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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Mothers Freedom…#331

Image result for mothers freedom

Mothers’ Freedom

It is good that I cannot remember the day of my birth, 
although since, I have questioned why I am on this 
earth; my mother did not want me she wanted to be 
free.  I understand the poverty in which I arrived, I 
still did not understand years later, when she told 
me she would have been happy if I had died.
She told of not having even an aspirin for the pain, 
and that she feared the future and afraid her that her
 life would never be the same.  Mother told of the old
iron bed with cornhusk mattress that stood on a bare
 wooden floor.  Of how they kept out the cold with raw
 cotton from, the nearby field stuffed into the cracks 
of the homemade door.
Delivered by a neighboring mid-wife, weighing only 
two pounds my mother told her to take me away, 
while saying, and “I hope that she will be gone by the
 end of the day”.  It is said that my father took me into
 his well-worn hands, whispered to me, you can live, 
and I know that you can.  He placed me in a shoebox,
 put me on the front seat of his old pickup truck and 
carried me away.  He would not see me until my 
birthday, exactly three-years from that day.
Left with a dear old black woman that I until this day 
refer to her as mother: you see I knew no other.  She
 packed my clothes in a clean cloth sack, she cried, 
but she knew that one day my father would want me 
back.  He looked at my birth mother saying that I would 
never again go away, she responded without feeling 
saying, “it would be he that took care of me if I stayed”.
The years, they quickly flew by, my mother she was 
never at home, then the day came that my father died, 
I recognized her but did not see her cry.  Me, I soon had 
children of my own and knew what kind of mother I 
wanted to be, and unlike my own, even with children, I
 always felt free.
I had not seen her for many years when I heard that 
she had died, too late to feel a mothers touch, too late 
to hear her say, “I love you so much.”  I cried, but not f
or me, I cried because at last she had been set free.

©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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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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In My Mind’s Eye…#325

Image result for Daydreaming Drawing

Fiction-Poetry-Prose

In My Mind’s Eye

The world is shut-down, fear has driven us inside. 

Every now and again, one must live within their

imagination.  Sometimes, I escape to the past, to a

time where childhood was safe and the world was

not so badly damaged. It is spring, planting time,

there are wide freshly plowed fields and green grass.

Oh, this is my dreamland. 

Black-winged-swallows float upon a warm breeze;

they bath at the edge of a glittering pond; then turn

their dark eyes toward the heavens where they

will soon be suspended in the clean air.  There

are two old mules pulling an ancient plow, behind

it worn leather hands holding the reins gently

urging them along.

Oh, this is my dreamland.

I can see Flint Creek, red dirt banks bright in

the sunshine.  It is there that I swim and let my

childlike imagination run wild; I brush away the

cotton-mouth that does not want to do me harm. 

It’s looking for that sunny place where it can be

warm.  Down the road on weather warn porch sits

my grandmother; she reads her bible, darns socks

and clothes that are way too worn to wear.  I did not

know that we are penniless poor sharecroppers, I

am happy.

Oh, this is my dreamland.

I have enough memories to fill my shut-in –world

to the brim, I carefully place my daddy there; this

imaginary world is one without a care.  My daddy

with his gypsy blood wants to run from it all; I will

not let him fall.  He stays for me.  He stops for his

meal; he will have no fears; while letting a blackbird

picks food from his hand.  He twirls the cold biscuit

into the air; its caught and fly’s away.  My daddy

dreams that a spark from heaven will someday fall

and take him far-far away from it all.

Oh, this is my dreamland.

But what-I dream!  I live in the past as I continue

to be a prisoner within these walls, and I know

that two-hundred years from now it will not

matter at all.  Imagination is an art, you are

here and then you are gone; thus I return to that

space in time where most is now unknown.  A

little church with no bell tower, sweet voices

floating through the windows.  Its yard marked

with stones, I recognize the names upon them,

it’s sad that they are all gone.

Oh, this is my dreamland.

Our barnyard and its fields change from time-to-time,

at this moment it’s filled with a few treasured souls. 

There’s Big Red my daddy’s red roan, and

Soapsticks the aged mule, his partner Lu Lu Bell

has sadly passed on.  The pens are filled with

chickens and hogs, I had named them all.  Then

comes the “Killing Time”, those pens held our

food, but I refused to eat one bite, to eat Fat Sam

or Clem, or Chick Lady on Sunday’s would have

been cruel.

Oh, this is my dreamland.

Yes, in today’s world when we must be shut-in

with four walls that sometimes does not feel like

home.  I have to take my imagination backwards

to a time when freedom was not gone.  To smell

the pines, eating figs from a tree; roaming through

the county side now wishing my daydream would

not end.  A time of joy, with little sadness or despair,

there was nothing to fear; childhood was an

enchanted time; the world today pales to that long

ago time that was only mine.

Oh this is my dreamland.

Born in the days when life was fresh and clear,

still nurturing conquerable hope.  But, now we

fly through a path that was to be; I still believe

in hope, it is with hope that we win.  In my

imagination. Youth finally ends, it fades, and

growing old one will see and hear warm

greetings and smiles.  If it were not for imagination,

I would surely die.

Oh, this is my dreamland.



©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

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

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

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!



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