Mothers Freedom…#331

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Mothers’ Freedom

It is good that I cannot remember the day of my birth, 
although since, I have questioned why I am on this 
earth; my mother did not want me she wanted to be 
free.  I understand the poverty in which I arrived, I 
still did not understand years later, when she told 
me she would have been happy if I had died.
She told of not having even an aspirin for the pain, 
and that she feared the future and afraid her that her
 life would never be the same.  Mother told of the old
iron bed with cornhusk mattress that stood on a bare
 wooden floor.  Of how they kept out the cold with raw
 cotton from, the nearby field stuffed into the cracks 
of the homemade door.
Delivered by a neighboring mid-wife, weighing only 
two pounds my mother told her to take me away, 
while saying, and “I hope that she will be gone by the
 end of the day”.  It is said that my father took me into
 his well-worn hands, whispered to me, you can live, 
and I know that you can.  He placed me in a shoebox,
 put me on the front seat of his old pickup truck and 
carried me away.  He would not see me until my 
birthday, exactly three-years from that day.
Left with a dear old black woman that I until this day 
refer to her as mother: you see I knew no other.  She
 packed my clothes in a clean cloth sack, she cried, 
but she knew that one day my father would want me 
back.  He looked at my birth mother saying that I would 
never again go away, she responded without feeling 
saying, “it would be he that took care of me if I stayed”.
The years, they quickly flew by, my mother she was 
never at home, then the day came that my father died, 
I recognized her but did not see her cry.  Me, I soon had 
children of my own and knew what kind of mother I 
wanted to be, and unlike my own, even with children, I
 always felt free.
I had not seen her for many years when I heard that 
she had died, too late to feel a mothers touch, too late 
to hear her say, “I love you so much.”  I cried, but not f
or me, I cried because at last she had been set free.

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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The American Dream…#330

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The American Dream
There was a time when  life flowed
Slowly like a perfect meadow stream,
Fresh was the air, blue was the sky,
And everyone had a chance to live the
American dream.
These things that use to be will never
Come again, we have put a hole in the 
Sky, all because of our selfish greed, we
Are destroying earth out of self-seeking
Hunger for the things that we really do
Not need.
The sky is no longer clearly blue, only
A dingy hue, the rivers and streams are
Filled with debris, between Heaven
And earth a cloud of toxic waste, yes
We are destroying this planet and doing
So with increasing speed. 
Our wetlands are taken away sold to build 
Summer a get-away, gone are the lands, 
Forest and streams that wildlife was free to
 Roam, today it is where greedy people build 
Million dollar homes.
Listen, are the birds still singing a joyous 
Song, animals are not happy because our 
Backyards are where, mountain lions, foxes 
And deer use to make their homes.  Their 
Lives changed, their feeding grounds gone, 
We never give it a thought where did we 
Expect them to call home?
 Nature tries to correct our mess with hurricanes, 
Tornados, fires and such, but Mother Nature may 
Think that the rest is up to us.  It appears we do 
Not care and one day all there may be are crumbling
 Buildings, bridges and monuments all turned to dust.
Where you ask is that American dream, its lost 
Among the rubble of crooks and banking schemes?  
The planet will die and waste away in fishless oceans
 And down dirty mountain streams. There was a time 
When the life flowed slowly like a perfect meadow 
Stream, fresh was the air, blue was the sky, and everyone
 Had a chance to live the American dream.

Other Books by author:

  • Fragments of Time
  • A Passage into Madness
  • Asterial Thoughts
  • A Sachet of Poetry
  • Rutted Roads
  • Rhythm Rhyme and Thoughts
  • Reflections of Poetry
  • Beyond the Voices
  • Honeysuckle Memories
  • Echoing Images from the Soul
  • A Journey into the Soul

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Flying with Broken Wings…#329

Flying with Broken Wings
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.

Other books of poetry by author:
  • Fragments of Time
  • A Passage into Madness
  • Asterial Thoughts
  • A Sachet of Poetry
  • Rutted Roads
  • Rhythm Rhyme and Thoughts
  • Reflections of Poetry
  • Beyond the Voices
  • Honeysuckle Memories
  • Echoing Images from the Soul
  • A Journey into the Soul

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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#Mental Health

The Brighton…#328 

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Brighton Asylum

                                                                                The Brighton  
Note:  The Brighton asylum was located in Illinois USA.  This piece is a story in Poetry about one of its patients.
1900, bleeding, freezing and kicks to the head,
Shock therapy this describes Brighton a home
For the insane; their treatment of patients until
They were dead.
It was Brighton’s’ policy for the insane, physical
Abuse, water torture, and lobotomies, convinced
It would eventually set the patients mind free. 
There are those who believe that a spirit lives there
Still, caretakers thought she had run away.  They
Found her lifeless body in 1979 incased in one of the
Walls when they demolished the building; they called
It an accident not a crime.
Cold, lifeless bones unclothed, how she had died no
One would ever know.  Her name was on her dress
They say the shape of a woman can still be roaming the
Land where she died, at night a ghostly figure floats up
And down the road, many have heard her cry. 
A haunting you might say, Brighton a real house of
Horrors where murder, suicide and brutality reigned while
Bodies frail and bloodstained were constrained.  Torn down,
Yes, but its dark history remains, but the torture within should never
Be forgotten.              

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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The Essence of Paradise…#327

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The Essence of Paradise

Joyful simplicities are a means 
to survive, inspiration keeps the 
soul alive, watching seasons as 
they have come and gone.  One 
survives year after year, as the 
heart continues on the journey 
to where it belongs.
Attend to life’s garden reach for 
impossible dreams.  Let the 
mind seek what it envisions, look 
beyond all of the tomorrows and 
do not settle for only what the 
eyes can see.
Learn to shed the skins of time
 never give up hope, the path 
leading to dreams will be
 easier to find, walk hand in 
hand with a true love during
 a warm misty spring.  Drink 
in the aromas of life and it 
will bring back memories of 
the essence of paradise.

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Rubble of Yesterday…#326

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Promises of the mind set aside 
in the days of youth; visions 
stored in a hopeful place to 
become dim memories and 
fade away.  A glimpse into 
the window of twilight time 
lays the tombstones of 
yesteryear’s promises; rubble 
covered with reminiscent vine.
Embers burn within the soul 
no peace can one find; there 
are fewer tomorrows, weep 
for the uncertainty of the 
future and of dreams left 
behind.  If you could turn 
back time would you trust 
your heart to relive your life, 
accepting the future whatever
 it may be, would you disregard 
truth and trust what your eyes 
see?
Yesterday’s promises are hidden 
dreams, try to find new excitement 
in your life, rid yourself of turmoil 
and strife. Awaken your consciousness, 
your journey is not over, there are 
new mountains to climb, forget the 
rubble of yesterday, wisely use your 
time. 

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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