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

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Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…

“Dedicated to my Great-Grandmother”

 

When I was born, you were a young ninety-years old,

your hair pulled tight at the nap of your neck, still

black and bold. At night, you let it down to braid before

you went to bed, it fell to the floor; at first I would watch

in silence from a crack in the door.

The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the

room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick.

I quickly plucked it from mother’s only broom, and rushed

back into the dimly lit room. You showed me how to break

it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile

accented all of your dark wrinkles and creases.

It was then that my eyes opened wide as you put the stick right

through the lob of your ears, its magic I thought; but this is my

great-grandmother I have nothing to fear. As a child, I did not

realize that there was a hole, because when I would touch the

bangles in her ears, she would quickly scold.

Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her button up

shoes by raising the hem of her long dress, she did not have on

shoes, there were moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have

guessed. Yes, I was only a child without a care, and I spent many

hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.

I never tire of the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together

and now I can say it…as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she

called it “hell”. Her parents had walked on the “Trail of Tears”, proud

and strong, with every step wondering where they had gone wrong.

She help raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begin

to wander in those later years, I was sad, when she would tell her stories

she only remembered the bad. This grand old woman dressed in bangles

and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair and the nap of her

neck was a great-grandmother like no other.

She died only days before her birthday, she would have been one-hundred

and five, my father said, Ma would have scolded you saying…

” Don’t you ever let anyone see you cry”.

I was fifteen and the world was bright and colorful with the artwork of fall,

a befitting day to bury this beautiful and proud Chickasaw.

 

©2012.annjohnsonmurphree

Echoing Images from the Soul eBook Sale

http://www.amazon.com/Echoing-Images-Soul-Ann-Johnson-Murphree-ebook/dp/B00CCG2WVK/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408989065&sr=1-5&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

I Write…

In writing poetry, one not only finds an outlet for releasing the quandaries life might bring; creating also gives one a reason to share joy.   AJM

 

The Voices…

I am a writer, from me you shall read

the sounds  of insistent voices of those

characters whispering in my ear. They

are fierce, burning with passion, their

messages clear.

They speak to me with the force of a

turbulent sea, at other times like the

surge of the tide, yet always protecting

me… “within me they reside”.

I am a writer.

 

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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

A Native American Sketch/Watercolor…

 

 

This sketch/watercolor using my granddaughter and great-grandson as models for the small 5X7 painting.  They were not in Native American dress, but their faces sketched with the clothing created afterwards.   

3.ANNA-Mother and Child

Anna and Child

5X7

Black, Grays, White Watercolors

“Sponge painting used in background”

 

 

Grandpa’s Jug…

 

On a cold southern night, reading under the

covers by a “coal oil” lamp, grandpa’s piano

and 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; grandma could

not hear me I had nothing to fear.

 

Suddenly there was the smell of smoke; grandma

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 wilderness tepee.

Grandpa tossed a bucket of water at me from

the door; it missed the bed and hit the floor.

He jerked the quilt off the bed, folded it ever

so gently and pristine, then threw it out my

window which had no screen.

 

My aunt walked in laughing 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, drabbing at tears, grandma said, “Well, it’s

not as if she’s committed a crime”.  It was then…

I ran out of the room thankful for their “cheer”,

with the help of a little old jug of “moonshine”.

 

 

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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

Soap Sticks…

 

soap sticks

 

Her dark russet hair, wiry, tickled the legs and

her boney back made sore the tiny bottoms of

sparsely clothed Butts.  She was a tough old girl

slow; bit proud of herself when I climbed on her

back, I swear that old mule would strut.

Silver hair replaced the brown around her eyes and

mouth, in her prime she pulled plows and wagons,

old Soap Sticks, a genuine mule from the south.

 

She woke at four O’clock every morning with a braying

that echoed off the nearby bluffs, like the barnyard

rooster, it was her way of telling everyone they had slept

enough.

 

Her world in those days were filled with sunshine and all

the oats that she wanted to eat, her long ears had finally

gone deaf, her sight weak.  Soap Sticks, wise, her senses

distinct, she roam familiar fields by instinct.

 

She inhabited the lazy brook in the field, nibbled on

whatever the land would yield.   Her love for children never

slowed down, when I was close to her, she would instantly

kneel to the ground.

 

Climbing on her back, holding to her rough old cropped mane,

she took me through fields of sweet sugar cane.  She would

go down into the brook letting the water tickle my feet; old

Soap Sticks on any given day would delight me with these

special treats.

 

Unafraid, I knew that she would never bring me harm, when she

tired of the ride she would slowly take me back to the barn.  It

was fall when daddy came into the kitchen to say, that old Soap

Sticks had gone away.  “Where”, I screamed, “She suffered all

night,” He said, “But early this morning she just closed her eyes and

died, she could no longer stay.

 

Daddy buried her in the pasture by that lazy little brook with water

clear and sweet, the same one where she loved to wade and tickle

my feet.  I said a prayer over the big tall mound; she would lie there

forever only a few feet under the ground.

 

I knew that Soap Sticks would no longer be old and alone, she would

roam green pastures and drink from bubbling brooks, at last, she

was truly home.  She could now hear birds sing high up in the trees,

and once again, she would be able to see; no matter how long it

takes me get to Heaven; I know Soap Sticks will know that it is me.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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

Honeysuckle Memories…

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

 

Deep within my soul I sometimes go to

a place where my life began, I take an

emotional journey, from time to time.

Memories with or without images of

those days are like a thunderstorms’

distance echo, you cannot see it, but

you know that it was there.

 

A furrowed road, wild honeysuckle; a

crumbled chimney beneath the kudzu

vines, the remnant memories of that life

and dim images never change.  The cotton

fields surrounding the old weathered shack

where we lived that stole my father’s

wandering soul.

 

In the warm red dirt life sprung from the

blood and sweat that nurtured the white

gold called cotton, it broke spirits, and

hardened souls.  In memory, the image

from the past holds but one old leathered

face; my fathers.

 

Life goes by quickly, places and people vanish

without a trace, time and progress erases the

landscape of our lives, but…the memories is

how I survive.  In the shadows of the mind is a

time of how life use to be; with only a thought

I can recall those sweet honeysuckle memories.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

Note: The poetry book “Honeysuckle Memories” was taken from this poem. ajm

 

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

Bangles and Colorful Cloth…

“Dedicated to Great-Grandmother”

When I was born, you were then young at ninety-years old, your hair pulled tight at the nap of your neck, still black and bold.  At night, you let it down to braid before you went to bed, as it fell to the floor; I watched in silence from a crack in the door.

The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick.  I quickly plucked it from the broom, and rushed back into the dimly lit room.

You showed me how to break it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile accenting all of your dark wrinkles and creases.  My eyes opened wide as you stuck in right through your ear, its magic I thought; but this is my great-grandmother I have nothing to fear.

As a child, I did not realize that there was a hole, because when I would touch the bangles on her ears, she would quickly scold.  Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her shoes by raising the hem of her long dress, she did not have on shoes, there were moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have guessed.

Yes, I was only a child without a care, and I spent many hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.  I never tired of the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together and now I can say it…as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she called it “hell”.

Her parents had walked on the “Trail of Tears”, proud and strong, with every step wondering where they had gone wrong.  She helped raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begin to wander in those later years, I was sad when she would tell her stories; she only remembered the bad.

This grand old woman dressed in bangles and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair at the nap of her neck was a great-grandmother like no other.  She died only days before her birthday; she would have been one-hundred and five, my daddy warned me, Ma would have scolded you saying, “Don’t you ever cry”.   I was young and the world was bright and colorful with the artwork of fall, a befitting day to bury this beautiful and proud Chickasaw.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Honeysuckle Memories is on sale at amazon.com link in side bar

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

The Killing Fields of Yesteryear…

I hear the cries of my grandmothers and

grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with

them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears.

Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted

trail, every scar on their backs another story

to tell.  They planted crops, gave blessing,

taking from the land only, what they would

need, a word they did not know… greed.

Strangers with pale skin came from the east,

my people taught them how to live, when no

longer needed they drove them from their

ancestral homes.  The Grandfathers and their

families stood tall, their backs they refused

to bend, herded like cattle to a far off land, to

die in hot barren sand.

My people believed that the land belonged to

no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still

they died with broken souls never knowing that

their story in time would cover the blood-splattered

pages of history.  They watched as women gave birth

and warriors carried the dead; the children went to

sleep hungry with the ground as their bed.

The day came when these great people were corralled,

given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat,

in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were

bound, a killing field where the blood of my family

spilled upon the ground.  I hear you my grandmothers

and grandfathers, your cries in the darkness of night;

for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake

each morning with the taste of your tears.

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

Poetry EBook on Amazon.com link in sidebar.

Birth of Cotton Working Canvas and Finished Painting

32. Birth of Cotton 2

The Birth of Cotton Unfinished Canvas

With many new followers, I decided to make a reentry on “The Birth of Cotton” painting.  This working canvas begins (2012) after a poem that I had written about my Native American father call “The Chickasaw Farmer”.

29. Birth of Cotton

The Birth of Cotton

20 X 20 Acrylic

The above is the finished painting and I have included the poem with this post.  This is one of my favorite paintings; I hope “My Community” will enjoy seeing the painting and the poem that inspired the painting.

The Chickasaw Farmer

“A tribute to Daddy”

Rickety ole man stood on the cotton wagon

a tin of yellow salve in his hand.

Rickety Ole Wagon

Rickety Ole Man

A hot southern sun hides behind the willows on

muddy Flint Creek, cotton pickers sweat falling

on parched lips taste like salty brine while they

wait for the Ole man to call “quitting time”.

Rickety Ole Wagon
Rickety Ole Man

Young, old, children, women and men bloody

fingers cut by the barbs of the cotton boll dig

into the old yellow salve tin.

Rickety Ole Wagon
Rickety Ole Man

Tar bottom sacks filled with soft white gold

weary feet follow two old sway back mules

down a rutted road.

Rickety Ole Wagon
Rickety Ole Man

Crimson clouds from wagon wheels whirl

around tired bodies and drained minds;

feels like pickers were working in the

cotton fields since the beginning of time.

Rickety Ole Wagon
Rickety Ole Man

Mules stop at the fork of the road as the

cotton pickers walked into the dark of

the night the Ole man’s heart filled with

appreciation, because he is just an old

Chickasaw farmer trying to survive

inside a “White Nation”.

Rickety Ole Wagon

Rickety Ole Man

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

Poetry EBook on Amazon.com link in sidebar.