Stories, Poetry, Thoughts, Life
To a poet, writing is the blood that flows
Through the veins, words the sinew of
Their being, creating the movement of
The body, finishing uplifts the soul,
Failure not an option as the story must
Be told.
The lines may read of sadness, of stars
Hanging in the dark blue, shivering in the
Distance, creating against all resistance.
Waiting for the finished poem to float in
On butterfly wings, in perfection poetry sings.
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
The world stops, time stands still, the
Universe becomes a vacuum, the heart
Pounds for release. Life is unkind;
Memories explosive. Emptiness,
Emotions surface into an unyielding mind.
The search for happiness is a story untold,
Bearable by barricading heart and soul.
Seek a reason to unlock loves door, sealed
Shut so many years before.
Why does love come so easily to have people?
Toss it away, for some it never comes to stay.
The mind tells the one left behind that they will
Survive, love will come, and love will thrive.
The heart behind the wall is always trying to
Escape; waiting to be found. The world stopped,
Time stood still, the universe becomes a vacuum
And the heart begins to pound.
Yet, if you can remember only one unforgettable
Time, sometimes love has no reason or rhyme. The
Clouds part, familiar stirring begins; you tell yourself
To be patient doubtful heart.
©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
Days gone by…
I have set aside promises I made to myself in my youth; my hopes and dreams have become dim memories. I gaze through the window of my future and I see tombstones of yesterday’s promises; all covered with reminiscent vine. I weep for the uncertainty of my future and the dreams I left behind. These ambiguous days is where I start my last journey, climb the mountains of my memories while trying to forget the rubble of yesterday. I ask myself, if I could turn back the hands of time would I follow the same path; of course, I would!
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
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Honey Wine – A short – short Story
Serena knew that beauty had an ending that all things fade and die; now she was in the winter of her years. All her friends were gone, as was much of her family, some forgotten like goldenrods falling to dust upon the wind. Her eyes yearned, her heart bled for love, frustration guided her thoughts, and she kept repeating the words…
“Old, old, old.” Serena hated to eat from a plate made of paper; if she was younger, they may let her dine on fine bone china.
“Now you come with me Ms Serena, its supper time.” Lucas had a special bond Serena. He did not mind that she lived in the past or the present.
Satiation, that was where Serena was in her mind, then she thought…it is necessary that people should feel wants beyond the want created by mere hunger.
The clouds of time have spun away like the seasons; she now waited for the last leaf to drop. All that was left was the sweet memories, like the taste of her father’s Honey wine. Please she whispered let it go quickly…
“I am so tired of time”. Serena looks at the setting sun, as it melted into the lake next to where she shared a room with a stranger
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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In the world that we know we cannot see, yet it is floating, suspended in the dark hole of life. The earth turns floating, and she is tired by the changing of time, seasons, inhabited by those who bring wraith to her. As humans we look for things that will turn out in a magnificent way, we dwell on how things will unfold. Yet, as humans, we keep interfering with her growth, her peace, her beauty. She weeps, the tears fall, trickling, sprawling into the depths of hopelessness.
We, as humans stand still doing nothing to save her, if we have made the wrong choices it is the children who must pay, so why do we care? There is no gain for the earth of today, caring is left in the past, the yesterdays of our own childhood. We show no wisdom, and the great “Sayers” who say nothing, sit and let her be destroyed. A few fight for Earth, but they are too small in numbers.
There is no help from those who can the President and other lawmakers who could make a difference, they do not care. They will not admit that there is such a thing as Global Warming. I have been here for many decades and have witnessed Earth’s decline. There is no victory, we will not leave her as we found her, slow dank waters will form swamps as the rivers dry up, in the woods the cedars’ will soon be like winter bones. EARTH, she will stand for many eternities, but then she will die and her light will go out.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
AUTHOR’S NOTE: We cannot think about the “seasons” without bringing Mother Earth into the fold. She has served us well, beware she made not be here forever, be good to her.
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Wild Mountain Rose…#14
There is a legend up on Mossy Ridge that children hear while listening to the old folks weaves their tales around their supper table at night – About…
Two gentle spirits walking the rutty mountain roads under the mystical Tennessee moonlight. These stories begin many years ago about an old Cherokee and a little girl he called his Wild Mountain Rose – Folks …
First, saw her drinking from a cool mountain stream all legs and dirty yellow hair abandoned by her family so the stories go, but no one is sure of that, if the truth were told. The first time the old Cherokee saw her, she was sleeping under a bush folks call the Mountain Rose – Afterwards…
She was with him no matter where he would go. Folks would say that without old Willie Youngblood she would not have survived – Willie…
He knew that without her, he himself would have died. The years went by quickly and they both grew old, time had touched their hair with gray – They…
Could only dream about their younger days. One cool spring morning Willie woke to find her gone from his side, he sat for hours head hung low as he cried – Later…
He found her lying peacefully she had died there on a soft bed of leaves, a mournful death chant was the only way the old Cherokee knew how to grieve. Now if you know where to look it is in the Tennessee Mountains where Willie Youngblood’s Wild Mountain Rose can be found – Beneath…
The damp rotting forest floor in a shallow grave up on Mossy Ridge near the entrance of Chicopee Cave. The following winter Old Willie died and they buried him next to his Wild Mountain Rose – Folks…
Say in the moonlight two ghostly spirits can be seen sitting on the banks of Chestnut Creek or floating along the rutty mountain roads. When the sun comes up they disappear, or so the legend goes, but everyone on Mossy Ridge knows that it is Old Willie and that golden haired pup he found those many years ago, His…
Wild Mountain Rose.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
God will Judge – #9
Life is uncertain, a race where most people do no more than run in place, there can be happiness, sadness, and around every corner a surprise; yet hope blooms. Life is what one must create within their allotted space, or sit on the sidelines, leaving their journey to fate.
Life is not all joy, as we float upon the winds of time; there are rights and wrongs; and unknown quandaries, setbacks, and living means moving forward. Life quickly passes, fair and cloudy days, laughter and tears, and then the warmth of the sun subsides ones fears.
Life may mean walking in the valleys of despair until fate starts an upward climb, living with happiness, or grief; always trust the heart and mind. Life lived in harmony with others, loving, caring and expectations met; seeds of livelihood sown, atonement locked away for God to judge; we strive and labor as time passes on.
Life waits for no one, your parents teach you the lessons to get you through those uncertain days, and you leave the nest filled with a quest; now living as an adult, it is your own mind that you must trust. Life is a learning ground, you stumble and you fall, the lessons you were taught at time can take effort, then you find that you do not know it all.
Life when you were a teen you found that you were filled with adventure, you move forward in the quest; you soon find that you have tried to do your best. Life has turned dark hair into gray, the pains of just living will never go away; you will visit the small patch of ground that will be your last resting place.
Life gave you the spirit to live, when things went wrong you never ask why; age is now running, no longer in place; you can see the light that you will travel through. You grow silent, it is time to say goodbye.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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Revenge – Script #13
Doctors looked down at the young girl in her drugged sleep; her pillow wet with tears shed before the medicine took effect placing her in a coma. Her face innocence even though she had lived a nightmare: she would sleep until her broken body and mind could heal. Her attacker had taken her for self-indulgence and pleasure. Andrew “Stubby” Bodine’s type was always on the prowl; always taking from others; especially young girls. He did see the angry mop coming in their flatboats. Mary Jane Ayres would heal while her abductor hangs from a Swamp Oak in Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Swamp.
Author Note: You have just read the beginning of my script, one page into a new book.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
Earthly Cycles – #6
January was cold and depressing; it’s February, and until the sweet girls birthday is here; we do not celebrate it as we use to, as young girls they make more adult like plans, for me I just sit and remember those cherub face and hands.
February is drenched with the beginnings of winter thaw; two more sweet children celebrate while shivering in the cold. March rushes in with the winds drying the earth; getting ready for springs daffodils’, another sweet birthday comes and goes, like the sweet girl I use to cuddle and hold.
In April, the birds begin to sing bringing to life the flowers of May, sunny June comes another birthday, with it comes the longest day of the year that brings the winter lovers to tears. July is yet another birthday along with the scorched days of summer’s heat. In August the earth gives its children acres of corn, September comes the fruit the trees and vines have born.
October earth removes her summer cloaks as stars shoot across a November sky; the nights become long, cold with early frost. The strong December winds begin and soon comes, January the seasons have gone through their Earthly cycle with cold and snow all over again.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree #6
Dancing in Sunbeams – #5
Rose could visualize the little country church, the chorus of Crows flying back and forth over the gabled roof; its white washed siding. The hand hued two-pin cabin stood alone at the edge of a pasture. Not too far away stood a row of Birch trees beside a shallow creek, winding its way through an open field green of Johnson grass. She pictured a group of black feathered Angels following a funeral hearse down the old dirt road. The rocker on the weathered porch of the cabin sat unmoving, the sun would be glowing through tattered curtains and dancing in the nearby cracked mirror. Rose felt empty and that childhood was dead as was her beloved Grandmother.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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Rhythm Rhyme Thoughts 