Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…#316

Image result for Autumn Cemetery

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…

“Repost – 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 almost 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…asking that I bring you a single broomstick. 

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

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

break it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile

showed 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 on 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 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, 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”.  When her mind begins

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

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

and cloths of many colors, long braids and black hair; a great-grandmother

like no other.

She died a few days before her birthday; she would have been one-hundred

and five.  My daddy said, Ma as we called her would have scolded you saying

 don’t you ever cry.  I was fifteen-year old and the world was bright and

colorful with the artwork of fall, a befitting day to bury a  beautiful and

proud Chickasaw. 

[Repost]

Copyright©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Sponsored Post Learn from the experts: Create a successful blog with our brand new courseThe WordPress.com Blog

WordPress.com is excited to announce our newest offering: a course just for beginning bloggers where you’ll learn everything you need to know about blogging from the most trusted experts in the industry. We have helped millions of blogs get up and running, we know what works, and we want you to to know everything we know. This course provides all the fundamental skills and inspiration you need to get your blog started, an interactive community forum, and content updated annually.

America appears to be on “Crack”…#315

Freedom, the right to become nothing, build nothing, think nothing.  One of my favorite poets is Langston Hughes, a dreamer, there are many others as well?  A poet’s soul is deep; it creates in us the need to revise, revise, and revise.  Children are grand poets, clean, clear minds not yet destroyed by society, or filled with myths, threats and social prejudices.  Yet, many of the greatest poets are those who have experienced love, hate, social injustice and despair.

My poetry is filled with experience, it includes family injustice, personal despair, and yes hate.  I can only express my love as I have known it, my children has been the foundation of my love from the moment of their births; therefore, I do know love; expressing it has not found a place in my well of words.  The intensity of expression of my feelings and ideas has individual style and rhythm.  They come from that place within me that stays hidden from the outside world.  My poetry frequently tells a story filled with dark drama, it is unique in style.  Most time comes from either my spiritual, emotional, or psychological state; individually or all towering over me like a cloud.

The poem below comes from that place within me that fears for the future of our “Nation”.

Image result for Donald Trump at CPAC 2021
Donald Trump to represent the Republican Party at CPAC 2021. Should this evil man be allow to continue in America’s future?

America appears to be on “Crack”

And, America appears to be like someone

who has red ants in their pants; run, run, run. 

Washington is filled with bizarrely benign,

relics, America is not going forward toward

the light; it is rushing backwards into the

darkness.

Brewing storms, ranting, not caring or

watching for the snap of a jaw that destroys

us all.  Politics are gnawed on by every

American adult.  Politicians spewing remarkable

lies.  If here, if Moses were here, he would be

raising his arms to the questioning white faces.      

What will our future be now that the world is

turned upside down?   A former leader believing

that he was God’s right hand man, piloting a

desecration of an American sacred building;

one built from stone and bone.    

 

Atlantis buried under ice one day here, the

next gone.  Will America slip quietly into the

dark ocean?  Americans, a blip in the history of

mankind, live, die, decide.  A great black distance

looms over the people as they curl themselves

around the flames of non-responsibility. They

should want to escape from the lie strewn plains

and mountains of our country; yet,  their eyes

dark pools of blindness.

America appears to be on “Crack”.

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Survived for another day…#314

First, let me thank those bloggers that allow rebloging from their sites.  It is a wonderful way to fill your blogging space when you are not able to do so, and I chose random sites that I thought would be interesting to my followers.  All of you are appreciated, and I am grateful to you for visiting and commenting.

I was in the hospital with “vertigo” and “toxicity” emergency, the most terrible case scenario; I am now in therapy to restore the use of my balance.  Now, I can hopefully return to blogging, researching and writing my new book “The Blood Within”.

Dixie May Murphree 11 Weeks

An exciting note, my new puppy “Dixie” is doing well, housebroken and learning the rules.  My heart is still heavy for the loss of Mason in August of 2020, Dixie does not fill the hole in my heart, but helps scar over the open wound. 

Thank you again to my most amazing loyal followers and new one’s too.

E.

You missed a bit

Outstanding post, read and enjoy. E.

Keith Kreates!

19-02-2007 14-45-33_0025a

“♫ One man and his dog, Spot, went to mow a meadow. ♫”

“What are you singing?”

“♫ One man and his dog, Spot, went to mow a meadow. ♫”

“Why?”

“Seems appropriate.”

“How so?”

“I’m mowing, ennit?”

“Allegedly. Thing is, Dear Heart, you aren’t a man, neither of our dogs is called Spot and, oh yes, neither of our dogs is with you – and what it amuses us to call our back garden is hardly a meadow.”

“Poetic license.”

“The license that would help you most is a driving one, not a poetic one.”

“I have a driving license and you know it!”

“I was speaking ironically. When do you think you’ll be finished?”

“Probably when I’ve done it all.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Haven’t you got any work to do?”

“Finished it.”

“Okay. You like to be ironic – there’s loads needs…

View original post 118 more words

The Lighthouse

Ivor, a great site to visit and often.

Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Today, here again I am presenting another ‘5min’ poem that I wrote at Ali Grimsham’s ‘Writing Circle’ Zoom meeting this morning (haha, “at 6.00am”) and I would like to thank Ali for giving me an opportunity to participate in such a fantastic event … Here is the page link to get more information about the next “writing circle” event.https://flashlightbatteries.blog/online-writing-circles/Tickets by donation. All are welcome.

The Lighthouse

I am afloat

In between

Here and there

Am I lost?

My ship clock

Is a sundial

Using the moon

To reflect on time

I hear the waves

Pounding white hooves

A heavy sound

Of many moods

Is the sea growing wide?

Is the light glowing brighter?

Ivor Steven (c) Feb 2021

View original post

Snippets from Source # 106

Short and simple, speaks volumes. Take time to check out Pat’s blog this snowy (for me) Sunday.

Source of Inspiration

That long list of things to do
did not come from me. My list is
short and sweet– give love, be happy.

I know, it is so simple, you think it
is hard to do, but babies and puppies
do it all the time.

Simply Source

View original post

if the answer is a bridge too far, the question is what is a welcome diversion?

Always of interest to me, information great. Read more than one post, you will enjoy them all. An individual with a personal view. E.

I'll Call It Like I See It

The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming – down under to the 2021 Australian Open Tennis Tournament that began with high hopes for real live fans in the stands but now those stands have been emptied for a five day Covid lockdown that began Friday night and will hopefully end this week on Tuesday or Wednesday depending on where you (and/or Elmo) are in the complicated time zones that disturb my already disturbed sleep patterns for two weeks every year. Thank goodness for the World Time Clock Converter that promises me it’s really eight o’clock tomorrow night when I wake at 4 a.m. to watch a featured match I must see “live” in Melbourne, Australia. Thank you, ESPN, for your ongoing coverage which may be the death of me.

Unless, of course, the death of me comes from the unraveling of democracy that I watched during the days that…

View original post 646 more words

My ARt, Another’s Words

A great blog from a very talented and courageous individual. Check out a few post and enjoy. E.

One Woman's Quest

inkblots mutateto form pictures,alphabets,storiesI did not create

***

decorated treessway to songs emanating frommasked lipsimagining smilesthat reachtwinkling toes and luminous tips 

(Words are from Reena's Exploration challenge.  Art my own.)

View original post

#Bookreview: Born of Love

Liz is a loyal follower, but before that statement should come that she has taught me so much through her wisdom within her post. A must to visit and a recommendation to follow her site. E.

Elizabeth Gauffreau holds a BA in English/Writing from Old Dominion University and an MA in English/Fiction Writing from the University of New Hampshire. Her fiction publications include short stories in Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Long Story, Soundings East, Ad Hoc Monadnock, Rio Grande Review, Blueline, Slow Trains, Hospital Drive, and Serving House Journal, among others. Her poetry has appeared in The Writing On The Wall, The Larcom Review, and Natural Bridge.

#Book Reviews #Authors #Blogging

Elizabeth Gauffreau

Rita Baker’s Mother

Review of Born of Love

Click on image to purchase Born of Love from Amazon.

Born of Love by Rita Baker opens with a gripping scene of a young woman who has just hurled herself into the sea off Ellis Island. As the icy water numbs her, she recalls the shock of learning that her parents withheld her true heritage from her until she was sixteen, this shock followed shortly by the death of her parents in a freak accident just as the family was set to emigrate from Poland to America. Before she can sink into oblivion, she is plucked from the sea by two young men who represent both sides of her heritage: Sean O’Malley, who is Catholic, and Maurice Bloom, who is Jewish. So begins Tova’s journey to find true love. The year is 1908.

From the title of the book, as well as…

View original post 524 more words

I Did As I Was Told

A long read, but never a regret for the time spent at Derrick’s blog. Always interesting, always informative, follow this blog all posts are outstanding. E.

derrickjknight

Today Nick Hayter continued turning our kitchen into a magazine-worthy product such as it can never have been since the house was built.

In the meantime I scanned another batch of colour slides from

Highgate West cemetery, mostly from September 2008.

The bluebells in this image including the gravestone of Henry and Eric Holgate, suggest and earlier month in the year.

The Egyptian Avenue reflects the Victorian fascination with that culture.

One of the mausoleums in another avenue contains the remains of Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall who still receives floral tributes after her death in 1943. brittanica.com writes of her:

Radclyffe Hall, byname ofMarguerite Radclyffe-hall, (born Aug. 12, 1880,Bournemouth,Hampshire, Eng.—died Oct. 7, 1943, London), English writer whosenovelThe Well of Loneliness(1928) created a scandal and was banned for a time in Britain for its treatment oflesbianism.

Hall was educated at

View original post 1,244 more words