Magic of the Seasons….

I dreamed that I was a butterfly,

floating with the pale gold sequins

spilled by the Locust tree, from a

cocoon I was set free. I woke to a

cool autumn morning the season

where all things change, many of

Mother Nature’s children drop their

cloaks returning to the earth from

which they came.

The nearby brook reveals a frozen

sparkling bank as ice crystals form

at its edge, the pure water will always

run free, of winter it has no dread.

Dreams floating within a liquid eye,

relives the wonders of spring that

brings the lovely butterfly.

Alas, we must wake to these frosty

days; wait for the early darkness, the

harvest moon shining down upon

mounds of freshly mowed hay. Masters

of cadence the landscape transforms,

winds leap and the maple trees weep,

soon Mother Nature will put her

children to sleep.

The language of Mother Nature is never

old and never new, as she speaks to the

world under a sky of blue. Then spring

will once again arrive, and the earth will

warm, the chicory plants will bloom; with

it, the butterfly will be released from its

magic cocoon.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Voices-Ann-Johnson-Murphree/dp/1500426709/ref=sr_1_6_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408684399&sr=1-6&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

Pray for the Children…

There is a scar upon the land,

a mutilation caused by fear,

sorrow dwells in the heart of

mothers and fathers, teachers,

society, the turmoil within the

minds of children rages, a storm

rising from the unknown; robbing

them of their childhood.

 

Slowly a wailing wind pulls innocent

souls away from the aching hearts

left behind, lost forever, a sorrowful

fog settles upon the land; it is grief.

 

When will the carnage stop, the

guiltless have no place to flee, the

troubled die, storms out of control;

those left behind clutch together in

a vigil of mourning.

 

God must be weeping…

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Tranquility…

A flame that burns

within the soul, like

flickering shadows

below the clouds,

spirits runs wild into

the ravine.

Mossy ledges dark

and profound while

through the quiet

valley peaceful

wanderings crept;

reflecting upon

dreams while the

sun slept, up in the

heavens the moon

wept.

Mysterious waters

beneath the falls,

bottomless pool

with no end rushes

downward on an

invisible course, a

crevice gives way to

a wild babbling stream;

emerald leaves canopy

the forest floor, a place

where lovers’ hearts can

soar.

Silver skin and dewy eyes,

drink in descending curves

and unimaginable forms;

the sphere, the abyss of

where life is born.

Beneath the pallid stars

and sliding moon is where

hearts bloom, merging their

flames with twilight, yielding

into one mind; ecstasy

plummets into serenity.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

Overdose of Madness…

 

The sun radiates infinity,

the ocean throbs with

rapture, and then erupts

with searing ecstasy.  The

wind expels the raw lust of

nature.  Morning dances in

the valley, sunrays like purple

fire against the mountains

blend with the mist that rises

to meet the clouds.  The earth

quivers trying to free itself from

the madness within its molten

belly.  It is Mother Nature’s daily

ritual as the world overdoses on

the turmoil racing across a land of

human design.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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Autumn…

Winds at dawn, dewdrops

lay shivering on blades of

green grass; windows rattle,

leaves slide across the

veranda floor; cluttered skies,

ice crystals’ a wonderland

upon the rocky shore.

A rising sun its radiance spreads,

flowers of summer are dead; the

field of Poppies’ only remembered

as a waving sea of red.

The garden filled with fall fare, blossom

seeds tilled into the ground; spread

beyond the garden gates a bounty of

squash, gourds and pumpkins abound.

The land cringes with the thoughts of

ice and snow that will soon be here; but

first it must wait patiently for the golden

autumn to disappear.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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My Home Town…

 

The gulls fly low,

the weather is

cool; the bays are

frothy and the

skies are blue.

High upon the cliffs

Lavender blooms,

framed by dark

greenery; I know

that soon summer

will be doomed.

In town, the people

walk through

cobblestone streets,

going here and there;

jutting into the sky is

a lone church spire.

Shadows emerge from

the eastern sky spreading

across a calm sea; soon

it will bring the night and

set the day free.

The lighthouse begins to

glow it is seen from afar;

then in the sky appears one

lone star; town people walk

here and there, when safe

in their home they will wait

once again for another

tomorrow.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

EBooks on sale at Amazon.com:

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The Firestorm…

 

In the western skies;

the sun delays leaving,

still radiant giving off a

feeling of peace.

The smoke from the fire

beyond the hills cast a

blushing haze toward the

clouds.

Shadows rise around the

barren knolls where no

birds sing, the air thick

black and menacing.

The sun gives false

serenity, as death befalls

the burning Forest.

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

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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:

Beyond the Voices

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

Magic of the Seasons…

 

I dreamed that I was a butterfly

floating with the pale gold sequins

spilled by the Locust tree the cocoon

set me free. I woke to a cool autumn

morning the season where all things

change, many of Mother Nature’s

children drop their cloaks returning

them to the earth from which they

came.

 

The nearby brook reveals a frozen sparkling

bank as ice crystals form at its edge, the

pure water will always run free; of winter,

it has no dread.  Dreams floating within a

liquid eye, relives the wonders of spring that

brings the lovely butterfly.

 

Alas, we must wake to these frosty days; wait

for the early darkness, the harvest moon

shining down upon mounds of freshly mowed

hay.  Masters of cadence the landscape

transforms, winds leap and the maple trees

weep, soon Mother Nature will put her children

to sleep.

 

The language of Mother Nature is never old and

never new, as she speaks to the world under a

sky of blue.  Then spring will once again arrive,

and the earth will warm, Mother Nature’s

children will once again bloom; and another

butterfly released from its magic cocoon.

 

 

****

 

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

A Redbird Day…

It is a Red Bird kind of day as I carefully

walk the bramble-hedged path through

the forest that edged our home.  I could

hear leaves crunching, not from my boots…

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 fireplace.

 

I know that on the warming shelves of the

old wood stove are hot  biscuits and ham

waiting for me to get home from scurrying

the forest for nuts and berries, a treat while

we sit around the fireplace listening to

grandpa’s latest tale of the war he fought in

during his youth.

 

Mother’s watching from the window for signs

of my bright colored hat she knitted me last

Christmas, she opened the door and waved;

I was late and she was worried.  I showed her

my overflowing baskets, she smiled…I wanted

keep her happy so, I did not tell her about the

Wolf.

 

 

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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