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

Change in your life…

 

“Nothing will change in your life if you don’t do something different from what you have been doing”. E. Perry Good

 

The posting for today developed from a quote by E. Perry Good, speaker, trainer, corporate coach, and author sent to me by my son in a mass family mailing.    My answer back to him was that, “We (I) try to focus on today more than the future as all we (I) have is today”.

In sharing a “little” of myself with my readers today, as a family research, reading books and trying self-help methods have been a part of my family for many years.   It does not mean that we use all but we try. Living day to day is a struggle to many and not unique to only me!

Today, I lean toward my spiritual self instead of organized religion. My life scales are at any given moment tipping with uneven weight of happiness or sadness. Most of my life was based on “Church”, raised up in a country church where style meant overalls and outdated dresses, an old upright piano that needed tuning and a banjo could raise the roof with off key voices and hands held toward the ceiling in hopes God would hear our praises. I taught “Sunday School” from eighteen until I was twenty-six years old. Then life gave me reason to look inward to my spiritual self and this is where my beliefs have resided since that long ago day.

With that said I stopped participating in organized religion; however almost three decades of studying the Bible my belief in some of the philosophy it provides by its authors is a part of who I am today.   E. Perry Good is right nothing will change if you do not do something different from what you are doing today.

This post is not intended to push any religious values on anyone; I believe it can be applied to all who want to bring change in their lives. I have written down some of these Bible viewpoints to share that melds with the words of E. Perry Good. The insight of Biblical authors can be a template for life by all people.

  • Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. (My favorite saying Angels can be anyone carrying a message of help )
  • Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
  • Be content with what you have.
  • Be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.
  • It is more blessed to give than to receive.
  • Be kind, tenderhearted, and forgiving.
  • Stop all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and slander in your life.
  • Do not let the sun go down on your anger.
  • Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your own mind.

 

Even at my age, I look at myself as a “WORK IN PROGRESS”. I break my own rules about life and how I live it, I have to start over many times, rethinking my life, my own behavior and I truly believe that we are only “done” with improvement in our lives when we take our last breath. I will never be perfect, my flaws are many, but the hope to transformation my life never ceases. Hope for a better self should never die. In addition, I do believe that we should live for today, for tomorrow may never come.

11.18.2014 ajm

 

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_2_11?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree+paperbacks&sprefix=ann+johnson%2Cstripbooks%2C215

 

 

 

Thank you……………

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Some of America’s  “Hero’s”, we must always remember them in our hearts.

 

Thank you for your support in reblogging the last post.  First, FEMA should never ask for refunds on money they have given to support those in need.  Second, as Americans we get more support during these disaster’s from private funding…we support and care for each other more than our government does.  Third, our support to other countries also comes from private funding, from the hearts of Americans; I see the numbers that our government gives but does it go to the right people, the people in need?  Time to get down off the soap box…but too many who are less fortunate are forgotten on a regular basis in the USA; they need our voices.  Thank you so much for visiting and reading Libretto.  11.10.2014  ajm

 

On Sale…

 

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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.

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

Childhood Memories…

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Muddy Water…

Down a rutted country road from my

childhood home five miles or so, the

muddy Flint Creek flowed south

unhurriedly slow.

I could not have been over five or six,

when I walked that road, but never

without carrying a big stick.

I carried that stick with eyes open wide,

cause daddy said, if a rattlesnake bit you…

you might die.

In the summer, I would go there almost

every day skipping and hopping along;

I would jump from that rickety old bridge

into that muddy water; before the sun

went down I would go home.

Daddy never wondered where I had gone,

everyone who crossed that bridge told him

where I was, so you see I was never alone.

When I finally got home, he would just look

at me with a sly grin saying…

“Baby you’d better not let your mama

find out where you been”.

 

©2012.annjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_4_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409195210&sr=1-4&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

 

 

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

Clandestine Self…

I meditate on the splendor of my existence, the magnificence

that I exist at all, and without warning I might hear loves tender

call. Without lamentation, I enjoy the sensation. Outward beauty

is a word that has no importance, beauty is naught to me, look

deeper the real me is what you will see.  The stream of my sensation

is clear, I am content, for the moment, let me be, I believe that love

resides here. Yet love is a word that has no meaning, it means nothing

to me.  I cannot be persuaded, I am tranquil, see the flesh of my being,

take it, sate yourself, and leave my thoughts to me.

 

 

2013©annjohnsonmurphree

 

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-Murphree-ebook/dp/B00CG61816/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407438538&sr=1-1&keywords=ann+johnson-Murphree

 

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

 

 

http://www.amazon.com/Echoing-Images-Soul-Journey-into/dp/1500366811/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405934856&sr=1-4&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

 

 

Pseudo Heavens…

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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

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_7?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann%20johnson-murphree&sprefix=ann+joh%2Caps%2C289

 

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.