Flying with Broken Wings…#247

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=elizabeth+ann+johnson-

Flying with Broken Wings

Author Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree books at: Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com

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 and bullied by schoolchildren, her progress was slow but she never gave up the fight to overcome her disabilities. As an adult, she fought physical disability of Cerebral Palsy, living with Bipolar, Depression and Schizophrenia disorders. She lived not only with these disabilities, she endured the “Voices” that lived within her for over thirty years. This book is about the beginning, the middle and the end of her life.

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

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

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Your Love is a Fist…#242

Raw is this

Fatherless flesh

Life in troubled times

Blues gone to grays

Why do some people

Cause others pain

In this all too familiar

Love-Hate Game

As the red around me

Spread, I prayed for

Cleansing waters…then

Suddenly, the rain fell.

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

A Right to have Rights…#241

Prejudices are alive and thriving within the borders of the United States of America. The blood of the first true American runs red upon the land that we hold scared, the American Indian.  I continue having a problem with the views of “immigration” in this country by the “descendants” of immigrates. These people are now citizens of this country by either birth or becoming a citizen after coming to the United States. The rhetoric has not changed throughout the years. It is like being ugly and poor, if you are not beautiful, rich and powerful your chances of getting into the “upper 1% club” is zero.

My father was born in 1903, he, his mother, grandmother  and their people the Southeastern Chickasaw’s were not recognized as American citizens until about 1940, by then he was married and had two children.  He was born in America, lived, worked and died in America, but he was almost 37 years-old.

In 1924, The Act governing Native Americans did not include those born before the effective date of the 1924 Act and it was not until the Nationality Act of 1940 that all born on U.S. soil were citizens; my father was thirty-seven years old before he was to be recognized as a “REAL AMERICAN CITIZEN”. Many Native Americans, who were granted citizenship rights under the 1924 Act, may not have had full citizenship and suffrage rights until 1948. My father’s right to be a citizen of the United States of American was granted to him by “Immigrates or the Descendants of immigrates”

I have to wonder what my father and those who came before him, those who were drove from their lands, walked the Trail of Tears, those who help build this country would have to say about how we look upon the way those in power, the people we voted into office are reacting to today’s immigration decisions, have they forgotten that we are all descendants of immigrates, your ancestors who came to this country and were welcomed with open arms.  They did not have to go over a wall or under one, their children were not taken away from them, some lost forever.

I believe we need to stop and think about how we look in the eyes of other countries, to people who may want to make America their home, are we moving forward or backward?  If Donald Trump is allow to sit upon his throne in the White House, how many more immigrates will fall to the wayside?  Immigrates built this country, Trump has twisted every law, the Constitution, to his favor and childlike behavior.  As Americans from all races, faiths and color, we need to take back our country, bring it back to the time when we stood at our borders with open arms for those in need, or those being persecuted by their own country.

This is only my opinion and mine alone, of one who watch their father being discriminated against when I was a child. A father who was not allowed, to walk down the same street next to a powerful white man. A father who worked hard to make a living with little education. A father who would take food off our table to give to someone passing through who was hungry and did not have a job. A father who would fight for all people, be understanding of differences, and fight against discrimination. My father, a True American!  Donald Trump is not, he is blight on this land!

Getting off my soap box…elizabethannjohnsonmuphree

Acceptance…#238

Image result for depression

Acceptance…

The future and its viewless things,

That undiscovered mystery.  Will

We feel death’s lifeless wings.

No one wants these ending things,

If so, it would be a lie.  I hide behind

Curtained windows to keep the

World from seeing my dying eyes.

My face bathed in the dew of morn,

Before me the snowy landscape

Spreads.  This is the world in which

I was born, the world which will be

Gone from me when I am dead.

Sick of this wasted body, the mortal

Strife, the pain of taking a breath.

Now sorrow is the course of my life,

My soul combats with death.

I pray for calmness within me, please

Let it grow, before my wilted spirit must

Go.  Life is beginning to be all too clear,

I am not afraid, for soon I will be gone

From here.

©2013.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree.honeysucklememories

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

This Country is Grateful to Those Who Serve-a Poem…#237

architecture art clouds landmark

A Sacred Duty…

The old blind man down the road is dying, he is kind and good and the neighbors all know of his name.  They say, that after the war in Vietnam his Country he would not blame. Family and friends all gathered around him in his final hour.  I watch, as people would come and go their hands full of food and flowers.

His daughter arrived asking me to thank the neighbors for what they have done.  Then she tells me that the old man is holding on to life waiting for his Grandson. Her eyes filled with tears, you see my Son is in Afghanistan and we have not seen him for a year.  My father was in the military too, a pilot in Vietnam, he came home and for that, we were all blessed.  The medals on his walls are evidence of him being the best.

We had only spoken for a moment when the sound of sirens filled the air it gave us both, a scare.  The parade of cars pulled up close, doors opened; uniform men stepped out, all with a military flare. Behind them walked a young man straight and tall, wearing his Air Force Blues, said it all.   They say that he went to the bedside of his Grandfather, took his hand giving him a small box along with a sharp salute.  The young man was proud of his grandfather this was his last tribute.

In the box were the medals he himself had been given in Iraq and Afghanistan, “These are for you Papa and thank you for teaching me to be a man”.  They buried him in that sacred place called Arlington, his job as son, brother, father, grandfather, and the service to his Country at last was done.     

©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Author Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree books at: Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com

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.

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

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

Poetry-Waiting for the End…#234

Living under both fugitive and gracious light, living within walls that no longer make a home.  Living with assumptions in a world that scorns.  One cannot demand love; it leaves the seeker tired and alone. The heart is no longer inspired by life; it is dead it is made of stone.

Thirst for creativity, hours to feel un-whole, feeble, no power no control.   Troubled with no rest, walking upon the fallow ground, the fields like deserts, barren no heart no soul.  Youth has gone; strength is gone, one’s foremost self-lost in the past, haunted by what went before.

No music, not even the sound from a rustic flute.  The clouds of an obsessed storm in the sky, it groans with sadness.  Visions clear, to be mute would be golden.   No cares, wandering, nomadic, living from place, to place, another plane, the way is lost. Heart-weary, harsh, a dwelling a void, silence. 

Fear and fatigue consume, will the body die. Evidence is in the stillness of a stone heart, it has grown weary and cold.  The heart beats faster and faster, like a runaway train, sweeping through the soul.  The deep cut into the soul cannot heal. The night-wind blows through a whisper of silver hair, soon it will be dawn.  The night passed slowly. 

Another day under the leafless tree, dew lays upon the body, watching the Robin looking beneath for a worm.  Fall is here and the Robin will go south, soon a cold and frothy sea of white will cover the ground.  Death is welcomed, emptiness, the trembling are now all stilled; time is winding to a close.  Ashes will soon lay upon an icy shore, waiting for the melting ice to float them away.   

2020©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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.

Rubble of Yesterday…#223

Image result for kudzu vine image

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

One finds the tombstones of yesterdays

promises; rubble covered with reminiscent

vine.

Embers burn within the soul, no peace;

there are fewer tomorrows, weep for the

uncertainty of the future and of dreams

left behind.

If you could turn back time would you

relive your life.  Would you accept the future

whatever it may be, would you disregard truth

and trust what your eyes see?  Yesterdays

promises are hidden dreams, find new

excitement in your life rid yourself of turmoil and strife.

Wake up your conscious your journey is not yet

over, there are new mountains to climb, forget

the rubble of yesterday, and wisely use your time.

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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

What the Voices Took from Me…#221

Image result for angel images

You left the world to early, free from a life that always

Left you filled with doubt.  You lived the lives of

Many, the voices, always hoping just to be

You.

I now waited for that glow from heaven, I willed

You not to go, God did not agree.  Was your life

Fulfilled in such a short time, will I ever know?

You had beginnings, disappointments, new starts,

You worried about tomorrow, unable to feel

Happiness in what you accomplished today.

I suffer your being gone, sadness wretches my days,

The glow died there was no hope.  It seems like one

Long unhappy dream.

Roaming within my mind, I walk the fields of your

Life.  A time of clouded joy, then time was blown

Away.

Born in innocence, fresh, life clear, before the voices

Took over, bringing fear.  I could not help you in your

Solitude while you nursed your unconquerable fears.

As the moonlight pales, I yearn for lost years, before

The mental strife.  Before the voices took over your life.

It was after sunset that you died, a void that cannot

Be filled, you will never grow old.  I miss your smiles,

Your red tresses flowing down your back, your light will

Always shine; your radiance will never fade.

Sleep my darling in eternal rest…

Poetry – Streets of Wickedness…#220

Harlot Clothing

Harlots cry into the night, wandering through the streets, offering themselves.   They are hungry and their stomach rumbles with the deafening sounds of the city, some cry and wail, needing to eat. 

They peddle their wares and another owns their soul.  The misery they endure leaves their hearts cold. 

On this night many of the harlots feel they are cursed, others that did not survive will take their last ride, in the undertaker’s hearse.

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree