Are You Afraid…#83





Are You Afraid…

Outside the red door is the gateway leading to the

city of doom, through the open door is another

sphere of everlasting pain, emotionally and bodily.

There is no one to push the gate open, those at the

entrance walks freely knowing there is tragedy

beyond the gate there is fear, secret things, distrust

and lies.

The darkness is the most evil, a blood red moon

framed by the many stars hanging in the blackness.

Cries claim the night, souls in the depths of hell

are lost forever in the darkness beyond the tomb.

Is there hope in death, will memories go beyond

the stars, will those souls left behind be remembered.

Souls shedding their tears of blood; give credibility to

the wailing of fate.

Time is lost on those who use  the love of God in hypocrisy,

the ground will  sink  and the false prophets will ride on a wave of

evil  toward that dreadful shore. Are you afraid?




My Place of Reality…#82


My Place of Reality…


I have spoke of horrifying things, are these

words built from understanding? I am neither

a coward nor a saint, my thoughts are clear,

my plan open to change. There are times when

I live in that “Outer Place”, where no one can

get to me, where no one knows me, where I will

not be bothered by human drama.
There is no place that I can flee; I fear I was born

too early or maybe too late. At night I dream of

Heaven, traveling from star to star. Do I have a

wish in that dark realm… yes, there looking toward

Earth I see the creation. Heaven was not open to me,

nor was Hell; the dream, the darkness of night, mine

was a strange descent into my place of reality.
Within the dream of reality I search for truth,

following a dark stream to the bottom of the

sea, and it is there that I find a blessed place to

dwell. The place that I dwell is not for the faint

hearted, it is on this path that I find true worth,

and within time I may find the creative divine

entity that I may follow. There are no more

delays to this life. I must travel forward on this

hard and dreadful way of learning life’s lessons,

before I return home.






The Vines…#81



The Vines…
I was raised in the shadows of Burleson Mountain, nestled in the cliffs above my childhood home were small caves, these and the surrounding woods were my playground.

There is a rich foliage that grows in abundance covering rocks, fences, and anything that gets in its way. It does not climb trees, but it does climb telephone poles. This smothering vine has no special appeal. It covered the face of the caves creating a curtain to close away the world that I lived in.  Southerners believed it to be nothing but a nuisance.

Visitors who traveled the back road were in awe as to how the vine survived, they thought it to be worthless, but you can eat it.   The leaves, vine tips, flowers, and roots are edible; the vines are not; the old southerners chopped kudzu leaves raw in salad or cook them like spinach leaves. You can cook kudzu roots like potatoes, or dry them and grind them into powder. Kudzu root powder as a breading for fried foods or a thickener for gravy.

How do I know this… between winter and summer garden greens my mother would cook the leaves and root together with a piece of “fat back”, that and a pan of cornbread would fill our hungry belly’s.

Yet it also added a certain beauty to the tarpaper shacks that speckled the countryside. People who live among the vines have made their peace with this dark green neighbor, they understand its need to cover up the abandon shacks and the art it creates with what nature provided. It is deep-rooted in the south’s history, when you think of Kudzu…you think of Dixie Land.


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A Path into Tomorrow…#80



A Path into Tomorrow…#80

Reflection upon conception, an unwanted

Soul cast away because of greed. An image

of the future lost in time, starvation did not

kill the seed.  It lived, it did not go away,

destiny or fate life without love surrounded

by hate. Yoke around the neck at birth

emotional Scars during its journey on earth.

Tomorrows’ path long and steep, search the

past, a need to prove why anger ran so

deep. Truth in abandonment can be found,

sanity and sorrow are closely bound.


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A Liar’s Life…#79


liars life


A Liar’s Life…

Standing in a grave yard alone to mourn,

to stare at the mound of dirt; at the shell

of one who loved but a few, a seed of

kindness never sowed, love they did not

seek, now only silence lies beneath.


Entitlement is all that remains grief, no

greeting, unwanted presence, gestures,

and attitude in death there was only

greedy ploys. Gluttony bloomed before

the setting of the sun, looking for more

to take; their life took on a forged tongue.


Open jeers, false deeds, honor lost, the

price of greed can be at a great cost. Roars

the misty breath of strife destiny has finally

caught up with a Liar’s life.



“Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish it.”





Authors Book at


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It’s a New Day…#77

new day

Tomorrow is a New Day…
“The Dream”

It is morning and I find myself facing the eastern sky to bless the new day; I watch in awe as the coolness of the night melds with the golden rays of the sun. As if a stranger to my own body, I run down a furrowed road the wind caressing my face I am at peace, living in the moment, in the right place.

I leave the road to follow a path into unfamiliar woods, I stare into the darkness beyond the trees; I realized the only thing I had to fear was me. I did not have to worry about leaving footprints behind, no one would care, within time, there would be nothing to find.

I walked out of the darkness into a meadow, a sea of green grass and heather spread before me like purple froth upon a stormy sea; I began to run wildly at the anticipation of being free. As I reach the foot of a mountain my life, seem so very clear, I knew freedom was very near.

At the summit, I leaned over the rocky ledge, suddenly I begin to fall; will I die when I hit the bottom I thought, and knew that there was no need to cry out no one would hear my call. I plunge toward the valley below jolted to consciousness by moans that fill the void where I lay; I opened my eyes dawn was outside my window, and I realized I had been dreaming; it would soon be another new day.

I go to bed each night hoping to find a quiet moment in time where I can dream while embracing the hunger in my heart; I believe in dreams, within them I may find in life a new start. Yes, it is once again morning and I find myself filled with hope, a new day has come, as I watch in awe the coolness of the night melds with the golden rays of the sun.

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree




A Sheepherders Life…#76

As a writer I love to take writing prompts and create short-short stories, the words for this creation…Sheepherders, Grass, Gypsy, Father, Heaven.  Sometimes they come easy other times difficult.


A Sheepherder’s Life

On a dark hillside, the sheepherders and dogs are tired, their long day is over and they are ready for the warmth of the fire. No bleating, cries of from wandering wolves, all is at rest; there is a shimmering moon and bright stars, their roof is Heaven and their beds the earth. The sheepherder’s whisper of the day and what will come tomorrow, they speak of past happiness and sorrow.

They talk of keeping the wolves away on this warm summer night when hours of darkness will cover the land. They watch the sparks from their fire ascend into the purple night. Tomorrow they will have to move to a new meadow or hillside, the grass where they lay is only roots. They smoke their pipes and talk of gypsy-lore, the sheep, the dogs and herding, a gift from God. This was their father’s life, now it’s their life.



Flying with Broken Wings at – Barnes &


Flying with Broken Wings is about the life of Charlotte Jean Murphree. Charlotte was not a famous person, in fact, not too many people knew her, but those that did knew there were many facets to her life. the book tells of fifty-two-years of daily testing of her will to carry on and the misfortune she faced. As a baby and young girl she was made fun of by schoolchildren, her progress was slow but she never gave up the fight to overcome her disabilities. As an adult, she fought Cerebral Palsy, Living with Bipolar, Depression and Schizophrenia disorders. Charlotte lived not only with herself but she endured the “Voices” that lived within her for over thirty years. This book is about her beginning, her middle and the end of her life.

Wild Mountain Rose…#75


wild mountain rose


Wild Mountain Rose…
There is a legend up on Mossy Ridge that children hear while listening to the old folks weaves their tales around their supper table at night –


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 stories go, 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 Mountain Rose –


She was with him no matter where he would go. Folks would say that without old Willie Youngblood she would not have survived –


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 –


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 –


He found her lying peacefully she had died there 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 –


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 –


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 those many years ago –


Wild Mountain Rose.



One – hundred word starter story, I have titled it “Run” together with a visual.



Run, Run, Run…

Adeen Gantry’s held in a caged sleep fought tears that seep through closed eyes; her mind wrapped in a dream of images and hateful voices. The images of portrayal held her prisoner within her sleeping mind. Untruths and greed prowled across her senses, relatives looking for gain from tragedy from the death of her father. They brought unbearable pain to the blameless and found joy in tittle-tattle that held no truth. If they touch your life, it will never be the same. Adeen woke, packed her bag walking quickly from her inheritance… the Gantry Mansion; then she begins to run!



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