Life…#332

Life

With each mornings shaft of light 
I begin my conflict of words, sometimes 
I let the tears fall and sadness engulfs 
me.  Sometimes I smile!  I tell myself to 
“hush”; it is too late my soul dies further 
toward the end as time goes on.
Sometimes I am weak, my heart locked 
away too long?  Thoughts are concealed, 
feared, live and move forward out of blame.  
The heart beats on as the voices in my head 
feed from the heart with each beat.  My words 
continue quarreling with my mind.
Has life been no more that random destiny’s?  
How lighthearted my life has been, lies, 
lies to keep the outside world in dumbness.  
Daily I drink from the cup of dissension, 
and erratic thoughts, words, look into my soul, 
despite pending doom I float thoughtless in 
the river of my life with my words clinging 
to my throat like gnarled fingers.     
Buried in the cesspools gathering on the 
shore the river flows with ambiguity.  Life is 
eternally blind!  My words flow from within, 
buried in knowledge, found by fire.  The 
mystery of my heart beats, words line by line. 
 Am   I  worthless.  Hour after hour the 
words demand power, read what pulses 
through my veins.
Life flows, arrives and moves on, from 
morning glow to evening sunset; it winds 
through the valley’s filling with expression.  
The words, a story from the hours past, they 
rise from within to the page swirling in the 
cesspool at the river’s edge.  They cannot move
 on into the river of life, they must remain as 
the past.  I wait for the morning shaft of light
 and life.      

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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The American Dream…#330

Image result for the american dream
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

Rubble of Yesterday…#326

Image result for images rubble of yesterday

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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Black Feathered Angels…#323

Black Feathered Angels

Old memories, new memories,

memories last for a lifetime.    

Unstinted buried deep hidden

from the surface of the mind. 

As I sit on steps where paint is

peeling and rotting I have but

one thought.  Childhood is dead.

Some memories refuse to stay

buried, I see a small country

church, a chorus of crows; the

splashing sounds of a brook

running through Birch trees.

The wind caressing the

colossal row of Oaks in the

nearby field.

Death, departing the small

weathered house of worship,

a wagon pulled by six black

horses, and a manifestation

of black feathered angels.  A

sad memory, a heart has been

silenced, and a rocker on a

porch stilled.  Everyone we

love soon leaves us. 

©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

Oh Day of Weeping…#321

Oh Day of Weeping

One day the earth will evaporate into the universe,

oh what a painful day.  Where will the judge sit in

all his excellence and exquisiteness, determining a

horror, which no one will escape? 

Will you hear the trumpets in hell, or will you get

an invitation to Heaven?  Death and nature trembling

together, waking to wild winds filled with deadly

shrouds.  No more romances, no more extenuating

circumstances. 

The King, will make decisions as to who will come

home.  His magnificence amazes, as before him

the hot and dirty pits of hell that rages. 

Is it too late to sing his praises?  He is the one who

decides the death blows, or pardons.   Seek peace

follow him no matter how tired you may be; it is

he that will judge you on your prejudices. 

Are you guilty, as you gaze into the pits of hell,

pedophile, murderer, thief or whore, is it too late

to change your thoughtless ways, judgment day

is here, pray, pray, pray.  Will you dismiss the

punishment of hell? 

Prone and pleading, when your death is ignited

with the flames of hell, will you then ask to be

saved?  Oh day of weeping, men and women come

forth, do not continue to be selfish and cruel. 

Now is the time to pray, shout out to the land and

sea, please God spare me. 

©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

Lands afar…#318

Image result for land afar images

(Fiction Poetry)

Lands afar…

Why does the mind’s eye not see the future?

Does a fog of mystery covering our soul’s

intentionally obscure visions of tomorrow?

I am aware of the squirrels rustling the dead

leaves beneath the thorny rose bush in the

light of the moon?  Cold and exposed, patiently

waiting for the season of bloom.

My garden once alive lies still, a hint of

summers perfume lingers in the fall air.  Now

cradled in the arms of Mother Earth, waiting

for its new birth.

I think of the now, disease and war a threat to

fallow soil, will the power of war come to us

once more?  Would the human intellect be able

to cope with the naked landscape of truth?

Only in lucid dreams do I find tomorrow, a golden

glow of the future.  The seasons will change, Will

I see the orange lilies show their tinted face; the

snowball bush bud; will they all still know me.

Only the spirit knows the endless land beyond

tomorrow, will I no longer be?  A new season, new

life, one where choices can be made, a prisoner to

the past, or will I be free.

Spikes of the moon now fall upon the coatless oak

tree; nothing has ever belonged to me, nature, and

my life.  I will be gone I will be free; I will be in the world afar.

Perfection with a new birth

Tranquility with a new birth

Infinity comes with a new birth

Why is the mind’s eye blind to the acceptance of

just living for today?    

Copyright©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Women’s History Month and Aging…#317

What is it to Grow Old?

Image result for growing old images

As many of you know, I have been fighting a problem that my doctors cannot diagnose; they sent me home after every test known to man or woman.  At the beginning I was walking about six miles a day; at the end of the hospital stay, I was walking with assistance walker, now a cane.  The weakness holds to me like a leach.  After a hospital stay, I have been undergoing therapy at home; I am no better today than my first day home.

This weakness is interfering in my life!  Therapy takes up most of my days; no less than four hours a day, with little progress.  I take care of the needs of my new puppy and myself, there is no energy for anything else.  Simple household chores can be monumental; as are the self care needs.  The challenge that I face daily is the need to work on my writing and painting projects.  That time is limited the reason, no energy which brings me to what I plan to discuss in this post, women and depression.  The Covid affects older adults, twice as many women over men experience depression.  Nonetheless, geriatric depression added onto medical conditions and certain disabilities can be life threatening.  Depression can be misdiagnosis, as it mimics normal age related issues.

Depression in the older adults can reduce their quality of life, and it increases risk of suicide.  There is no single cause of depression in any age group. Some research indicates that there could be a genetic link to the disease. However, biological, social, and psychological factors all play a role in depression in older adults.

If you’re experiencing depressive symptoms and suicidal thoughts, it’s important to get help. With the right interventions, depression is treatable, and suicide is preventable.  Learn to recognize the symptoms’ of depression; if you have an elderly relative talk to them about the possibility of being depressed.

I myself suffer from depression, I have always felt that creative people are all depressed in some way; it derives from our need to create, artist, writers.  My symptoms were lack of interest, unable to sleep, feelings of hopelessness, a strange sadness; feelings of no quality of life.

I share t his with you as there may be others of all ages that are living under a dark cloud of depression.  Try to understand your feelings and discuss it with your physician, and always remember that you are not alone.

Below is a piece  that I have written/created  during these dark days, it helps to continue to create.  I am fine; each day brings renewed hope for a long and bright future.

Image result for growing old images

Watching the body lose its shape, the eyes no longer sparkle, now small orbs in a wrinkled face.  Strength disappears, limbs grow stiff, and every function less accurate and every fiber of  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 day’s  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? We blame no one, no regrets, being old is a privilege. 

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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

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