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

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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©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Run, Run, Run…#306

Free Style Micro Poetry

Run,Run,Run…#305

A  caged sleep, tears shed, the thoughts of false caring that others portray is a lie.  Their spitefulness in thought held captive the sleeping mind not allowing it to wake.  There are those that cannot be trusted, they show concern for their own selves and their own greed.  They are always on the prowl to take, take, and take.  They cause pain to the minds of the blameless and find in it joy, their tongue of fire knows not the truth.  Yet, they will ask you for your prayers, to engorge their own needs.  If they touch your life, it will never be the same.

Run, Run, Run…

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Micro Poetry – Recalling of Time…#303

Recalling of Time

Memories, the past has many doors to open, one could spend a lifetime in these corridors of time.  Rooms bulging with stories good and bad; they rise to fill our minds with happiness, joy or sadness.  Like soft petals falling to the ground, so does the memory of our life fall gently upon our hearts?

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Reality…#259

The future, its viewless things,

That undiscovered mystery.  Will

We feel death’s lifeless wings.

No one wants these ending things,

Hiding behind curtained windows

To keep the world from seeing dying

Eyes.

Bathed in the dew of morn, the snowy

Landscape spreads.  This is the world in

Which we are born, the world which will

Be gone when we are dead.

We become sick of wasted bodies, the

Mortal strife, the pain of taking a breath.

Is sorrow the course of your life as your,

Soul combats with death.

We pray for calmness before our wilted

Spirits must go.  Life is beginning to be all

Too clear, and soon we will all be gone

From here.

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree.honeysucklememories

Casualties of the Times…#258

Photos show the trail of destruction inside the US Capitol following an attempted coup by pro-Trump supporters

Casualties of the Times

The homeless cannot sleep on winter’s cold nights, they gather around a burning barrel, men, women and children, forgotten, shattered and despised; in the distance a baby cries.  Begging for food, living on the streets, no jobs to be found, families no longer sound.  Government talks end up in contradictions, poverty is the prediction.   The spirit freezes, fruit of labors rot, life squeezes and struggles persist, bad luck smothering heart and soul, hope ceases to exist.  Shifting winds turn into storms, will the world grow wiser, or will it be humbled and beaten back into servility?  Trust departed, a cardboard box in the streets is where the homeless make their beds, hope disappears and the future appears dead.

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree