In My Mind’s Eye…#325

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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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Altered Senses…#86

 

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Altered Senses…

Existence, scene after scene, characteristic of life’s

environment, 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 slow

down the process of moving into the future

shrouded with abundant solitude from where

there is no escape. Rethink the future!

 

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
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11th

Lost Little Girl…

I do not know if you are alive or dead.
I see your face your voice never
forgotten.

The sun does not rise in the morning, nor
fade into the west without a thought of you.
I mourn, nights are sleepless and morning
eyes fill with fire.

No one more cherished, more loved, my
heart bears scars of torture. Where are you
my lost little girl?

A collection of personal poetry. Ann Johnson-Murphree Poetry Books – Collections of Exposé Poetry are coffee table books 8X11 that will display well in any area. The matte cover is classy and inviting. Within each book the reader will find soul poetry. A length pleasing to browse, read one or more; find a connection, a meaning and a purpose in each poem. These collections of poetry are filled with inspiring thoughts and reassuring words with a factual viewpoint on the many experiences in the life of the poet. Each collection serves as a prevailing reminder that life is complex. That happiness is in our hands alone; that the fear of unhappiness is deep-rooted in the spirit and soul. That depression and despair is real and each individual must find the freedom of mind, body and soul to move forward in their life. Each poem has been created from the fabric of a patchwork life, complex, stress-filled, finding enlightenment and cultivating wisdom. Anyone who will open their mind is free to pursue insight, to find their own nirvana. This collection of thoughts brings the reader along on the multifaceted journey of the poet’s experiences throughout life.

Waiting for Daddy…#28

A languid sky, a lazy breeze moved the cotton stalks rolling like an emerald sea, the crimson dirt warm between my toes.  I stood in the middle of my pretend sea, my imagination open within itself creating my own world.  A world I sometimes had to hide in quietly as not to be seen or heard.

Through the rays of the afternoon sun, I could see the pasture with a cool creek winding among several old oaks where a tire swing hung.  I moved my arms swimming through the tall stalks gazing at the sky making my way to a nearby clover field.

The only noise was that of a braying mule, Soap Sticks. The swish of a Hawk flew over my head, riding upon a warm Southern breeze watching for the signs of field mice.  I drowsily heard the pounding of my daddy’s big red Roan on the nearby dirt road, I knew that Buttermilk my old dog would be running beside him; it was time to go home. 

It was Sunday, the only day my mother was home. Today I rode upon the emerald green sea toward a world of imagination toward jungle trees where I could climb high above the dangers of the land.  I drank cool water from a babbling brook and hid in a field of soft lush grasses.  I was not afraid of the strange noises floating through the air or the giant bird of prey.  I waited, unafraid until I heard my Knight in shining armor, my daddy found me, upon his big red horse followed by a gentle dog came to rescue me.  It was now safe to go home.

Love and Peace

Elizabeth

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Artwork by Author – Acrylics – Daisy’s under a cloud covered moon. A Dragonfly pulling sweet nectar from a single Daisy. Daisy’s feed upon Wild Iris’s near a pond, they go back and forth from flower to flower.