Our “Fake” President…#177

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IT IS MY WAY OR YOU CANNOT “PLAY” WITH ME ANY MORE

 

I read recently about an individual the proclaimed that he would honor whatever the government said that the Virus was a fake crisis. Later, he and his wife contracted the virus, he recovered; his wife was put on a ventilator.

It is time that people stop to think what is President Trump thinking when he misspeaks and makes false claims; oh, that’s right he don’t think. He has once again threatened to stop U.S. funding to the WHO, and reconsider the country’s membership in the United Nations. I cannot see the country “not” being in the United Nations, this “FAKE” president is setting this nation back years; I sometimes wonder if we will ever recover totally.   He praises and he blames, changing his mind instantly. The Chinese is accusing the United States in using China as an excuse to shirk from their financial obligation.

What the hell, if Trump pisses off every foreign country that we owe money too, and if they stop financing the United States, or want instant repayment we may be in bigger trouble than we are now. What if, all of the countries that export to the U.S. stopped, what if all of the contracts we have with these counties when we sent all of our companies “overseas” decided to run U.S. out of their countries? What if, they stop all exports to the U.S. and not allow the U.S. on their soil. Well, we have gotten ourselves in a hell of a mess, haven’t we?

His once supporter, Fox News is now on his “list”, Trump is now criticizing the network. They jumped on the new drug he is taking, fearful the public will do the same. Those taking the drug with vulnerable conditions, respiratory conditions, heart ailments, they all died. The FDA has warned those taking the drug outside a controlled study where they are watched.

Trump is tested regular for the virus, if he believes that there is no reason for his fellow citizens to fear the virus, why is he tested. John-Q-Public has a difficult time in getting this test, but the President probably has one daily. In this new claim of the drug he is taking, he believes that the benefit from the treatment outweighs the risks.

All of his actions are to open up the country so he can have a rally and fill the arena with his followers. He will receive praise and give them the showmanship that he is noted for in all of his rallies. He is waiting for a Republican governor to OK a rally. Actually, without him doing press briefings he does not have to answer questions about why he is not wearing a mask, hoping no one wears one. Trump supporters will come to a rally knowing that they have the potential to get the virus.

I am fearful that the economy will take a dive, simple items which we have become accustomed to will no longer be available when export from other countries stop. That thousands of businesses will not survive, family business will no longer be the American dream. That credit card companies will freeze the use of card due to the public’s decision to stop paying them, or send monthly payments. Items in grocery stores will be limited. Gas may be limited. Yes, another depression that will take decades for us to recover.

However, that is just my opinion

EAJM

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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

forever.

 

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?

 

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

Generations of Secrets and Lies – Part 1…#149

Author’s Note:
This facts of this story has two aspects, one is the presumed facts written from the annals of history; and second by the confident oral history from the memory of Mary Jane Overton, a proud Chickasaw.
The Indian Removal Act of 1830 marks a dark time in American history regarding the new country’s relationship with the Native American population. It first called for the “voluntary” relocation to lands west, then the “forcible removal of all Indians”. The outcome would be that they would reside in the eastern United States to the state of Oklahoma.
May 1838 was set as the voluntary removal date, but many Cherokees remained and did not voluntarily move; many of them resided in my home state of Alabama. Eight years later, Major General Winfield Scott was ordered to round-up and remove the remaining Indians. This forcible removal came to be called the “Trail of Tears”. During those eight years, 46,000 Native Americans were forced to leave their homes in southeastern states.
Many sites in Alabama factored into the removal on the Trail of Tears. Five known routes crossed north Alabama taking many from their homeland on foot, by boat and train through towns like Guntersville, Tuscumbia, my home town of Decatur, Huntsville and Waterloo.
The Trail of Tears is roughly 2,300 miles long and passes through nine states over land and water. Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Illinois, Kentucky, Missouri, North Carolina, Oklahoma and Tennessee. Many people were either murdered or relocated with very few hiding in remote locations like Bucks Pocket, Little River Canyon, the mountains, and around the Tennessee River.
Many died from exposure, disease, and starvation on their route to Oklahoma. On this forced march were my great-great grandparents. It is estimated that 4,000 Chickasaw, including any of their black slaves as well as lower class white citizens were in this movement. The Trail of Tears is one of the worst tragedies in American History.

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The Native American culture is known for its rich oral tradition – instead of using a written language to document their history, these indigenous people simply relied on their verbal language to share their history, customs, rituals, and legends through vivid narratives.
This oral accounting told to me beginning at the age of about six-years-old until my great grandmother died when I was a teenager.

Generations of Secrets and Lies
Part 1
Mary Jane Overton – “Ma”

     “Fosee, my father belonged to the Mississippi Over-Towne Tribe. In his youth, the        Tribe tried to continue their peaceful life without contact with the white man’s world.   Fosee knew that he was a descendant of many generations of Warriors. Born in a round Birch bark roofed dwelling that stood on the edge of the Chickasaw Tribes town. His parents gave their only child the name Fosee, which meant Bird. His younger days were spent hunting small animals and playing Chukka Ball in the open yard centered in the middle of his peoples circled dwellings”. Ma said in her firm no nonsense tone.
Fosse’s father a name that Ma could not remember held a place of prominence in the tribe. It was said that he was a powerful Warrior and skilled hunter, his wife; Fosse’s mother, again no known name, was said to be the most beautiful woman in the Tribe, her beauty came from Cherokee ancestors, and she was of mixed blood, Chickasaw and Cherokee. Her beauty and gentle nature were the reasons Fosse’s father had chosen her to be his wife.
“My father told me that his father remembered all of the grandparents. However, it was on his father’s side, the grandfather he remembered the most and with clarity. He remembered his elegant clothes made of the softened skins of deer. The colorful decorations sewn upon the breast of his shirts by his grandmother were elegant and of the best beads. His grandfathers white hair flowed about his shoulders and his skin engraved with the scars of many wars from his younger days”. Ma stopped for a moment staring at something no one else could see.
This grandfather Fosse’s favorite looked like nobility. It was said that he would listen intently to the stories this grandfather told around the cooking fires and see the softness in his eyes when he detailed of the loss of family and friends in battles. Within a few short years, after the birth of Fosee all four of his close grandparents had succumb to a disease brought into the town by a white man.

 

Author’s Note: To be continued in Generations of Secrets and Lies – Part 2

We Felt Like Abandoned Children…#146

Author’s Note:  Once again fellow bloggers I have been hospitalized for a week, this time it was diagnosed as “heart failure”.  As usual I refused to stay down for the count!  Even at this late stage of my life.  I keep saying that I have too much to do, yet!  The post below was in progress when I had to stop suddenly.  I am so happy to see all of your smiling photographs again.  E.

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Charlotte Jean Murphree    1958-2010

If you have read my book “Flying with Broken Wings”, the story of my daughter and her battle with mental disease you will have a better understanding of my poetry books that are filled with sad and disturbing poems. The poetry is based on life experiences, and I sometimes believe that no one wants to read poetry, especially sad poems. I felt that my soul was lost without her. My heart searched for her, for years. However, I did believe that her life story would find its niche in the marketplace. I am not the first, nor will I be the last to collapse inwardly with force because of the external stress that is alive and well among the world and writing community. This is my last sad poem…

We Felt Like Abandoned Children

The memory of you emerges from the depths of my heart and soul, like the many rivers that flow into the sea our lives will be merged forever. The hour of your departure, cold and pelted by the fragments of your life, you no longer have to battle with a troubled mind. The days could be filled with turmoil or laughter and love; you lived on your own terms. From the day you were born, you were winged and wounded.

You lived behind a shadowed wall in never-ending sadness, shattered and broken. You were always loved, you never thirst or felt hunger. Anticipation of a future was never hidden from you, when you came from your short-lived darkness and despair. Then without warning, you sank back to that place where we could not reach you.

Then as quickly as you came into the world you left, the hour of departure was cold, the moon hid behind darkened clouds. In the morning light, the black birds of death gathered outside the window where you lay. The stars disappeared beyond the gray skies; tremulous tears lay in the twist of my hands. Your battle over, the white doves of loved chased the black birds away; and in the hour of your departure we felt like abandoned children. Fly, fly away my beautiful child your wings are no longer broken.

 

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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Possession of the Mind…#145

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Author’s Note:  Recently I had a discussion with an individual that had a close family member with dementia.   I thought of what it might be like to have dementia, what would one think, see, feel, from those thought came “Possession of the Mind”.

 

Possession of the Mind…

It so happens that I am an old woman. I do not walk as much as I use too. There are times when I feel desiccated with no plasticity, as I move slowly through the day both mentally and physically.  Thoughts and feelings at times cause me to shed tears silently so no one will know what is tearing the core of me to shreds. I force myself up each day, unhurriedly I chase through the day.
I no longer find pleasure in stores, restaurants, travel or planned events. Why? My feet and legs will no longer hold my withering body. My hair I have begun to hate, its time-consuming length, its color. I hate my shadow as well.   I am tired of being a human, I look into the mirror and I do not know the person looking back at me. There is no sparkle in her eyes, no smiles that puts a glow on her face. The person I once knew is no longer there.
My world is dark, shivering, constantly hording information mentally, thinking, eating, sleeping, every day. I do not want the misery that my mind creates every day and night. I sometimes feel frozen, dying of grief. My soul blazes like an unstoppable forest fire, I hear howling of the wounded waiting for their Angel of Death.
I dream of crumbling houses, hospitals that smell like death; hanging intestine, crushed bones. I wake weeping from shame and terror, remembering the venom of the night. I fall back to sleep dreaming of birds, white feathers falling to the ground.
It is during my daily walk that I stroll with eyes open taking in the beauty of it all, letting the senses of the world absorb me, forgetting all that has possessed my mind.

 

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmuphree

 

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Wild Mountain Rose…#136

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Wild Mountain Rose…

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

About…

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 is told.

The first time the old Cherokee saw her she was
Sleeping under a bush folks call the Mountain Rose –

Afterwards…

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

Willie…

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 –

They…

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 –

Later…

He found her lying peaceful 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 –

Beneath…

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 –

Folks…

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.
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
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Epoch of Living…#134

 

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Epoch of Living…
In this age with the elderly outnumbering the rest of society, I have been privilege to be a part of some living and passing. It is the days before their glorious ascension that I write about today. I live in an Independent complex for “seniors”; the transference was not an easy one, but the simplicity of living outweighed all other situations. Why do I write about this subject? The decline of the human body and sometimes the Spirit and Soul. I have surveyed many and followed their decline and fight to live a productive and peaceful life. The subject matter of this post is my own personal opinion.

The healthy hearty individuals who chose to give up their homes for a more simple life, less house and yard work arrive with smiles. They have underground parking and no longer have to fight the winter weather, snow and ice. They have activities if they wish to participate, everything from cards, bingo, community choirs and gatherings to potlucks and holiday meals and cook outs.

In the beginning they are many times met in these “get-to-gathers” by the few with more boisterous personalities, i.e., they want to run the show and those attending. I do not attend these gatherings, as I have always been an advocate for the elderly…then became one. By the time we get to these types of living situations many have lost the fight that we possessed in younger days, we allow the few to control the masses. These are individual choices and I in no way want to judge why some lets others control them. Of course, there is also living in the complex those few like myself who choose to walk to our own drummer so to speak. Nonetheless, it is a source of irritation to me when I hear of the controlling few and how they act toward their fellow women and men.

Back to the decline, the residents arrive with enthusiasm, new cars, and settle into a less stressful lifestyle. It is the decline of the human body and mind that I get upset with the progress. Within a few years, their cars are taken from them, leaving them without transportation and at the mercy of their children or grandchildren to provide rides to doctor visits and shopping. I have observed those who did not need to give up driving, it was taken away because a child wanted the use of the vehicle. When discussing a sometimes-tragic decision tears come to their eyes, they were not ready, nor did they need to be ready. Then there are those who should have had those vehicles taken to protect the public and they had no one to make the choice for them, they are a danger to society.

The few who remain independent is not what this post is regarding, it is about those who fall into the category of being told what to do, or have relatives forget they exist. The brave few who are capable of making their own decisions and continue to live a lifestyle that should be afforded the elderly I applaud them. There are those who have loving children and are held in high regard by those children, they are well cared for and visited often.

This bring me to those who are within time visited by their children only on holidays, if even then, or those who come around to “get” what they want material, financial or otherwise. I have witnessed too many times when a family would come in Mother’s Day with a lily, and within thirty minutes, they are leaving. The same with Christmas, they arrive Christmas Eve with poinsettias and leave within a few minutes they do not want to disrupt their own lives by spending too much time with who should be their “loved” ones. It is at this stage of life that the residents of the complex transfer slowly from walking to wheelchair, walker or cane. Now, we all may get in that position during an illness, but we fight each time to return to being as active as possible. Many are happy to sit in front of their TV all day as age progresses; this brings on the final days quicker.

However, after all is said and done one cannot help getting older and go through the various stages of life to reach their final destination. Moreover, for all that I have written, I am thankful that I can remain mentally productive and continue to do what I have always dreamed of doing upon retirement, write, publish and enjoy my days with hope for a long and happy future. With that being said, it is in these living situations that we reach the end of our journeys; I wrote a short poem that started the entire premise of this post.

Angel Wings

How sweet is the foreboding, yet dying can be a beautiful sight. Even though it can be hard to bear, the thoughts are wonderful of one’s soul floating to Heaven on God’s golden air.

Family and friends gather sitting close to the hearths, angels waiting nearby; love ones questioning…why!

Death is something that is impossible to prepare, the angels try to fill the room with loving care. Love ones watch with a fallen tear…listen can you hear the angels sing. Another soul given their wings.

 

 

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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Never Ending Vacation from Life…#127

 

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Never Ending Vacation from Life…

There are times when the inter-self believes that to survive; it must find the strength to run away. Retreating invades the mind each day. It is not always a question of whether to leave or stay with the physical body. The mind will say that departure from life is the only way. A dream of escaping a crestfallen existence starts threatening emotions. Yearning to create happiness on more than a fabrication of the Imagination.

 
A misplaced soul not always filled with treasured memories, because life has not been kind. Age is not a factor in being unsure of what path life will take; living at times in tormented moments is tiring and emotional. Fading souls find that life is hanging onto the tail of a spinning world trying not to slip into a dark abyss of fear. Struggling between reality and imaginary subsistence.

 
It is in silence that most turn inward, back to the secret hiding place, deep within the core of self-preservation. A place where peace abounds, fear subsides, outwardly knowing true happiness will never be found. When there are no longer reasons to chase after dreams, these lost souls believe that only in death will they find truth.

 
Only with death, will the tree of happiness bear fruit. Dreams of escaping a crestfallen existence may be contemplated as a never-ending vacation. Yet, it must be known as a false consideration, a delusional unhappiness, a fabrication of the imagination. Existence is precious, life is to be live to the fullest each day, enjoy the happy moments and the unhappy ones will soon fade away.

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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As a Child I Prayed it was the Way…#119

 

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As a Child I Prayed, it was the Way…

Knarred pines below the mountain where we lived were living gravestones on the
land we called home high above them was the kudzu-shrouded caves where I played with constant skinned knees, Hoarfrost eyes and long black braids. Below this mountain was hallowed ground and beneath decaying pine needles the bleached bones of my ancestors lay hidden in the mounds.

My Great-grandmother whom we all call “Ma” said the mountain was like a cathedral, a place where she took me every morning to pray, she told me that it was our way. As the night shadows disappeared in the mornings golden rays, we raised our palms toward the sky to bless another day.

Ma’s voice strong and clear begin to chant in her native tongue the words robust and bold; it came from deep within her as if orchestrated by her Soul. Floating across the mountains scarred face her mantra rose to the Great Mystery – her God, she said that I must always honor this sacred place.

She told me that the sounds of a waking earth should reminded us of how the world came to be, her prayers spoke of rebirth and how our Souls would someday be free. We walked through emerald grass damp with morning dew, the unseen breeze kissed our face, and she believed that with the beginning of each morning our life was once again renewed.

We hurried to the creek behind our tarpaper shanty to wash away all of Yesterday’s sorrows. I held her hand wishing that this were how our lives would always be, that I would never grow up and she would never grow old, and it would always be Ma and me. Yes when I was a child my Great-grandmother taught me many lessons about life, it was the way.
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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In the Darkness of Night…#117

CHICKASAW NATION SEAL

“To my father and all of our Chickasaw family who walked before him on the Trail of Tears”.

In the Darkness of Night…

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 is another

story to tell.

 
They planted crops gave blessing and took

from the land only what they would need, a

word they did not know… greed. Strangers

with pale skin came from the east where

living off the land was unknown; my people

taught them how to live, when no longer

needed the white stranger’s drove them

from their ancestral homes.

 
The Grandfathers and their families stood

tall, their backs they refused to bend so the

white strangers herded them like cattle to

a far off land… to die in the hot barren sand.

My people believed 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 covered the blood-

splattered pages of history.

 
My people 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

corralled on dry barren land, given musty

water and bug-infested corn meal to eat,

in a place with no hope, to the white 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 do not go unheard 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.

 

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
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