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

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.

In Training, Me…#313

Although I miss my best friend and companion Teddy Bear,
“Mason”, and continue to grieve…he crossed over the Rainbow Bridge on 8/23/2020. He help me though many years never complaining, silent, caring and always by my side.
Meet 10 week old “Dixie”, Cavapoo. energetic, cute, and we are getting to know each other. She has been with me two-weeks and two-days. The decision was not easy, but loneliness and heartache is are terrible companions. She is not a substitute; she is a new member of my family, my new baby that I will grow to love very much.

She is very busy training me!

Image result for heart images

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…#312

Image result for Old American Indian Women 1850

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma

“Dedicated to my Great-Grandmother”

When I was born, you were 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 fell to the floor; at first I would watch

in silence from the crack in the door. 

The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the

room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick. 

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

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

it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile

accented 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 ear, 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 only 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 it…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 helps raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begins

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

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

and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair and the nap of her

neck was a great-grandmother like no other.

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

and five, my father said, Ma would have scolded you while saying, and

 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 this beautiful and

proud Chickasaw. 

[Repost]

Copyright©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

The Baby’s Not Crying…#311

Two-Pen Log Cabin – by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

~ THE BABY’S NOT CRYING ~

A Short Story by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

On a cold March day, in a cold damp room, soft moans came from the young woman lying on the bed; a live skeleton covered with pale flesh, beneath her  a cornhusk mattress covered with a collection of old newspapers and a worn out sheets  made from bleached flour sacks.  She had no choice but to wait for the reality of giving birth to an unwanted child.  Her strength gone, she looked out the window at the moon; it appeared to be hanging on an invisible thread in the early morning darkness.  She prayed to who she thought may be holding the moon in place; another invisible person like herself…GOD.  In the waning March moonlight tears fell from the corner of her eyes as the unbearable pain finally ended.  She looked toward the motionless baby at the foot of the rusty iron bed; maybe it was dead, she heard no crying.  

“Miss Ruth you has a baby girl.” Allimay Schumaker was a neighbor and a mid-wife she whispered softly as she tried to place the baby in her mother’s arms. 

“Get it away from me,” the sound came between clenched teeth, like a caged animal yet it was only a whisper. 

Mrs. Schumaker tried again to place the baby in her mothers’ arms, “She so tiny Miss Ruth, I doubt she will live don’t you want to hold her”?

                “Get it away from me”!                                

Ruth Viola White married in early May seven years before, she was a socially inexperience girl of nineteen who had never been out of Morgan County, Alabama.  Raised on a farm she knew that sex brought on babies.  It was her first time, and she became pregnant.  She sat up on the back seat of Aubrey Drivers old car that Roy a man that she had known for a few weeks.  I was her first time, she was nineteen and her parents were going to kill her.   She insisted on getting married, the next morning in fear she rode with this handsome stranger and his friend Aubrey to Somerville, Alabama where they married, May 7, 1932.  There would be no argument from the twenty-nine year old whiskey runner; he had been shot at enough in his lifetime.  He came to Morgan County to hide from the law who wanted him all the way from Birmingham, Alabama to Chicago, Illinois.

Eight and half months later, Ruth had a healthy baby girl, she called her Billie Wayne; a name that no one had heard of, maybe someone she really loved. Ruth settled into the life of a farm helper’s wife, the little girl that ran beside her all day was beautiful, intelligent and the love of Ruth’s life.  She hand sewed her clothes from printed flour sacks and lace given to her by neighbors; with a perfect child she did not want other children, she had hopes and dreams and they could not be accomplished with more than one child.  In fact she did not want the husband that she did not know, but this was the South, in 1932, you married for life. 

Ruth came from wealth that was gone by the time that she became the oldest of nine children.  She knew what having money meant, and she knew that her husband would never provide it for her plowing fields and planting cotton.  Ruth swore that she would one day have the respect that money could buy.  She would hold onto the dream that would never materialize for her and her child?  She held her new husband away as much as she could, he was a shy individual and his respect for women kept him at bay.

In July of 1938, Ruth found herself pregnant again; the hate was so severe that bile rose in her throat.  How could this happen to her, the dreams for a future began to fade.  Taking a dollar from their money jar she left Billie with a neighbor, Mrs. Schumaker and walked the rocky path down Burleson Mountain to where the old lady Ruby Ragsdale lived.  Everyone thought she was a “witch”.  The talk was that this old woman could mix a drink of bitter herbs that would do away with a pregnancy.  Ruth was unyielding in her need to continue get rid of the baby and she would continue to drink it after she lost the baby making  certain, no more babies, Billie was the only child she had ever wanted and she would be the only child she would ever have.

After a few weeks when Ruth found herself still pregnant she continued to drink the poison bitter herbs hoping it would get rid of it, she ate enough to survive and take care of Billie and the old log house they lived in.  Her thoughts were, if she starved herself, she would starve the thing inside of her. 

Ruth, still in pain felt the tiny blob slide out of her.  She did not know if the baby was early or not, it was here and it was breathing.   She vowed that she would not care for it and she would not be a mother to it.  Ruth heard Mrs. Schumaker leave the room, she turned over and let the horror she had been through take over her mind.  She did not know if she was praying to God or the Devil she hoped it would be possible that her prayer s would be heard, and this thing on the bed would die?

A barrel in the yard filled with burning wood shot flames into the morning air. The soiled bedcovers and the baby’s lifeline to its mother crackled as it fell upon the sizzling wood.  Stirring the barrel with an old poking stick Mrs. Schumaker walked toward the breezeway separating the sleeping room from the room used for cooking.  The house set in the middle of a cotton field located on top of Burleson Mountain, the logs were gray from age, built in the early-eighteen hundreds.  Fieldstone fireplaces in the rooms were used for heat and cooking.  However, Mrs. Schumacher admired Miss Ruth for turning the old place into a home for her child and Mr. Roy too. 

Mrs. Schumaker returned, picked up the baby paused for a moment pulling back the cover from her face; two dark blue eyes stared back at her, curly dark hair curled around the baby’s shoulders; it was time to meet her daddy.  Giving a heavy sigh she crossed the breezeway and walked through the door.

 Roy Brown-Hawk sat on a handmade chair in front of the fireplace in the cooking room.    He worried about his wife, and his new baby; his biggest fear, losing one or both of them.  He had sat there for hours, he heard no moaning or cries of pain, the silence between the two rooms was still like an unmoving fog.  Perhaps both his baby and his wife were dead. 

Quietly Mrs. Schumaker came into the room, so softly that not one board creaked from the weight of her colossal body, she smiled, holding out the tiny bundle.   

 “Mr. Roy, you have a baby girl, dark hair just like you” she gently laid the baby in his rough work worn hands.  He had rubbed lard into them all morning trying to make them softer knowing he might hold the baby.  He laughed as he pulled back the covers from the tiny bundle so small she fit in one hand.  Her little feet fell to his wrist and her neck rest on the tips of his fingers.  She was the tiniest baby he had ever seen.

 “Mr. Roy you need to get ready to maybe lose this little one, she is so small, I am worried about her and Miss Ruth she got no milk, and she don’t want her”.  Mrs. Schumaker stood wringing her hands together dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her white apron. While Roy held the baby Mrs. Schumaker told him how to make a “sugar tit”,” I see you got clean white rags in a box in the other room, cut a small piece, wet it and put a spoon full of sugar in the middle; twist it until the end looks like a nipple on a tit”.

“I’m telling you Mr. Roy, I am sorry but I doubt she will live, her little lungs are not ready for breathing; I’m afraid she will die before she can feel her mama’s touch, it is so sad not wanting your own baby”.  She looked at the baby, silently praying while her thoughts wondered.

Allimay Schumaker knew all of the White family, they were all pretty uppity, thought they were better than most people.   Old Massa Robert White Miss Ruth’s grand pappy was a Captain in the Confederate States of America.   He bought land all over Morgan County before and after the War; he owned the Mercantile Store in Hartselle, Alabama and a large Plantation not too far from town.  His land holdings below Burleson Mountain  was about two-thousand acres stretched from Rural Grove Road south under the Bluff, north to the Pool Bottoms that edged the Tennessee River backwaters  and west to Flint Creek, of this land he deeded five-hundred acres over to his daughter  Ira Mae and her husband Prentiss White  when they got married.   He built them a big house because he wanted lots of grandchildren.  He lived long enough to regret his decision.

Miss Ruth’s daddy Prentiss White was the son of Robert and Annie Weston; Robert served in the War as well.  He was comfortable after the war, but never acquired the wealth of the Whites.  Ruth many times referred to her daddy as a whoremonger.  Prentiss drank chased women and sold off the five-hundred acres of prime land to grow cotton bit-by-bit, he was too lazy to work and this would provide him with an income; by the time Miss Ruth married he had about five acres for corn, a ten acre pasture where he rented out for beef cattle to the owner of a tire dealership in Decatur, Alabama, E.G, Hamilton; he had the barn and the house on Rural Grove Road.  A big garden, chickens, pigs and milk cows to help feed the family.  They made a living off the land they had but no more.

Mrs. Schumaker knew about life taking a sad and depressing turn for Ruth when she got pregnant; but within eight months she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  She placed all of her time and energy on Billie.  She treated Mr. Roy like an outsider and spoke down to him, now after seven years he spoke only when she spoke to him.   Mrs. Schumaker wondered if the disgrace of her daddy, their being poor or being a field hand for him and the caretaker of the family made her horrible and mean spirited.  The whimper from the tiny bundle in Mr. Roy’s hand brought her back to the present.

   “Well Mr. Roy she is all clean and you need to call out Miss Ruth’s Uncle; that Doctor White from Hartselle”.  She repeated herself dabbing at her eyes; “Miss Ruth shore don’t want this baby”. 

“Well, I have to go, if you need me ring the dinner bell on the porch somebody will hear it.  I have to go take care of my family; by the way, I’ll keep Miss Billie for a few days”.   

   “Thank you Mrs.  Schumaker, I’ll be lying in a cord of wood for you helping Ruth”, Roy sat staring at the tiny life he held in his hands no more than twelve inches long and maybe two pounds.   

Allimay Schumaker had nine children of her own, one more would not matter; she glanced in one more time on the lifeless woman on the bed.

She closed the door walked slowly up the narrow rutted road that lead to her house.  She and her husband William had lived on Burleson land since their birth; both families had lived there for generations.   Old Massa bought slaves but never sold them off, the old William was bought from the Schumaker Plantation, he was her husband’s granddaddy and he kept the name of his former owner.   Allimay family had been on the Burleson Plantation for a long as she could remember; families born there remain together for a life time.   Old Massa was a General in the War Between the States; it was a mystery how the Plantation survived, but his son kept it going, always believing the old South would someday return.  Before she knew it, Allimay was surrounded by screaming happy children including Miss Billie.  Now, to take care of the Schumaker brood.

Roy shook his head bringing himself back to reality; Ruth had gotten rid of the baby bed years ago, announcing that she did not want any more children.  He lay the baby down on the fireplace hearth, going into the other room to search for a box.  He found an old boot box, returning to the baby never looking at his wife.  Ruth chose starvation trying to lose the baby, it made her weak and her meanness came out.  He could not force her to eat, and he believes that her method may have worked as he stood looking down at the result of her starvation.

Ruth lay still on the bed, pretending to be asleep so she would not have to look at Roy, she knew “it” was alive and wished it would die.  The watery blue liquid dripping from her breast did not bother her, she remembered the rich milk she had for Billie, but the memory did not soften her thoughts.  She closed her eyes and fell into a fretful sleep.

Roy weighed the baby with a two-pound cotton pee and the she could not pull it down to measure, the baby was less than two pounds.  Cotton pee, a bell like objects with a hook on it; was made of solid steel.  A measuring bar would have a sack of cotton on one end and a pee of various weights put on the other to measure the cottons weight; this time the scale did not budge. 

The Bown-Hawk’s and Schumacher’s, they all tried to survive the miserable days following the depression.  Roy worked for Mr. Burleson, one of the wealthiest men in Morgan County; the land that their old log house stood on was Burleson land and at one time housed slaves that worked the land.  They used the same well, the same chicken house and stanchion for the cow; the only difference in the house floors had been laid in several years ago. 

Roy believed that Mr. Burleson respected him, he was a hard worker, and the land he worked yielded more than most who sharecropped.  Time had not taken away the horror brought upon those long ago tenants; most people in the south continued to believe that Indians and Negro’s were lower than the animals on the land.

Roy returned to the baby in his hands, he stoked at the fire his thoughts wandered again toward the time when he first met Ruth.  She was at a local Roadhouse in Flint, Alabama with her sister Emma Sue.  Emma was out on the dance floor having a good time; Ruth sat at a table in the back of the room hoping no one would see her.  She and Emma Sue had slipped out after their parents were asleep; Emma Sue had a boyfriend; they would meet at the bottom road below Burleson Mountain.  If they were caught, it would be Ruth that got beat. She would be told that she should know better, not Emma Sue.  She did not look like she wanted any company.  Roy had known of the place for years, it was one of his stops when he was running whisky from South Alabama to Chicago, Illinois.  No one could have told him then that he would have a wife and two daughters a few years later on that early March morning. 

He had come to Morgan County because of Ma, his grandmother.  His last run was a bad one, his car had been shot up by Tennessee law enforcement, and he had barely got away from them.   People hired him to run whiskey, every law throughout five states was paid off except them ole boys in Tennessee, and they did not take bribes!  He drove through Tennessee with his speed surpassing the power of any car and put the needle on his dash out of sight.  He would laugh every time he told that story.  Ma was right he needed to lay low for a while; it had been his dream to return to Birmingham to play baseball for the Birmingham Black Bears, a minor team.  No one knew that it was him driving the car, no one knew his name.  That was all gone, playing baseball lay dead in his past he had responsibilities now!  

Ruth lay on the cornhusk mattress in the other room thinking of Billie, she was the only child that she wanted.  Ruth had nine brothers and sisters, she help deliver most of them and raised them until the day her mama kicked her out for marrying Roy.  Ruth had hope to stop at giving birth to one child, she was tired of being poor; she wanted to make a better life by going to work.  She lay crying thinking that maybe her strength would return so she could take care of herself and Billie, for days she still held onto the idea that this baby would die. 

 Ruth could not help but think of Roy’s sister Vina, she hated her and the fact that her husband’s half sister lived well made it worse; Vina was a beautician that owned her own shop in Birmingham, Alabama.  Her husband Wesley worked for a Birmingham steel mill and brought home good money, Ruth was envious and she did not care who knew it.

Vina had always thought that Ruth had not planned Billie either.  Vina believed that Ruth found herself pregnant after a few roadhouse visits with her sister, after meeting Roy.  She let it slip one day that once she had sex, and being a virgin, she insisted Roy marry her.  Roy was the kind of man that he did just that, and Billie had been born eight months and two weeks after they married.  Roy had not planned a child either.  His dream did not lie in the cotton fields of Northern Alabama.  Nevertheless, he was a decent man, and he thought this was the right thing to do.

Ruth appeared disappointed that the baby had survived such a difficult birth.  She was very ill herself, both physically and mentally; unhappy that she had another child, one she did not want.  She could not think about it any longer, she rolled over falling into a fretful sleep; maybe when she woke she hoped that she would have a funeral to attend. 

Old Doc White, Ruth’s Uncle came after the day after the baby was born; he was her  mother’s brother lived and practice medicine in Hartselle, Alabama, and he traveled all over Morgan County attending people who could not get to him.  He said the baby was too small but seems healthy enough and Ruth was despondent as many mothers are after delivering a baby.  He said only time could help his niece or the baby.   He left saying he would register the baby’s birth when he returned to Hartselle.  Absent minded as he was, he registered a no name baby girl.  His niece had said she would not name a dead baby.

Ruth chose not to have anything to do with the baby; she left it up to Roy to care for her.  Their oldest daughter, Billie tried to help but the ability to care for a tiny baby and her mother was possible.  

Roy could see that it was impossible to leave Ruth, Billie and a baby to work the fields.  He walked a few days later to the Schumacher’s and called his sister Vina.  She came that night to stay with him for a few days.  Vina had given birth to baby girl born only weeks before, the baby was stillborn.  She and her husband Wesley had two boys, Everett and Jimmy, and they hearts could hardly conceive losing her.  She was in mourning, but she loved her brother and he needed help.  Vina knew that Ruth did not care for her but she always tried to overlook her actions.  When she arrived, she found Ruth despondent and Roy worried, both were at odds with each other.  Ruth had refused to try nursing or care for her baby.  Now she was upset that Vina was there, within days, Roy agreed that the baby could return to Birmingham with Vina.  Vina, left with the baby in a boot box stuffed with cotton from the nearby field and covered with several flour sacks for a blanket, Ruth had not prepared any clothes or diapers.  It would be several years before Roy would return to his sister’s to bring his baby home, that would also be on a warm March day.

March is a beautiful month in Northern Alabama.  The buttercups, lilac and forsythia bushes were blooming around the Two-Pen cabin Roy called home.   Kudzu vines would have covered the makeshift chicken house and the “Outhouse”.  Beyond, a small barn surrounded by razor sharp Johnson grass bordered acres of freshly plowed ground waiting to nurture the seeds growing into what the south called white gold … cotton.  

Copyright©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Author’s work located at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com

Southern Property and Birth of the Cotton Fields…#310

Southern Property and Birth of the Cotton Fields

Upon the waves of a tranquil sapphire ocean sails a vessel from hell, the purity of white foam bellowing in the warm wind gave no warning of what lay in its dark belly.

Fear of the unknown soon turned into panic for the confine souls taken from where God intended them to be.  Their freedom imprison by rustic chains.  Their blood spilled on the land they once loved.

Greed and ignorance of unyielding traders brought pain and profit from the gentle forest, spring waters, and warm earth.  Marched for days without food or water, not knowing their fate.  Different tongues melded among the scared the innocent.

Swathed in tar pitch to cover the gnashed bodies.  Clothing to cover their purity, only to be handled like the beast of burdens they would soon become

Sold at the auction block to the highest bidder, all speaking words that they did not understand.  Marched in chains to the land of their buyers.

High upon his noble steed the taskmasters whip reached its mark while the plow buried itself deep within the rich red southern soil.  Without food, water, or rest, toiling from daylight to dark to bring in the “Masters” crops.

Living in conditions worse than the animals of the fields, cold, unbound, with no place to run.  The lands of their ancestors lay unknown in a place that would soon be forgotten.  What was all of it for, the Gods, no!

The sun and rain nourishes without judgment, both the just, and the unjust, the vessel from hell has since vanished; blood and sweat planted a seed in earth’s womb and she gives birth to the white man’s gold called “cotton”.

Copyright©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

NOTE:  I wrote this poem over the past several weeks.  Politics, rallies and violence from the white people has placed a blight on a once proud nation.  Somewhere along the way during this political time we have lost sight of other drastic problems in our nation.  The BLM movement.  Have we learned nothing as a nation, will be continue to repeat the same mistakes?  The trials of the black people did not end with the Civil War and the freedom they was supposing to have been given.  There was no justice then, and there is no justice now.  These proud people were taken against their will, dropped into misery by the slave Northern Slave Traders and white southern land owners.  They were not allowed to read or write, not because the white man feared the aspect, no, they feared that the would understand how they became slaves and would learn that they did not have to live as “slaves”.  This was a problem when the War ended slavery, many land owners cruelly tossed the black people off their land.  They did not know what to do, no education, no jobs, no homes.  The land owners suffered as they had no one to tend the crops, the romantic realm of the south was dead. When the white man saw the black people seemingly without purpose walking up and down roads, it was not that they were lost; no, they were looking for family that had been taken from them.  Mothers, fathers, children, yes babies, sold without thought. With the presidential election over, with a pandemic possibly under control, let’s not forget that “BLACK LIVES STILL MATTER”, this movement is still front and foremost still needs to be honored with change brought about in this melting pot of a country .  Let’s not forget the “whiteness” of our skin and the privilege that comes with it.  We must always remember, lest we forget the horrors of the past.  We are all responsible, we all need to focus on the moment and do what we can to make the lives of a great people better. We need to work toward making this nation better. Nothing changes in America. However, if we start with ourselves and just change what is wrong with our own perspective about everyone. Take time to care.

EAJM

Winter’s End…#309

Winter’s End

It will come, that polluted spring thaw,

the once fresh snow will lay impotent

upon earth’s emerald carpet.  The

whiteness of it spotted with

shapes and colors left behind by  

blustery winds. 

Shiny frozen tendril’s hang like daggers

from the gray edifice where dark green

moss climbs freely upward. The smell of

rotting earth fills the air, it will take many

rains to have the sweet smell of honeysuckle

lingering in the space called home.

Until spring, one must continue to plod along

through sleet and sullied snows. One will

dream about a warm fire, a good book in

hand sitting in a favorite chair.  No

troubled spirits will fill the night.  One

dreams of the warmth of sunshine after

a cleansing rain.  Spring will soon arrive,

and we will see winter’s end.

Copyright©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by Author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com:

  1. Fragments of Time
  2. A Passage into Madness
  3. Asterial Thoughts
  4. A Sachet of Poetry
  5. Rutted Roads
  6. Rhythm Rhyme and Thoughts
  7. Reflections of Poetry
  8. Beyond the Voices
  9. Honeysuckle Memories
  10. Echoing Images from the Soul
  11. A Journey into the Soul

#indiebook #indiewriter #indieauthor #Flying #Misfortune #Disabilities #CerebralPalsy #Bipolar #Depression #Schizophrenia #Disorders #Living #Dying #Voices #Life #Broken #Time #Madness #Thought  #Fear #Memories #Soul #Journey

A Dictator in the making…#308

The sights of Donald Trump, he will run in 2024, he will win; God help America.

I pray that I am wrong about Trump getting stronger, winning in 2020; he will truly divide America and there will be blood running in the streets of every decent town and city. I have deemed him an evil man for four-years; I am believe people are afraid of his evil and what he can do to them. Look above and you will see the face of a “dictator”.

So, first, I am neither a Republican nor a Democrat; I voted for the best man to do the job.  Donald Trump has maybe done a few things, but, they are not enough to cover up his making fun of women and disabled people.  I am a woman and had a disabled child; he has never been my favorite from the beginning.  Nevertheless, if this country voting Biden into office believes that he is truly president, he would be wrong.  Donald Trump is running the Republican Party, along with his Proud Boys, White Extremist, and Red Neck followers. These are all “domestic terrorist”; he will keep them loyal until his next election in 2024.  The Republican’s have turned coat on what they were saying during Trump’s last days.  Once he was out of office, and the possibility of no impeachment, they are once again all for Trump.

  Mitch McConnell, who stated Trump instigated the terrorist attack on the Capital, said Trump needed to be accountable for his crimes, now; no, he is a traitor too.  He made a famous “Mob was fed lies” speech, I said then as usual for the past 40 years McConnell has run the government.  Check your history on him, he has always lied.  Now, most Republicans senators have voted to dismiss the impeachment article against Trump.  Why, because he is no longer in office.  Republicans and Democrats both hastily ted, they all begin to lose their nerve, just as they always have with Trump. 

This is why they did not push the issue before he left, including many democrats who do not have the backbone to say they were for Trump.  Did Trump have them paid off, who will ever know; he has dished out favors like most of us “breathe”, constantly.  He pardoned many “friends”, criminal friends.  There was talk that he would pardon himself and his family, if you have not done a crime, why do you need to be pardoned?  The current talk is that he has done so before leaving the WH, in secret!  Mitch McConnell decided that it was better to keep the Republican Party than to “DEFEND AMERICAN DEMOCRACY”.

Trump wanted to be a “DICTATOR”; he thought that dividing the country would be his best chance.  “IF YOU PICK A FIGHT WITH TRUMP AND BACK DOWN”, he owns you.  It does not matter that he is out of office, “TRUMP NOW OWNS MITCH MCCONNELL AND THE REPUBLICAN PARTY”. 

But, if you pick a fight with Donald Trump and then back down, he will own you. Even though he is out of office, Trump owns Mitch McConnell and the Republican Party.  So, let’s not forget McCarthy, he should have ignored Trump’s whining; instead he ran to the first plane to Florida and kissed “Ass”.  He had been all for impeachment, oh my, fear will make one do anything.  Trump has issued a statement, “President Trump’s popularity has never been stronger”, and he believes he is still president.

The {New York Times and Politico} reported that “Three weeks ago, Donald Trump was radioactive, even in the top quarters of his own party. Now, those same Republicans are convinced they can’t live without the energy he gives off, even if it proves toxic.”

The Associated Press reported overnight, “Republicans appear to be warming toward Trump, fully aware that his supporters are poised to punish anyone who displays disloyalty. With that in mind, party leaders are working to keep Trump in the fold as they focus on retaking the House and Senate in 2022.”

Republicans are not saying goodbye to Trump; they are placing him first.  Republicans are clinging to failure.   They are clinging to the hope that Trump’s donor base will still help finance Republican campaigns in the 2022 midterms.

I leave you with the Liz Cheney, and Don Jr., going to a rally to hopefully ousts her in the upcoming elections.  Does this tell you that Trump is still very much in control of the direction this country is going?  He still wants to be the “Dictator” of America.  Is this what Americans want, no, but it is going to be an uphill battle to rid the county of all “TRUMP’S”.

EAJM

Aunt Francis…#307

Author’s Note:  This is the true story of Aunt Francis, an old colored lady who came to live at the farm where we lived in 1944.  She was respected and loved by everyone who met her; except for my mother and sister.

Aunt Francis

Aunt Francis as she told me to call her lived on this earth over 100 years.  Aunt France born in 1865 was the daughter of slaves.  She thought herself to be watched over by the Angels, her mother and father were never sold; they were still together at the end of the War.  They died and were buried on the same plantation where they were born.

Her birth name was Sarah Francis Belew; she came into my life when I was five – years – old; she was seventy nine.  My daddy needed someone to watch over me while he was in the cotton fields; and my great-grandmother was getting on in age, ninety-five.  My mother worked in town and she would come home most times after we were all in bed and she would be gone before most of us got up.  She asks to be called Aunt Francis.  I realize when I became older that calling her that could be placed in the racist category.  However, in those days my daddy who was discriminated against himself; nor I knew much about being racist.  My mother and sister on the other hand I doubt thought much about being racist, with my mother it was more hate than anything else; and my sister followed in her footsteps.  

Aunt Francis was because of several conditions.  Daddy went to the cotton gin in Priceville, Alabama, pulling a trailer of freshly picked cotton with his tractor.  When he returns in the trailer, where the cotton once lay was Aunt Francis sitting in her big rocking chair, it would be safely to say that I wondered how her legs could carry this gigantic woman; but there she was an indigo blue dress with pink flowers scattered across the material.  Covering the dress was a white bib apron that like the dress reached to the top of her shoes.  Beside her a huge trunk which held all of her worldly belongings.  

It was a Monday, mothers off day from the beauty shop.  A “fight” quickly develops when mother ran to the back porch of our farmhouse wanting to know why “the old colored woman was there”.  She knew Aunt Francis, but act as if she were a total stranger.

 Everyone in Morgan County knew that she live in a lean-to in the back of the general store.  If one does not know what a “lean-to” is, it is a three-sided building place against another building, no windows, and one door in, one door out. She lived there with her son Gus.  It was her only child and the story was that she was raped b a white man, the results being Gus.  She was too old to work the fields and no one wanted her for a maid or cook.  So, she and Gus lived behind the store.  He worked for the store at night cleaning it for a place to live and groceries.  He had been accused of stealing money and placed in jail with a one-year sentence.  The owner of the Priceville General Store put Aunt Francis out on the edge of the road, her rocker and chest.  It was said that he had someone to tear down the lean-to and burn it along with the beds, table and chairs.  

We had a little one room shack across from our house, it had a small pot belly stove and a table and chairs, and bed.  I help as much as I could and we cleaned up the shack and moved her in, daddy cut wood for the stove and brought her canned fruits and vegetables out of mother’s pantry, to tell her when she wanted meat he would bring it from the smokehouse.  He also told her that I would bring her potatoes from the garden. Fresh milk and water from the spring house.  She was all set up before the sun set that day.

Mother did not want her there, but took advantage of it by saying she could clean, wash and cook for the family.  Daddy looked at her saying, that she was not brought there to do any more than help watch me and my grand-mother.  My mother was very unhappy with the situation.  Now she had two to “put up” with. 

She disliked Ma my daddy’s grandmother living with us, and now an old colored woman.  Daddy’s grandmother had raised him when his mother died of the Spanish Flu.  She was a full-blooded Native American, Chickasaw.  Daddy sometimes would say to me, “You know that your mama married beneath her upbringing”, I would be much older before I understood the inference of what he said.  I also felt bad for my mother she had made the mistake of marrying one of the most handsome men in Alabama.  Dark, strong, a beautiful Chickasaw man.  Well it was not the kindness and love caused her to marry him.  My guess is that when my sister was born eight months after she med him, that was the answer.  Of course, it always set my sister off into a tantrum when I would say that they had to get married.  When I was born, my mother did not want another child.  She gave me to my daddy’s half-sister, she kept me until I was three – years- old; when I could almost take care of myself daddy wanted me home.   I had some of the most wonderful care givers in the world, my daddy, Ma (my great-grandmother) and Aunt Francis.

Therefore, I grew up learning how to act, live and survive; these lessons came from Ma and Aunt Francis.  I was a young woman when I lost both of them.  Ma along with my daddy had given me full knowledge of “The Ways” of their people, the nobility and strength.  Aunt Francis gave me the meaning of life, to be alive and how to survive.  She also, gave me the graciousness, and how a young woman should act.  I doubt that I have lived up to their expectations of me, I have tried.

When I returned to Alabama to attend the funeral of Aunt Francis, it had to be one of the darkest days in my life.  My daddy had taken care of her until the day she died.  She moved into town when daddy left the farm when I was twelve- years – old, he found her a house and paid her rent.  He gave her spending money and brought groceries to her weekly, from a list she prepared for him.  My heart aches at the thought of how much she meant to us.  In many ways I miss Aunt Francis more than I do my own mother.  She raised me gave me the love I did not get at home.

Later in life I painted a picture of Aunt Francis in Acrylics, I wanted her to be young and alive.  I have the picture today.  Then much later I begin to write poetry, naturally the piece created “Another Spring for Aunt Francis” was for her.  I have to smile at remembering her huge body walking across the creaky boards of the old tarpaper shack.  The long dress covered with a starched white apron.  Most of all I remember her hugs and kisses, she loved me and I loved, still love her.

Oh yes, the racism, being raised by Native American daddy, my Aunt (daddy’s sister), a great-grandmother and Aunt Francis, the daughter of slaves.  I went into life with a different perspective than that of my mother and sister, and all of my mother’s people.  I myself was discriminated against because I was the daughter of a poor Chickasaw farmer.

The poem below was created for my Aunt Francis…

Another spring for Aunt Francis

Her knees bend forward away from the worn out rocker, her legs getting their bearings while she made a puckered brow while looking out the window at the garden.   Everything dies she thought; soon the fragrance of spring will be gone. 

She narrows her eyes looking into the hedgerow at the end of her flowerbed to see if the sparrow hawks have returned, slowly she turns keeping contact with the old chair, holding onto its arms.  After one-hundred listless summers, her soul still feeds on emotions of the stillness of the sweet-scented honeysuckle growing around her front porch. 

Holding her breath she falls back into the chair, it shudders under her weight. She knows not to take her being able to stand for granted.  Closing her eyes to rest, bible in hand, and her thoughts were none other than she could get back up another time, another spring.  Maybe!



©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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