Days gone by…#78


Images and the thoughts that follow.

days gone by


Days gone by…

I have set aside promises I made to myself in my youth; my hopes and dreams have become dim memories. I gaze through the window of my future and I see tombstones of yesterday’s promises; all covered with reminiscent vine. I weep for the uncertainty of my future and the dreams I left behind. These ambiguous days is where I start my last journey, climb the mountains of my memories while trying to forget the rubble of yesterday. I ask myself, if I could turn back the hands of time would I follow the same path, of course, I would!



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Deaths Hideous Show…#163

Note from Author :
When I create poetry, some of my followers believe that it is personal, no, the idea may be built upon ones personal perception or glimpses into my life, but it is not to be taken as fact. My blog is filled with ideas when creating, but I believe that the meaning is not only found in the act of reading (and re-reading) poetry. Sometimes we start writing a poem with one idea in mind, but by the time we reach the end of the first draft, another idea or theme has emerged. Other times, we might write a poem and realize years later that there are layers of meaning in it; perhaps our subconscious produced something we were not aware of at the time the poem was composed.

The very act of writing poetry opens us to the meaning of our experiences and ideas, especially if we are willing to give up control when we write and let ideas and words flow freely. Free writing is an ideal practice for generating mysterious raw material. I find my poetry to be dark, eight decades of experiences gives me a wheelhouse of raw material on many subjects. Please enjoy.

Deaths Hideous Show…


She asks that her bed of death

be free of greedy heirs, her last

breath she favored, not me.

Greedy did not bring them to

their knees. I kept back tears I

will not weep! There are worst

plagues than tears. I would now

find the freedom that my life

has been denied; then at last,

I can give up my hope to find

love from she who carried me

within and gave me life.


Spare me the whispering crowded

room, family and friends that come

and gape and go; spare me the

ceremonious air of gloom, which

makes death a hideous show. The

future that undiscovered mystery,

which one feels deaths wings.

Bring none of these to me; let me

be silent in the dew of the morning,

this world that I was born. The

same world that will continue to

last when I am dead.


I find that the universe is my home;

my mind treads on every day, which

brings the sun, the moon, the stars;

oceans, streams and lakes; every blade

of grass flows within my veins. Keep

from me all mortal strife, and praise

each little breath for from it I will

find my eternal course in life.


Spare my feeling as I gaze upon each

day, let me grow, stay composed, mind

clear. When my time is near let me,

accept it without fear. Let my spirit

go to work no more, to wait no

more; I ask that you shed no tears.




Author’s books at and Barnes &
Charlotte 1

Charlotte Jean Murphree – 6 Months

Covid-19 Reflection

Another great post from C.R. Murphree…Reflecting on today’s problem.

Thoughts and Writings on Mental Health

A current crisis is surrounding the world and suffocating some. Schools are closed and the word “essential” has taken on new meaning. What once seemed important has faded into memory, and the things that make life worth living: love, family, friendship, loyalty, integrity, food, employment, health, and nature have emerged once again forcing us to take notice. I’m not saying these things were not important to people before this crisis. I am saying that we have all been forced to slow down, pause, even stop, and recognize that our material items, favorite, restaurants, movie theaters, iphone, and so on, now take a backseat to what we actually live for.

Will we forget after we all pay our debt? I am seeing and hearing about more and more people having home cooked meals, taking walks in the woods, talking about social emotional learning in schools, being grateful for the small things…

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Earths Heart Break…# 162

The morning mist dwarfs houses, it

weighs down the soul, but eventually

the sun broke though. On nearby

terraces, the sunshines brightly,

while below children play a timeworn

game of marbles. A yellow shooter is

winning, the sack holding the days

catch grows larger.


On the beach nearby two young

lovers, bask in the warm June-wind;

and to the north there is a field

freshly plowed. The farmer stands

filled with joy, wishing that time

world would stand still. His eyes

brimming, he looks at the Heavens

with gratitude.


While this happiness wraps the

day in joy, there is distress in

the world. Somewhere, a

multitude of mourners sees

nothing but evil and the end!

Warmth, light, and joy have

passed them. It would take

only one man to undim the

hours; his courage, yet,

is entwined in hatred.


The day finished, the moon

shines brightly, clear, a

tranquil sphere. In the

distance beyond the beach,

the waves whirl wildly, rolls

mournfully; they shiver and

die at beach edge. Mother

Earth shed tears of sorrow,

and prays for tomorrow.


Many of her children lie

frozen and dead in faraway

places; they fall on the

burning breast of the now.

A wild rose climbs up the

moldering walls. The funeral

music is sad! The melancholy

tones touch the most sobering

heart. The unforgotten voice

wanders from the world back

to their ancient home.


All hopeless, the music beats

upon my ears again and again.

Then the melancholy tones

become sweet and still, lute-like

tones blew a thrilling summons

into my ears. The lost heart, its

life-blood spills, sleep dearest one.





Author’s books at and Barnes & under the name Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree.

Depressions Dream…#161


The grip of depression is at all

times lingering ; it lives in a

high dark corner of the mind;

bundling despair and hopelessness.

Its victims sit and wait, mind

wandering, in this place with no

windows .  Does depression find the

moaning of God’s lost flock real,

their distant cries resonates within

the living lost; do not ask depression

to stay, sit in silence until it decides

to goes away.


Depression works hard keeping

madness in control when the sun

goes down, like a shepherd it does

not rest! In the night, the moaning

of Gods flock becomes louder; as

the lost flock feels its limbs take

root in a barren land. It does not

rain on them and they cannot

grow; looking like bent grass where

they lay, Freedom is not theirs.


Who, tired of knocking at the

Golden door, they leave friends

and family behind. Most are

doomed; it takes heaven-sent

moments to be pulled from the

murk and mire of hopelessness.

Depression shouts at the lights

of goodness; it is cloaked in grey

and will drown those who listen

in its dark and dingy place. In the

grip of depression, the mind

wanders, sits behind shadowed

glass and refuses to retreat.


Depression is like leaning backward

in a meditative dream, it has no

eyes to see the moonlit stream. It

dances in a dark field that yields

no fruit, it is frail-leafed, and it has

not a word of good to speak. While

back in the barren land black-winged

swallows, haunt the mind, scarlet

patches shreds of gray, waiting for

the spark from heaven to fall. Yet,

depression continues in its dream,

while waiting for the marker to be

placed on the unknown grave.



Author’s books at and Barnes &

What is it to Grow Old…#160

Watching the body lose its shape, the eyes no

longer sparkle, becoming smaller.  Strength

disappears, limbs grow stiff, and every

function less accurate and every fiber of

one’s being frail and overwrought with life.


Life is not what in our youth we dreamed

it would be! The aging was not to be mellow

and soft as the sunsets glow, these golden

days’ decline with a hurried speed.


To see the world from a pinnacle with creative

eyes, a heart deeply moved. Yet we mourn to

feel and see the past, the years that are gone



Being old is to spend long days not once

believing that we were ever young. Confined

in the cold prison of living day to day with

weary pain.  It is to suffer, being only half

of what we use to be; feeble are many who

are hidden away. Remembrance gone, no

emotion, no life.


This is the last stage of life, frozen within

ourselves, soon to be an empty ghost; whom

do we blame?





Back to Another Time…#159

One of my first “remembrances’” at the age of four is sitting on top of an old yellow dog as he lay in our front yard on bare ground. I can close my eyes and smell the lilac bush at the end of our front porch, at night its fragrance would drift into the open windows. I would play in that red Alabama dirt all day long with a coffee can and a big wooden spoon. The house had two rooms and plank floors; the outside was nothing but plywood painted gray. The windows keep us cool in summer and newspaper glued to the walls kept it warm in winter. My sister and I shared one room with our great-grandmother “Ma”, the “front” room is where mother and daddy slept, it held the table and chairs and a wooden cook stove. A long handmade table was to prepare meals and wood crates nailed to the wall above the table held dishes of every variety; the cast iron skillets and pots sat on the back of the stove. Yes, we were country folk, sharecroppers!

Daddy would pick me up saying, “suppertime”. I love cornbread, Pinto beans and buttermilk to this very day. After supper he or my sister would wash me up and put me to bed, as farmers we went to bed when the night was hanging behind Burleson Mountain; a black curtain backdrop in eastern sky; they would get up before the blazing hot sun of summer rose in the morning, the Mountain kept the house cool until noon.

My mother worked in the Goodyear Mill at night before attending “beauty school” during the day, with no sleep; she wanted to be a beautician. She rode an old bicycle the five miles in the dark to where she would catch a bus to the Mill, she then walked to the Beauty School, took the bus home, it dropped her off after dark and she rode the bicycle five miles home. She slept a few hours then repeated the schedule. I rarely saw my mother, maybe on Sundays, but then she was busy getting ready for the week to come. My mother was an extraordinary individual, she hated being poor, but she loved the young Chickasaw sharecropper she was married too. When my sister got old enough to be, alone she set about planning her future.



Author’s books at and Barnes&

Day 23 of Isolation…#158

inspirational life quotes dalai lama

Many of the sixty-six tenants of this complex including myself remain in isolation; a few continue to move about with their normal daily lives. Some do not care, while others are not taking the virus seriously. With a new “Bovine” heart valve, I am not taking any chances! I live at ground level; therefore, my children take turns leaving groceries and other necessary items on my patio. Consequently, my pantry and cabinets are bursting at the seams. When I go outside to take my trash out I am in full anti-virus gear, in anticipation that I might run into someone who is not so careful. I uphold the six-foot rule as well.

I have listed all of the good, bad of being isolated. The best part is that I am undisturbed while researching for new book. Being a writer the isolation is not a bother to me, seeing my family is a big one.

Therefore, I leave you with this bit of advice; enjoy the peace and quiet, as this too shall pass. We may never get back to what normal use to be, however, lets embrace the new normal.

Wishing everyone peace and happiness.