I need a new subject…#195

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It’s June, we are half way through the year and I am ready to broach a new subject, clear the mind of all the rubbish that is attacking our senses.  With that being said, did you make a New Year’s resolution, or several?  I made nothing beyond trying to stay healthy.    We all know that a New Year’s resolution is a promise a person makes for the New Year.  Some promise themselves to change a bad habit, change their life, their relationships; these promises can take many forms. 

I have found that many of the top promises people make are, spend more time with family and friends, tame that bulge, quit smoking, quit drinking, get out of debt and enjoy life more.  Helping others also would top my list, if I stay healthy.  A few list for some is getting organized, I am a minimalist and have been all of my life, so I have only the bare necessities and I have only what I need.

I retired almost twenty years ago, my only promise to myself was to write, to be published and start a blog.  I have accomplished all three in a small way.  This year I have made a promise to meditate more, read more. I also promised myself to continue with my painting, as a hobby more or less, not to sale, although I have been tempted to have a showing or a booth in one of the many art fairs that we have in the area.  I have also thought of taking my art to Door County, many artist put their work in various shops in the spring and go pick it up in the fall, just an idea. 

I have not acted on that one yet, or the showing or art fairs.  I suspect that I am not confident enough in my work to show.  I try to improve daily, as I write most daylight hours and when tired move over to my current art project. 

I have given thought to the beginning of every year, it did not just start as we know it today, with the making of promises, toasting with your favorite drink and kissing the one you love. 

Babylonians made promises to their gods at the start of each year that they would return borrowed objects and pay their debts. Supposedly, medieval knights had their own version of the New Year’s resolution. One by one, during the last feast of the Christmas week, they would place their hands on a live or roasted peacock and recommit themselves, for the next 12 months, to the ideals of chivalry.  I have heard that some wish the “Peacock Vow” would return, I for one laughed at that notion.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, is one of Judaism’s holiest days. Meaning “head of the year, Rosh Hashanah commemorates the creation of the world and marks a period of introspection and repentance that culminates in the Yom Kippur holiday, also known as the Day of Atonement. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the two “High Holy Days”.

The concept, regardless of beliefs, is to reflect upon self-improvement annually.

One tradition that I use to love when going out or having parties on New Year’s Eve was the singing of Auld Lang Syne.  Robert Burns, a Scot born in 1759, wrote the song.  He died of an early age, about thirty-seven-years-old. Although his life was short, he secured himself a place in history and in legend.

Robert Burns
The hand written poem that was to become the song.

There is another poem, that fits into our world today, and was written by Robert Burns in 1792.

The Slaves’ Lament

By Robert Burns

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthrall,

For the lands of Virginia,-ginia, O:

Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more;

And alas! I am weary, weary O.

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost,

Like the lands of Virginia,-ginia, O:

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear,

In the lands of Virginia,-ginia, O;

And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

My interpretation of the poem is that Burns saw Virginia as a beautiful country, a romantic realm of the South.  Yet there he made both friends and foes.  The Plantation owner’s cruelness he feared, while thinking of his friends it was done so with bitterness and tears.  One my look upon this poem as they wish, however, it uses sensitivity when written, slightly letting the truth show through, but gave him great sadness.

Is this what we are doing today, looking on through the cruelness of the times with squinted eyes?  Does it bring pain to our hearts, but do we let others see our weariness and tears?  I think not.


Rubble of Pain…#176



A Poem

Rubble of Pain…#176

Light flows through our war of disrespectful words, tears fall, cheeks wet. In these times of uncertainty an unknown sadness rolls over us, we smile, we jest, yet, there is a fear clinging within my breast. Your words do not bring me rest, or smiles, you give me your hand and hush for a while. Let me read your soul deep within your lucid eyes, a mind filled with disapproval.

There is no one now that can unlock my heart, nothing that can be said or felt. Your thoughts, did not reveal or conceal, or disguise your lack of sympathy, place blame and criticize. You became alien to me, yet you would not allow my heart, our voice, if only for one moment to be free. Fate, you felt possession, you poured out your strife like a muddy river, never to change.

You have no genuine self, you force to obey, despite and un-regarded for life you could not see, you were blind with doubt it was eternally. The knowledge of our life buried, fire and force, walking down the rough path; deep pain always mine. You had no spirit, only power to control, nameless feelings that course through my hurting breast, a life unrepressed. I speak and act so no one will know hidden burses down to the soul.

My hidden self, there are those that see you as charming and kind, this is not true! Inward I strive and follow demands; in return, a thousand nothings by the hour, all miraculous compensate your power.   I am numb, yet I answer your call, from time to time I hid in the depths of my soul; my voice a floating unheard echo conveys pain. Your jaded eyes stare, glare, I read the words unspoken deafening creating fear. A bolt of tones, frightening, is piercing my ears.

No feeling stirs, the heart lies plain, you never became aware of a life winding down, you see no meadows of flowers, no sun, no breeze, and your madness is elusive to all the rest. There is no feeling there is no respite. The calm that I never knew, the mountains that my mind did climb; our war of mocking words; I held back the tears, the sadness, I wish that I lived by the sea where I could lose myself in the crashing waves; anything but here, my soul and spirit want to sink within its madness and always stay, stay, stay.

It was too late, your love came revealed in death, and my heart has nothing to say. You lived and moved in disguises, alien to all but yourself, there was no heart beating in your human breast, until the end. In life what did you truly possess, your own strife, your identity; the river of our life unclear flowed its way. I lived in blind uncertainty, life for me buried from the day we met, no fire or restlessness, just a thirst for the mystery of it all, nameless feelings lived in vain. The loss, my heart lay open for all to see, the hurt hidden twisted among the rubble of pain.





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Memories Last Forever…#165


Memories Last Forever…

I know a place filled with back county roads,

they join hills and cross over sparkling brooks;

they weave through golden fields and cleverly

slip into forest nooks. They wind to places that

I know so well, twist and turn through hollows

and hills; my heart is beating to a familiar tune.

Thoughts of long ago times I can hear the

cadenced beat of the horse’s hooves on red dirt

roads; beside me is an old yellow dog. Trees are

creaking, singing their whistling song in the

breeze, a cow in a meadow shakes her bell; I

can image an afternoon rain, and then sun

splashing bright on the road ahead, rainbow

arks in a clear blue sky.

My memory brings forth all of these images

of my childhood, the sun-splashed field, the

creak of the old wagon and the horses takes

us to church. The blue sky, song and laughter

in the little white church, music plays softly

on my ears; this is the land I desire, causing

my soul to shimmer, tremble to the tune.

The morning breeze blows my long hair,

the curls bouncing; nodding to the sun.

I image that I am a butterfly in a warm

summer day; sitting upon a flower, stilled

my colorful wings. Oh! To be a cloud,

wafting through the blue, shadowing

the hills, framing the valleys below,

lingering over the land showing

splashes of red southern dirt. My

memories last forever, and that is

what I do, a purpose daydreaming,




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Into the Wilderness…#164


Into the Wilderness…

Standing by the grave where death

has ceased its struggle; voice silenced,

eyes shut. With shivering hearts the

conflict over; pilgrimage done, there

will be no more suffering. In the dying

hour, the life plunged down into

dissension; the moaning, doubts, disputes,

and fears now lay deep within the earth.


Healing power surrounded us, while a

warm breeze like waves in the ocean

swept across a sun-lit mound of dirt. The

darkest days will still bring brightness,

strengthen the sage mind, and remove

the fear that lies within the breast. A

cloud of mortal destiny follows;

reminders of what was and what it can be.


Wake in a new world, cross a snowy

mountainous pass; hear the echoes

from eagles, and cross a flowing stream.

It leads to the sea, myth or illusion,

eyes open as the mind gathers thoughts.

Remember God can abide man’s soul,

cleans the body to make ready for

tranquility; you will rise and follow.


What is before us we do not know,

but the mind goes with solemn peace.

Yet man has no impracticable hours,

no patients, man’s life plunges into

thought often; strife will soon follow,

he smiles and walks into an unknown




Author’s books at Amazon.com and Barnes & Nobel.com









Deaths Hideous Show…#163

Note from Author :
When I create poetry, some of my followers believe that it is personal, no, the idea may be built upon ones personal perception or glimpses into my life, but it is not to be taken as fact. My blog is filled with ideas when creating, but I believe that the meaning is not only found in the act of reading (and re-reading) poetry. Sometimes we start writing a poem with one idea in mind, but by the time we reach the end of the first draft, another idea or theme has emerged. Other times, we might write a poem and realize years later that there are layers of meaning in it; perhaps our subconscious produced something we were not aware of at the time the poem was composed.

The very act of writing poetry opens us to the meaning of our experiences and ideas, especially if we are willing to give up control when we write and let ideas and words flow freely. Free writing is an ideal practice for generating mysterious raw material. I find my poetry to be dark, eight decades of experiences gives me a wheelhouse of raw material on many subjects. Please enjoy.

Deaths Hideous Show…


She asks that her bed of death

be free of greedy heirs, her last

breath she favored, not me.

Greedy did not bring them to

their knees. I kept back tears I

will not weep! There are worst

plagues than tears. I would now

find the freedom that my life

has been denied; then at last,

I can give up my hope to find

love from she who carried me

within and gave me life.


Spare me the whispering crowded

room, family and friends that come

and gape and go; spare me the

ceremonious air of gloom, which

makes death a hideous show. The

future that undiscovered mystery,

which one feels deaths wings.

Bring none of these to me; let me

be silent in the dew of the morning,

this world that I was born. The

same world that will continue to

last when I am dead.


I find that the universe is my home;

my mind treads on every day, which

brings the sun, the moon, the stars;

oceans, streams and lakes; every blade

of grass flows within my veins. Keep

from me all mortal strife, and praise

each little breath for from it I will

find my eternal course in life.


Spare my feeling as I gaze upon each

day, let me grow, stay composed, mind

clear. When my time is near let me,

accept it without fear. Let my spirit

go to work no more, to wait no

more; I ask that you shed no tears.




Author’s books at Amazon.com and Barnes & Nobel.com


Charlotte 1

Charlotte Jean Murphree – 6 Months

Earths Heart Break…# 162

The morning mist dwarfs houses, it

weighs down the soul, but eventually

the sun broke though. On nearby

terraces, the sunshines brightly,

while below children play a timeworn

game of marbles. A yellow shooter is

winning, the sack holding the days

catch grows larger.


On the beach nearby two young

lovers, bask in the warm June-wind;

and to the north there is a field

freshly plowed. The farmer stands

filled with joy, wishing that time

world would stand still. His eyes

brimming, he looks at the Heavens

with gratitude.


While this happiness wraps the

day in joy, there is distress in

the world. Somewhere, a

multitude of mourners sees

nothing but evil and the end!

Warmth, light, and joy have

passed them. It would take

only one man to undim the

hours; his courage, yet,

is entwined in hatred.


The day finished, the moon

shines brightly, clear, a

tranquil sphere. In the

distance beyond the beach,

the waves whirl wildly, rolls

mournfully; they shiver and

die at beach edge. Mother

Earth shed tears of sorrow,

and prays for tomorrow.


Many of her children lie

frozen and dead in faraway

places; they fall on the

burning breast of the now.

A wild rose climbs up the

moldering walls. The funeral

music is sad! The melancholy

tones touch the most sobering

heart. The unforgotten voice

wanders from the world back

to their ancient home.


All hopeless, the music beats

upon my ears again and again.

Then the melancholy tones

become sweet and still, lute-like

tones blew a thrilling summons

into my ears. The lost heart, its

life-blood spills, sleep dearest one.





Author’s books at Amazon.com and Barnes & Nobel.com under the name Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree.

Depressions Dream…#161


The grip of depression is at all

times lingering ; it lives in a

high dark corner of the mind;

bundling despair and hopelessness.

Its victims sit and wait, mind

wandering, in this place with no

windows .  Does depression find the

moaning of God’s lost flock real,

their distant cries resonates within

the living lost; do not ask depression

to stay, sit in silence until it decides

to goes away.


Depression works hard keeping

madness in control when the sun

goes down, like a shepherd it does

not rest! In the night, the moaning

of Gods flock becomes louder; as

the lost flock feels its limbs take

root in a barren land. It does not

rain on them and they cannot

grow; looking like bent grass where

they lay, Freedom is not theirs.


Who, tired of knocking at the

Golden door, they leave friends

and family behind. Most are

doomed; it takes heaven-sent

moments to be pulled from the

murk and mire of hopelessness.

Depression shouts at the lights

of goodness; it is cloaked in grey

and will drown those who listen

in its dark and dingy place. In the

grip of depression, the mind

wanders, sits behind shadowed

glass and refuses to retreat.


Depression is like leaning backward

in a meditative dream, it has no

eyes to see the moonlit stream. It

dances in a dark field that yields

no fruit, it is frail-leafed, and it has

not a word of good to speak. While

back in the barren land black-winged

swallows, haunt the mind, scarlet

patches shreds of gray, waiting for

the spark from heaven to fall. Yet,

depression continues in its dream,

while waiting for the marker to be

placed on the unknown grave.



Author’s books at Amazon.com and Barnes & Nobel.com

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



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?







“Baraboo, Wisconsin Devils Lake Hills”


Author’s Note: To one who loves life, has great patience; is at home in the hills, mountains and valleys of this earth.



When a crouching fiery sky

leans down upon your hills,

gently; and a silky glow falls

toward the earth does your

soul also glow? Does your

gentle patience that never

angers lay quietly in wonder

within you?

When the snow covers the

earth, and frost hardens upon

your eyes or the green grass

goes to mucky dirt, are your

hills still your greatest gift

from Mother Nature? Does

your gentle patience that never

angers lay quietly in wonder

within you?

When you run and pain grips

you like iron bars, bolts tighten;

hopeless your body bends and

breaks. Does your gentle

patience that never angers lay

quietly in wonder within you?

The day windless, the world, the

moon, the sun, will they someday

end? Does your gentle patience

that never angers lay quietly in

wonder within you?




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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.


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.


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