HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE…

THANKS TO ALL OF YOU, HOPE YOUR THANKSGIVING IS A PEACEFUL ONE.  IF YOU LIVE OUTSIDE THE USA AND DO NOT CELEBRATE THIS DAY, A WARM HAPPY DAY FULL OF THANKS TO ALL OF YOU.  E.

10.Cabin in the Meadow

THE SOUTHERN TWO-PEN HOUSE ON TOP OF BURLESON MOUNTAIN 1939

 

 

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I am Woman…

I am Woman…

So, I am Woman, the wind whips through down the ridges of my throat, graveling pain spills out of my voice, I listen to the wind, it turns toward the sea, I said again, I am Woman.

I hear no echoes from the waves, the words are swallowed up in the voice of the surf as it swells and leaps over the bleached sands. I call to it, I am Woman.

Like sea mist across the dunes, I sway and beg the wind to take me away; words fall silent upon the shore, as I went out in the night to return no more, my choice, I am Woman.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
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Mother Earth…

 

20.charlotte prairie

Acrylic Painting by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

 

Mother Earth…

The sun falls in every nook and cranny, the birds sing a beautiful song against the morning light. The crow lands inside a blue Spruce, boughs sway underneath the tiny feet, the bobbing holds the interest of a squirrel. Walking while the imagination falls into motion, a leaf lands at my feet, I look up and the clouds come alive, breaking over and under, profound, alive, forming cats, horses, elephants and Jesus. Everything is alive here upon Mother Earth and in the Heavens, we tend, we produce and make room for those who will come. It is then that our pain will ease, our cries quell and we will be delivered into peace.

 
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
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On Writing…

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Sunday, November 11, I wrote about being mindful. My son Chuck is always using and discussing the word mindful, therefore, it is always to my forefront in my thoughts. Today, I thought I would discuss a little about writing, my writing. A favorite writer of mine Anne Lamott says,” No one cares if you continue to write, so you’d better care, because otherwise you are doomed”.

I was a closet writer, literally, my desk and computer was in a small closet I opened the door pulled out the chair, and there I was in what I thought to be my writing space. I wrote short stories. Once I had finished a story or what I thought was a finished story, I neatly filed it away in a file box on the shelf above me. Oh, I had been writing for years, since the age of five to be exact. The job of eliminating me of such a frivolous waste of time fell upon my mother. Every time she would find my big chief writing tablet and fat pencil, she threw it in the burning barrel. When we would go to see my Aunt Vina, she would send me home with a new supply, Aunt Vina encouraged my imagination. When I would stay with her during summers, I was to have a new story to read each day when she came home from work.

My love of reading through the years introduced me to all manner of authors and styles. Again, Aunt Vina encouraged my reading and writing. If it were not for her, I would not enjoy my retirement years, and then I began to dabble into the art of poetry. I spoke with my son Chuck who is a writer, explaining that I seem to have the ability to write poetry and I loved it. He expressed his belief that maybe this was the direction that I should go. Several published poetry books later I believe that all of my experiences in life found their way upon the blank page in the form of poetry had been depleted.

My next adventure was a book containing all of my artwork. When that book was completed and published, I begin the life story of my daughter Charlotte who passed away in 2010. When the grief began to spill over into my daily life where I could no longer control my emotions, I wrote. There were times when I thought that I may never write again, I thought of words but none would meld together to create any serious writing. Then, the book about Charlottes’ life was published. I still believed that my poetry and the well-house from where I gathered words might have dried up. It was then that I published a book of images of my four-legged friend Mason, finally I returned to my favorite writer Anne Lamott who said,” No one cares if you continue to write, so you’d better care, because otherwise you are doomed”.

After a few weeks of idleness, I outlined a family saga. A working title, Generations of heroes and assholes, their secrets and lies. I believe this undertaking of possibly a series of five books or one huge book will fill several years, which along with my blog and family should keep me busy. Along with that, a part of my day will be set aside for painting, reading books, researching, and enjoying the post of my favorite people, those who visit my blog.
Good Writing to All

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
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Mindful…

I have tried to go back over my past, most reflected upon childhood, emotional wounds, the scars that you cannot see; yet the pain is there sometimes quiet and other times excruciating. The teenage years found me defective and with no value, not without my trying. I made excellent grades, but not allowed to join any afterschool activities, my mother thought I should be at home cooking and cleaning for the rest of the day. In the sixth grade, she did allow me to join a concert band that would continue through high school, concert and marching band. The reason, my mother was friends with the band directors’ wife… the only reason. This was my life as a teenager, I could go to all of the football games and it allowed me to attend music camps as well. This did not save me! I grew with no treasured possessions mental or physicals. Nonetheless, that was then and this is now.

Today they are so many who are broken down and frightened, yet as humans we are always searching for happiness. We mostly accept our lives young or old; we can pray that our lives have turned out as God planned, if you believe in God. I sometimes wish I were a child again before understanding grew within my brain, birth. Many of us live our entire lives for others, literally. When needed I plug myself into work?

Hate is a terrible emotion, this is the most awful thing and I try to surround myself put up a wall where hate cannot reach me. It does not work for me. The hate and malignant thoughts of others penetrate the wall, the thin skin and embeds itself deep within my soul. I cannot forget the hate that I have suffered at the hands of others. However, I cannot change them, so I pray for them. The willingness to change their behavior is ignored. As humans, we need the courage to accept them for what they are; the goal is to bring manic dramas into our lives. The fingerprints of hate has been embedded upon my psyche since childhood, I try not to respond to it, they want you to feel the pain at all cost we must try to fight it be aware, be mindful for these are struggling souls, they are precious. God is my defense.

When all this occurs, we must create a new vision for ourselves, lift our eyes and hands to the heavens and do the best we can.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

*A collection of thoughts for a new book

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Everyone has a past and everyone has memories. I am currently working on a project of a series of five books, a biography of the lives of myself and of those that are relatives. This post and others will consist of my thoughts on many subjects. My poetry will have to sit on the back burner so to speak, as this is an undertaking that will span a year or more.


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AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
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The Parsimonious Me Returns and Other Thoughts

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(A collection of thoughts for a writing project)

The unpleasant events of an old woman living in modern day times can be fearful. Everything around the world is being destroyed by fire, smoldering lava of a volcano, buildings are imploding and exploding by the work of foreign or homegrown terrorist. Tsunami’s wipe out shorelines and far inland, earthquakes swallows everything in the path of its deadly fingers opening the earth. Global warming is real, our weather and the results of it leave broad paths of destruction to prove it.

If we compare our inward selves to the unpleasant events of the times within the family, friends and acquaintances, our deep secrets and the truth of the spirit and soul are no doubt warring. Yes, the outward looks and smiles get you through those needed moments, all the while the turmoil is griping you inward with you pushing it to the edge of doom and no return. Of course, what does this have to do with aging; I am certain all ages go through the insecure components of their sense

Yet, all the time we are aging, in those winter years it becomes scary, there is so much to do with less time to do it. Time will not stand still. The family “rock” must be strong, able to withstand anything. I have lead life as best I could. Outside the family, I had role models, my Aunt, a teacher, and when I became an adult, I had work mentors.

I live with depression, anxiety, all of my life and with thoughts of suicide, and during those married years, I thought of it more often; but I had too many responsibilities as an adult to act upon my thoughts. All of these debilitating feelings started in childhood. When I was not in school, I was at home alone to roam the woods surrounding our home. We had no phones, and my mother told me how to act, to live, what to say…be seen and not heard, she was not a woman who beat children. She was a woman that tore her children down mentally, telling me I should be grateful to be living and have a mother. Well that statement and its answer, is far too long to place in this post, it will have to be covered as a topic all its own.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

*A collection of thoughts for a new book

 

Other books on sale at Amazon.com

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Everyone has a past and everyone has memories. I am currently working on a project of a series of five books, a biography of the lives of myself and of those that are relatives. This post and others will consist of my thoughts on many subjects. My poetry will have to sit on the back burner so to speak, as this is an undertaking that will span a year or more.

AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_4_8?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnsonmurphree&sprefix=ann+john%2Caps%2C221&crid=RM5ALVGUNEEB

 

 

 

Mississippi River Nightmare…

 

Image result for hobo  banks of the mississippi river

 

 

Mississippi River Nightmare…

Uncovered and wrinkled is my sack, a gigantic hump on my
Back. Frost clutches to these old rags, my body is covered
With burlap bags.

My flesh like ashes my face tinged with blue, my chest
Rattles, my lungs sucking in the morning dew. I have
Traveled on the railroad back and forth, does not matter
Where, south or north.

I sometimes walk city streets when they are dark and dead,
The side of a railroad is where I make my bed. I eat my
Food from old tin cans, I will steal candy from little hands.

I scream for the warmth I see coming from the riverbank,
A bright fire, from this cold I do tire. I think that I am
Burning, I smell smoldering hair, my arms are thrashing in the
Air.

I see evil darkness, what is this madness, I feel spiritually ill,
Then, I gasp in horror when I realize that I am dead. Here on
This cold and damp riverbank someone has severed my head.
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree