Broken Bones and Tainted Blood…#412

Broken Bones and Tainted Blood

The screams are silent in your mind

silent to the world

Instant Insanity

Shattered –

Crushed –

Tainted –

Misery at its worse

Mind open to emotional

Tortured Screams within

Bringing the self-mind to

Unthinkable thoughts

Paranoid and unknown

People move about

Unknown unbelievable actions.

The mind searches for a way.

Run, run, run away

Fear clouds the mind and

The spirit, you – are hostage

In this place of grief, a

Room with no doors.

Something shredding the soul

Your body is moving objects

Make a sphere of death

cold? I hear and see s line

of trombones soulfully marching

into the distance.

The red rain fills the space and covers

the floor. Finally, madness rules

over the mind. You will swim for

eternity in the bloody vexation of the

soul.

copyright©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_11?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree&sprefix=ann+johnson%2Caps%2C252

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Flying with Broken Wings…#411

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 the beginning, middle, and end of her life.

Order Information –

Searching for a Miracle…#410

Searching for a Miracle …

It feels like a cold rain pounding at my heart

these hours before dawn. The grief is

fierce as it raises and consumes my spirit,

assaulting my senses. Memories emerge from

the darkness, becoming one with my soul.

In the depths of my wounded courage, I am

listing in a sea of sorrow, my life filled with

more grief than many can bear.

It is the hard cold times before departing

this misery. I search for a miracle; hope

merges with despair; my destiny is to

leave all I have ever loved. There are times

when I am uncertain and afraid. Hope

has expired. Sometimes waves of anger

and fear hang above me, like a cloud

circulating over the earth.

Many times, I speak of death. Although

much is written about grief, soft words

are meant to calm the grieving heart.

Some will say how lovely words are,

and I doubt this is true. Yet, I sometimes

hear the elderly; talk of death until they

see their own grave beyond the horizon.

Grief is not calm and lovely; the words

do not stop the pain. Words penetrate the

brain, shattering the heart. Most are choked

with emotions under the flesh where the

heart is sheltered by outward suffering;

they close their eyes, hoping to find peace

before disappearing.

The grief therapist in my group believes

the words that enter the ears will have

comforted the unhappiness. Grief has no

place to hide! We all grieve in our own

time, short, long, or forever; we just stop

talking about it. I mourn my daughter,

parents, and only sibling, friends. I miss

them all. I wait, soon, very soon!

Copyright©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Casualties of the Times…#408

It’s turning cool in Wisconsin; the mornings are damp, with the sun showing its face late in the afternoon. When the day grows dark, the moon looks like it is covered with ice, light in the distance where life does not exist. Then, the body finds comfort in the warmth of the day. Today I watched a TV program about homelessness; it’s crucial to remember that homeless people are our brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, parents, and children.

(Based on internet statistical information)

©Every night, more than 300,000 men, women, and children in the U.S. stay in homeless shelters. An additional 200,000 or so spend each night unsheltered, whether on the street or in other locations, subway trains, vehicles, etc. Families with children represent 30% of the U.S. homeless population.

I do all that I can financially, buying bags of food sent to my hometown’s food bank. I advocate when possible, for the homeless. I am thankful that my children are adults and have decent jobs. I live in a Senior Housing complex with a food box in our lobby. Seniors here sometimes reach into the box, retrieving one or two items. I put things in this box as well. I wrote how I feel about this enormous problem worldwide.

©Casualties of the Time…

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 hungry baby cries.

Begging for food, being homeless, no jobs to be found,

families no longer sound, the government talks end

up in contradictions, poverty is the prediction.  

The spirit freezes, the fruit of labor rots, life

squeezes and struggles to persist, bad luck smothers

heart and soul, and hope ceases. 

Shifting winds turn into storms. Will the world

grow wiser or be humbled and beaten into servility? 

Trust departed, a cardboard box in the streets is

where the homeless make their beds, hope disappears,

and the future appears dead.

©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Searching for a Miracle…#403

The hours before dawn, and a cold rain pounds into my heart. The grief is fierce as it raises and consumes my spirit, assaulting my senses. Memories emerge from the darkness, becoming one with my soul. In the depths of my wounded courage, I am listing in a sea of sorrow, my life filled with more grief than many can bear. It is the hard cold hour before departing this misery.

I search for a miracle; hope merges with despair; my destiny is to leave all I have ever loved. I am uncertain and afraid. Hope has expired. Sometimes waves of anger and fear hang above me, a cloud circulating over the earth. I do not speak of death. Yet, the elderly where I reside; talk until they see their own grave over the horizon.

Much is written about grief, soft words meant to calm the grieving heart. There will be those who say how lovely these words are, and I doubt they are all true. Grief is not calm and comforting; the comments do not stop the pain. Words penetrate the brain; they shatter the heart.

Most are choked with emotions under the flesh where the heart is sheltered by outward affliction; they close their eyes, hoping to have the scene before they disappear. Grief has no place to hide! The speaker believes the words that enter the ears will comfort despair.

©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

The Mountainside Whore…#402

Note: This short prose may be a bit raunchy. My mother had a hard time growing up the oldest of nine children. However, the story is true and has been told to me by my mother many times. The mid-1920s was when people were no different than they are today. The difference was many lives were built on generations of secrets and lies. She was in her eighties when I last heard it. It made me smile then as it has today. E.

The Mountainside Whore

   At my age, remembering the past is no small feat! However, my mother was the oldest of nine children, and with her daddy’s free field hand, she was made to quit school in the third grade.

   She was allowed to go to Hartselle shopping on many occasions with her daddy. She had spoken of how these were the only times she felt free, alone with her daddy, free of taking care of eight children. Her mother was always pregnant. Being the oldest, she cared for the house, barn, and field chores, as a midwife and cared for the children.

   Her mama came from money. She married money; within time, her daddy had sold off all the lands he owned to take care of his habit of drinking and women. Her mother was “lazy” when a child was born; Ruth’s duty was to raise them. Her daddy was also “lazy,” home long enough to get her mother pregnant, eat, and leave orders for Ruth to do while he was gone.

   On that day, her daddy told her to stay outside the store, that he was getting something she could not know about.

“You sit outside, sister girl.” He mumbled between spitting the plug of tobacco that left permanent stains on the edges of his mouth.

   She had always been called “sister girl,” he went into the Hartselle Mercantile, where he came out with a big box later during one trip. She thought he had bought something for her mama. She watched as he later hid it in the barn’s loft; he knew her mama would never go up there. She was afraid of snakes that sometimes crawled up there to keep warm.

   Later, Ruth crawled up in the barn loft, digging around until she found the box. Inside was a beautiful red dress, shiny like a new penny. She put it back, knowing that her mama would be so surprised when he gave it to her. My mother, a scrawny little girl, turned into a demon the following Sunday. She could not hold her anger. She stood on the front pew of the tiny, whitewashed church, demanding that it was her mama’s dress and the “Mountainside Whore” was to take it off. Knowing what was in the box, the “Mountainside Whore” wore the red dress.

“Take that dress off, you whore; it’s my mama’s.” It felt like her voice was echoing throughout the Tennessee Valley.

   The entire congregation turned to see who she was screaming at; mostly, they could see a red streak running out of the church with a scrawny little girl chasing her, tiny fist in the air. That was when the entire family left the church in silence. The preacher raised his hands to the choir, and instantly all anyone could hear was “In the sweet bye-bye.”

   Her mama never returned to church again. Yet, it didn’t stop her daddy from visiting the Mountainside Whore in the red dress on Saturday nights. When my mother told this story, she would call her daddy a “Whoremonger”.

   The young woman regaining her composure, went back to church every Sunday. She lived way into her nineties and asked to be buried in that shiny red dress. As she aged, she would often tell her life story on the mountainside; it was hard to believe as all most could see were the wrinkles and dark aged spots.

   She was a beautiful woman and had a grand funeral from what she saved through the years, an open casket for all to see that she was the young girl in the shiny red dress. Who would want anyone who was only known as the “Mountainside Whore”? She is never married.

©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Altered Senses…#400

Altered Senses

Existence, scene after scene,

characteristic of life

environment, genetics, and

promises that reveal nothing,

the past descends like rain

from the sky, washing away

all dreams.  Phantoms of

youth chanting within the

soul, paths blocked; evil has

spread across the landscape

of a lifetime.  Loneliness limits

love and happiness; boundaries

set slow down the process

of moving into the future…

nevertheless, the future may

be shrouded with abundant

solitude from where there is

no escape.  Rethink the future!

©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Mini Vacation – July 26, 2022…#394

I recently returned after being away for a few days. My granddaughter and I went to Door County, a vacation spot for many from Wisconsin and out-of-state people. I had to get away after over two years of being shut in because of Covid. I was going “stir” crazy. I decided that cancer could do no less harm than being out and about.

We also had my great-grandson, who will soon turn ten. That is something to write—a spoiled ten-year-old. Of course, this is not anything new to me. If I heard “Mommie” once, I heard it a million times over four days. I doubt if spoiled is the correct term. I believe his parents try, yet they are not too successful in setting boundaries. They allow him to decide everything from ordering off the menu in a restaurant to when he wants to stop at some money-making game place. By the fourth day, I was living on my last nerve! We would leave on the fifth day and not a moment too soon.

Like Tina Turner sings, “What’s love got to do with it .”I love him very much, and he is a sweet loving kid who is spoiled. I sometimes wonder if there is enough time for him to get out of this entitled stage. His half-brother, who has lived an entitled life, does not know anything but to be catered to. He is thirteen years older than the other one. To clarify, neither comes from a “well-to-do” family. Yet the parents and a grandmother want to be friends with the two of them. I believe the term “will they love me” comes into play.

The grandmother is my youngest daughter, I have raised five children by myself, and as they grew up, they knew that I loved them and wanted them to love me. Yet, I was never their friend, each taught to respect me, and they have all turned out to be fine citizens and outstanding children. I believe that they have brought up their children as I did them. The youngest daughter is the only one with grandchildren; they are, as stated, brought up to be entitled to have all they need and too much of what they want.

However, it was a good trip. I enjoyed getting away from my own home, my book had slowed down, and I needed to recoup. The walls seemed to be closing in. I understand that this happened, but I did enjoy the trip. I came back with a much clearer head than when I left. The pain went with me, but it is only with pain that my mind remains clear. I refuse to take enough to stop the pain; it is then that the mind stops as well.

I wish all of you a wonderful day.

 Altered Senses

Existence, scene after scene, characteristics of life environment, genetics, and promises that reveal nothing, the past descends like rain from the sky, washing away all dreams.

Phantoms of youth chanting within the soul, paths blocked; evil has spread across the landscape of a lifetime.

Rethink the future! Loneliness limits love and happiness; boundaries set slow down the process of moving into the future. Nevertheless, a future shrouded with abundant solitude from which there is no escape.

©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Stop Daydreaming and Live Life …#392

I hope that I have learned many things as I have walked through this journey, walked a path that is redeemable. I had no choice for the first 52 years of my life on direction and plans. I lived in a world created by my mother, then my husband. It has been a short 30 years of making my own choices in life. I have spent 20 of those 30 years trying to find out who I was and in what direction I was going. Again, I hope that they have been the right ones.

In those 30 years, I have lost my daddy and my mother. My biological sister and ex-husband have passed on to their next journey. I have an adopted sister who has chosen not to have anything to do with me. Her reason was only that of her own. I sometimes think that our mother’s control over her in life has continued in death. I believe she is trying to carry my mother’s hate for me on into our lives with her gone. She has hardened throughout the years, and I feel bad that she lets her fear of a dead mother continue to chart her life course. I ask God to watch over her and her family. It saddens me to think I will die without ever seeing her again.

Life is too short, and we must never allow the beliefs of another to get in our way of living life to its fullest. Life gives us grief and sorrow, life can deceive and disappoint you, but it can also bring satisfaction, loving children, and joy. You have heard the saying, “He or She has a mind of their own.” These words are so true. We can dig holes and cover ourselves up, shut down and let life pass us by, or we can dig ourselves out, embrace life, and live it to its fullest. Create the world that your life is in Heaven, not hell.

World-Weariness –

The sands of time explode with agony.

The sun is dying!

The moon will be one day.

Be Heaven’s only enchanted view.   Be

Watchful, beware, the hours are few.

copyright©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

July 8, 2022 Patience…#390

More and more each day, I see the hypocrisy and pettiness of humankind. I also see hate and jealousy. Outside my apartment, I have a “Black Lives Matter” sign in my garden. It is not gaudy but of good taste in design. It also states that other things I believe to matter are “women’s rights, human rights, gay rights, love is love.” I support all these things! A “Pride flag with large Native American feathers” is hanging from my patio porch. This flag represents my beliefs in its Pride colors and my Native heritage.

My neighbor came over to say that all they can see wherever they go in June is PRIDE, PRIDE, PRIDE, and she has had enough. Not to be spiteful, or maybe I was, I told her that I never watch football; however, the large “whirly gig” (half the size of my flag) she had in her patio area was quite beautiful. Painted her team’s colors were gorgeous, and the sound it makes is almost like windchimes, which I also love. She walked away without another word.

We must all realize that we are made up of different likes and dislikes. I continue to state that I am not perfect, but I try to understand everyone. I love parades showing how loyal we are as Americans. I try to recognize that we have many facets to our lives which, if not hurting anyone (Other than their feelings), we need to let everyone live their lives as they wish. That does not include rapists, murderers, hateful, harmful people.

My four-legged companion loves everyone like they all belong to her. I wish we could all be as innocent and loving as she. We should make the path we are traveling one that we are not judgmental. Each person’s preference is theirs, and we only have it if we believe God to answer too.

EAJM

©2022.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by the author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com…

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree