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.








Watercolor 10×12  ©2010.annjohnsonmurphree


Ask me not where a love

that has been taken goes;

maybe it slips slowly away

with the summer like a fading

rose.  Did it go peacefully to

sleep, unable to hear its lovers


Was it a love that heaven created,

sweet, fair, like a sandy beach, blue

sea, and salty air.  Quivering bodies

will no longer be able to keep each

other warm; they parted sorrowfully

under darkened skies during a midnight


Now each lay still in the dead of night,

alone, the light from one gone out.  Sunrise

and sunset, he  pretends to see her

soul fly, mesmerized, as the fragrance

of her bosom will never die.



Poetry and Art at :

Emerald Heaven…

In the emerald clover field,

love concealed; shapes made

aware, breathing in the

morning air.  Secret love,

clandestine thoughts roam;

times lost forget home; heart

ignores evil, wrong sheds away;

dreams are of only today.  Love

freely given without consideration

there in the clover field under heaven.



eBooks at

Excerpt from Biana’s Pond…

14.St. Ignace Countryside

Above book cover artwork by ann johnson-murphree 2010

Excerpt from draft “Biana’s Pond”

Writers note:  The story, based on the lives of Jesse Youngblood who has returned home to go on an end of life journey with her colorful aunt.


Excerpt from draft “Biana’s Pond”

Writers note:  The story, based on the lives of Jesse Youngblood who has returned home to go on an end of life journey with her colorful aunt.


Jesse Youngblood walked into the lobby of the Ayers Hotel in Birmingham, Alabama; right away, her body went ridged, childhood fears return as she stopped in front of the old elevator doors now covered with a fresh coat of “Gold” paint.   The doors opened, she shut her eyes tight walking quickly through them.  She did not need to have them open to know that a tarnished brass rail was next to her hand.   Jesse still associated the old elevator with a tragic episode during her childhood.

A childhood that was both happy and sad had confused Jesse more times than not, her eyes so tight that her nose wrinkled.   She did not know that an elderly man had walked in behind her; he waited for a few moments then began clearing his troth.

“Young lady are you going to just stand there with your eyes closed or do you intend to select a floor?”  The voice dripped of southern politeness, yet laced with attitude.

“I’m sorry sir, the tenth floor please.”   Her voice apologetic Jesse could feel his irritability, but she kept her eyes closed.

Assuming she was not going to surrender her hold on the railing, he reached out selected his floor and pushed the button for the top floor as well.  The antiquated elevator cables creaked and groaned as Jesse counted each floor that they passed, it stopped on the ninth floor; the old man grumbled under his breath as he got off.   The intimidating climb continued.

Despite her fear of the elevator, Jesse was excited to be back, five years ago her aunt made the decision to change the building from a hotel to apartments; of course, her Aunt Biana still occupied the entire top floor as she had done since moving into the hotel with her husband.  She could not help but wonder how the home she grew up looked with the changes.

Jesse did not have to wait long, the doors opened and so did her eyes, she stepped quickly into the entrance hall where nothing had changed.  The tenth floor was like stepping back into time.   Mirrors in gilded frames, drawings of known and unknown artists lined the walls; colossal vases filled with multicolored plumes stood tall like sentries at the entrance door.  Time had left its mark on everything, the building, maybe the life beyond the door.  Jesse did not know what she was going to find on the other side, but she was home.

Opening the door, Jesse found that her aunt Biana’s home was unchanged; the enormous living room still as bodacious as Miss Adeline’s girls over McNutt’s Tavern on the outskirts of town was bursting with familiar flamboyant furniture.  Windows draped artistically in imported silks and lace was as awesome today, as they had been the first time she had visited her aunt.  The walls, tables, and bookcases held pictures of Jesse, creating a scrapbook of her life.  She had grown up inside these walls of dark mahogany panels and swirling alabaster.  It had been her playground.  Her years in this place had been one of discovery and learning, a time that shaped her future.  Suddenly, the clinical smells coming from the hallway leading into the bedrooms assaulted her senses, reminding her of why she was back.

Jesse would soon know as the familiar voice of her beloved aunt Francis bellowed through the hallway.  Dressed in black that was only slightly darker than her skin, with a starched white apron Francis spread her arms; pulling Jesse to her sagging bosom hugging and crying until Jesse thought she would burst; she was truly home, home with both her aunts.

Francis cried out, “Miss Jesse you as pale as a ghost, don’t they have no sun in California”?

The person known to Jesse as her aunt Francis came to work for her aunt Biana long before Jesse cam to live with her.  Francis had been the grandchild of slaves.   To Francis, her baby Jesse unfortunately did not inherit her fathers’ Chickasaw skin, instead she was like porcelain like her aunt Biana; she pulled back from Francis.

“How is she”?

“Oh Miss Jesse, I am so glad that you are home, I can’t do nothing with that women, course never could.  Says she is going to that cabin of hers down south and nobody is goin to stop her, you need to talk some sense into that woman.”

Jesse did not get a chance to say anything; the whirlwind of frustration was already backing into the kitchen, Francis who long ago became her aunt Biana’s housekeeper, then nanny, Jesse knew she had become a close friend and confident.  Now she was her caretaker!


Ann’s poetry and art eBooks can be found at:


Weaving a Web of Life and Love…

Through all circumstance instinct prevails,

the edge, the possibility, the fringe of today,

the never-ending tomorrows.  Creating identity,

a challenging existence in our special place,

waning stars weaving webs of the unknown.

Snow clinging to winter grass, ice darts hanging

from windowsills, the image of our love weaves in

and out of the clouds toward the moon.  In this

perfect place, we live in freedom, melding into

periphery, living in equality, outside of entropy.



Stop the Madness…

Mother Earth, Oceans,

Lakes, Rivers, Air, in unity

with my soul; goodness,

wickedness the choices

we make gives us warmth

of spirit or a life frightening

and cold.

Morning, noon and sunset a

tingling of a new season in the

air, sighs of contentment,

burning wood; gathering of

boughs with the mist clinging to

your face like a lovers kiss.

Ah, this world is wonderful from

shadows to sunlit heights; we can

give or take, make or break fellow

human beings; give hope or

disintegrate with sadness or


We can gaze upon a world of deep

mysteries’ with love and caring in

our heart; we can impose death,

downfall, bring friend and foe to

their knees; we can destroy, rip

this world apart.

I chose to inspire the desperate,

remove their dark hope, bring

light; leave gentleness behind as

I walk into the night, wipe away

the tears of children, bring hope

to those in despair…I believe it is

time to stop this madness and

show each other that we care.




EBooks on sale at

Stolen Moments…

Whispering voices descend

from clouds of yesterday

waiting for the winds of

tomorrow; they gently

caress the heart trying to

take away all of yesteryears



In the quietness of twilight

glimpse of what was never

meant to be; dominant are

the emotions and the spirit

cries….true love will never

come and the soul will never

be free.


Evolving into the now from a

world of pain, time journeys

onward and the spirit

understands life stays the same.


Emerging from a life only the

heart knows, finally daring to

dream of what might have been;

and then there is the never-ending

waiting for a new life to begin.


Tears no longer fall upon pale

cheeks, truth stays hidden deep

within the soul; finally, one

realizes that the story of lost love

will never be told.


Living alone, day after day

becomes a way of life; the

cocooned heart keeps away

sorrow, pain and strife.


Passion continues to burn and

does not die, as one lives in

stolen moments waiting for a

love that will never return; and

wondering will the heart ever








Poetry EBook on