; who puts the small body to rest.

Look closely at the clouds; at the tiny souls

away they fly, who will avenge them, why

did they have to die?

©2014.cryforthechildren.annjohnsonmurphree

Know a child in need of help contact:  

http://www.childhelp.org/

Creating Possibilities…

Let me find the river of forgetfulness,

give me a small patch of idleness,

and someone to love, pure air, serene

unexploited oceans.  Send me angels

with hope, time filled with mystery, the

means of understanding.  Let me

appreciate tearful prayers, lift the winter

and bring the spring light.  Let me not

fear the powerful ghosts in the nightfall;

let the extended hands of God shroud my

aching soul.  Let me gather beauty, have a

prideful heart, be a defender of those with

heavy hearts; lighten madness to match that

of a butterfly wing. Let me mirror happiness,

be unafraid of nightmares and unknown

things.  Echo my thoughts to the Heavens, let

me be an earthly beacon of dignity; help me

walk purposefully from age to age before dying

on the glittering sands of eternity.

 

©2014.callingupontomorrow.annjohnsonmurphree

Understanding Heaven…

What lies beyond the

wooded valleys and

mountains, the oceans,

moon, sun; will it all

one-day fade into time

without end; eternity.
Will the spirit move with

nimbleness and with

fantasy; will time without

end be ecstasy.
Will everything be pure and

divine, will love replace the

hate that lives today in earths

polluted space.
Will pain and fatigue no longer

exist; will only tranquil and

exciting wonders live within

Heaven’s glorious mist.
Like the Morning Doves, will all

have wings to come and go

unafraid of flight; to enjoy a mystical

life; one love, one language, one

understanding for all, is this what

Heaven will bring?
©2014.understandingheaven.annjohnsonmurphree

Coupling…

Spring, summer, autumn,

winter, sun, moon, stars,

snow, rain, winds, laughing,

joy, crying, grief; birds fly

over the falling  snow, life

must go; someone died I

guess, bury them deep, deep,

deep they will not rise from

this sleep, frail things enclose

the soul; eternity descending,

its beauty rendering death;

silence immense; the

assassination of freedom

intense.

 

©2014.copulingofthoughts.annjohnsonmurphree