Lands afar…#318

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(Fiction Poetry)

Lands afar…

Why does the mind’s eye not see the future?

Does a fog of mystery covering our soul’s

intentionally obscure visions of tomorrow?

I am aware of the squirrels rustling the dead

leaves beneath the thorny rose bush in the

light of the moon?  Cold and exposed, patiently

waiting for the season of bloom.

My garden once alive lies still, a hint of

summers perfume lingers in the fall air.  Now

cradled in the arms of Mother Earth, waiting

for its new birth.

I think of the now, disease and war a threat to

fallow soil, will the power of war come to us

once more?  Would the human intellect be able

to cope with the naked landscape of truth?

Only in lucid dreams do I find tomorrow, a golden

glow of the future.  The seasons will change, Will

I see the orange lilies show their tinted face; the

snowball bush bud; will they all still know me.

Only the spirit knows the endless land beyond

tomorrow, will I no longer be?  A new season, new

life, one where choices can be made, a prisoner to

the past, or will I be free.

Spikes of the moon now fall upon the coatless oak

tree; nothing has ever belonged to me, nature, and

my life.  I will be gone I will be free; I will be in the world afar.

Perfection with a new birth

Tranquility with a new birth

Infinity comes with a new birth

Why is the mind’s eye blind to the acceptance of

just living for today?    

Copyright©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Rubble of Pain…#176

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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.

 

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

Author’s books at Amazon.com

 

https://www.amazon.com/Flying-Broken-Wings-Charlotte-Murphree/dp/1547051329/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107137&sr=8-1

 

https://www.amazon.com/Cherished-Memories-Life-Mason-Murphree/dp/1722763744/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107373&sr=8-2

 

https://www.amazon.com/Passage-into-Madness-Frenzied-Activity/dp/1688948996/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107529&s=books&sr=1-3

 

https://www.amazon.com/Fragments-Time-Bits-Pieces-lived/dp/1981472142/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107558&s=books&sr=1-4

 

https://www.amazon.com/Rhythm-Rhyme-Thoughts-decade-poetry/dp/1723433055/ref=sr_1_5?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107582&s=books&sr=1-5

 

https://www.amazon.com/Echoing-Images-Soul-Journey-into/dp/1500366811/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107627&s=books&sr=1-1-fkmr0

 

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-into-Art-Johnson-Murphree-2014-07-28/dp/B019NRG4YG/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_2?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107665&s=books&sr=1-2-fkmr0

 

https://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree-2014-07-02/dp/B019L4LL1W/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_1?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107698&s=books&sr=1-1-fkmr1

 

https://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Poetry-Ann-Johnson-Murphree-2014-06-20/dp/B01A0CW1FO/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_2?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107724&s=books&sr=1-2-fkmr1

Possession of the Mind…#145

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Author’s Note:  Recently I had a discussion with an individual that had a close family member with dementia.   I thought of what it might be like to have dementia, what would one think, see, feel, from those thought came “Possession of the Mind”.

 

Possession of the Mind…

It so happens that I am an old woman. I do not walk as much as I use too. There are times when I feel desiccated with no plasticity, as I move slowly through the day both mentally and physically.  Thoughts and feelings at times cause me to shed tears silently so no one will know what is tearing the core of me to shreds. I force myself up each day, unhurriedly I chase through the day.
I no longer find pleasure in stores, restaurants, travel or planned events. Why? My feet and legs will no longer hold my withering body. My hair I have begun to hate, its time-consuming length, its color. I hate my shadow as well.   I am tired of being a human, I look into the mirror and I do not know the person looking back at me. There is no sparkle in her eyes, no smiles that puts a glow on her face. The person I once knew is no longer there.
My world is dark, shivering, constantly hording information mentally, thinking, eating, sleeping, every day. I do not want the misery that my mind creates every day and night. I sometimes feel frozen, dying of grief. My soul blazes like an unstoppable forest fire, I hear howling of the wounded waiting for their Angel of Death.
I dream of crumbling houses, hospitals that smell like death; hanging intestine, crushed bones. I wake weeping from shame and terror, remembering the venom of the night. I fall back to sleep dreaming of birds, white feathers falling to the ground.
It is during my daily walk that I stroll with eyes open taking in the beauty of it all, letting the senses of the world absorb me, forgetting all that has possessed my mind.

 

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmuphree

 

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

 

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Honeysuckle Memories…#114

 

Honeysuckle Memories…

Deep within my memories I sometimes walk to a place where my life began, I take an emotional journey, from time to time. Memories with or without images of those days are like a thunderstorms distance echo, you cannot see it; you know that at one time it was there.

A furrowed road, wild honeysuckle; a crumbled chimney beneath the kudzu vines, the remnant memories of that life and dim images never change.
It was the cotton fields surrounding the old weathered shack that stole my daddy’s wandering soul.

In the warm red dirt life sprung from the blood and sweat that nurtured the white gold called cotton, it broke spirits, and hardened souls. In memory, the image from the past holds but one old leathered face, my daddy’s.

Life goes by quickly, places and people vanish without a trace, time and progress erases the landscape of our lives, memories are made of gold. In the shadows of the mind is a time of how life use to be; and with only a thought I can recall those sweet honeysuckle memories.
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com $.99 to $15:

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Going Home…#112

Going Home…

Morning, glorious morning, the sunbeams seeps brightly through the windowpane like frost from winters frozen ground. I rise, face the Eastern sky that is where the warmth of the day can be found. I open the window the breeze bathes me with the scent of lilacs that grow lavishly in the spring. While somewhere in the distance, plum dusk lingers as the last moments of night clings.

A robin searches for worms beneath my crabapple tree, I sip from my favorite cup, a hot peach flavored tea. It is time to dress, comb my snow-white hair and take the well-worn path down the hillside toward the sea. At water’s edge, I pause to remember God, to hear his wondrous call, I will dedicate this moment to the Great Mystery of it all. I pray for patience in enjoying these golden years, to hold my head high and face life without fear.

I return home and I hear children playing in the fields far away, I remember the joy of the imaginary castles in the sky that I use to build. I stop to think, have I sat here all day, reliving my own childhood in that special way? I slowly rise from the old oak rocker, did I remember to eat, is it time to go inside, to wash the dried sand from my feet.

It is then that I return to my thoughts as evening shadows come into sight. It is time for me to climb beneath my mother’s old quilts, my eyes will close and I will flow among the starless time called sleep, my God has a promise to keep. I float across a space upon the softness of a sparkling wind, along the way I see family and friends. I know that my soul from its earthly body has gone; where silver sands and emerald seas will forever be a part of me…this is everlasting love, at last I am home.

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/elizabeth%20ann%20johnson%20murphree

Art and Writing…#109

I have shared below a few of my own art collection, during a time when I was in grief over the loss of my child I placed my thoughts, scenes from my childhood into painting in acrylics and watercolors.  My hope is that someday they will become family treasures.  I continue to paint today for my enjoyment.

 

 

Books by author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com $.99 to $15:

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Why I Write…#101

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I have been writing from childhood, the clumsy print on the “Big Chief” pads to the journal keeping throughout my life. I begin to try to learn the craft of writing via courses at the local college; I begin to write seriously upon retirement. I started with the creation of poetry, wrote a non-fiction and have many short stories shelved in the closet.

Grace Paley and Anne Lamott are my favorite writers neither are afraid of controversy. I have been to lectures from both and Grace Paley appeals to me with her “voice”. I have learned the skill of finding my own voice and writing from Anne Lamott. She taught me that becoming a writer is about becoming mindful, picture what you want to write and write it.

In my writing real people appear in fictionalized form in my short stories and poetry. My poetry is mostly freestyle or free verse; I do not like to focus totally on meter or rhyme. Although, many of my poems have elements of both, I live by the rule anything is possible with I am writing a freestyle poem.

My reason for writing is to communicate with readers, to stimulate interest or a reaction. However, my primary reason for writing is to try to reach the subconscious flow of thoughts. To bring forth useful opinion from my readers through all forms of writing. My poetry is a creative transfiguration of reality. My short stories most times center on events that actually took place, however, they are for entertainment.

Have a great Thursday; it is cold here in southern Wisconsin.

E.

 

Authors books at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com $.99 to $15:

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&i=stripbooks&crid=2BGV3NKK8VSOQ&sprefix=elizabeht+ann+johnson%2Caps%2C213&ref=nb_sb_ss_sc_1_18

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

 

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

 
https://www.amazon.com/s?k=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&i=stripbooks&crid=2BGV3NKK8VSOQ&sprefix=elizabeht+ann+johnson%2Caps%2C213&ref=nb_sb_ss_sc_1_18

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

 

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.

Aging…#85

 

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Aging…

Splendor to the aging body has disappeared,

shaded looks from an old lover causes the

soul to cry. The enemy time is not kind, as both

beauty and strength begins to decay. Time

engulfs the aged, suddenly life changes in

every way.

Of youth we dream, while youth and old

age s begin to entwine. The past is gone

there is no future; the years have gone by

so quickly, we weep. The days are long, were

we ever young, this crumbling body we cannot

change. The prison we live in, the past, the

present brings weary pain.

Suffer, feeble, remembrance hidden deep within

our minds. Emotions felt, we must live the hand we

are dealt, life has not been kind. Frozen in time, ghost

of ourselves, there is nothing left to tell. It is the last

stage of life, some wait for Heaven, while others

continue to live in hell!

 

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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The book of poetry “A Passage into Madness” has been ten years of collections; my daughter passed suddenly 2010; my mourning has been hidden within the pages of my  poetry and my life, my pain constant.  most times I find myself in a place of inner darkness, the threat of madness crouched above me; and it does not go away. I was in a fervor to put the words down; what begin as writing, an accounting of me, turned quickly into “Poetry”. I felt like my spirit wanted the accounting, the apocalyptic writing begin; and it closed with shocking revelations into my personal life.

 

Additional books by Author:

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

 

A Liar’s Life…#79

 

liars life

 

A Liar’s Life…

Standing in a grave yard alone to mourn,

to stare at the mound of dirt; at the shell

of one who loved but a few, a seed of

kindness never sowed, love they did not

seek, now only silence lies beneath.

 

Entitlement is all that remains grief, no

greeting, unwanted presence, gestures,

and attitude in death there was only

greedy ploys. Gluttony bloomed before

the setting of the sun, looking for more

to take; their life took on a forged tongue.

 

Open jeers, false deeds, honor lost, the

price of greed can be at a great cost. Roars

the misty breath of strife destiny has finally

caught up with a Liar’s life.

~

 

“Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish it.”

Elizabeth

 

©.2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

Authors Book at Amazon.com

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&i=stripbooks&crid=2BGV3NKK8VSOQ&sprefix=elizabeht+ann+johnson%2Caps%2C213&ref=nb_sb_ss_sc_1_18

 

And…Barnes and Noble

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