Tag: Change

The Parsimonious Me Returns and Other Thoughts

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 2 Comments

thC18LMS7K

 

(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

 

 

 

The Passing of Time…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 2 Comments

The Passing of Time…

What can one say about growing old? The loss of shape, hiding beneath many layers of clothing, sparkle gone from one’s eyes. One is no longer beautiful in the eyes of others. The function of one’s body grows weaker, sitting in that doomed place with little human contact. The sunset-glow felt in the beginning of each day is gone. Dreams escape the demented mind, as does the ordinariness of each day.

There is certain knowledge within the fog of the mind of the aged; those long ago youthful days may flitter across the closed window of the mind. Nonetheless, the prison door never opens the walled-in prison unknown to most. It is the last stage of life, frozen within and quite, a phantom of themselves, a hollow ghost.

No longer, a figure of delight, no longer surrounded by the sweet smell of life. Like the snow-covered winter landscape, life is stilled; a shadow of one’s long ago self. Life from the womb begins a painful story, a stormy world like summer storms, winds and rain. Beauty spent and done, despite Hells rage now silenced by the passing of time. With the eyes looking pass what lies ahead, bondage no longer a threat as the mind realizes it will end in death.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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

 

 

The Gilded Gate…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 5 Comments

Dreaming – The Gilded Gate…

Thunder bellows from the sky, descending to valley floor, it roused me from a deep sleep; the one lying beside me does not move, they do not wake. It quickly becomes darker; the profound sounds hold angrily above the valley they bounce off the forest, trees sways in the wind. Without warning, the winds spiral upward into the thunder and lightning. The valley was like a ringed abyss. The wind continued like torment and blaspheming.

A sadness began to settle in, is this the outer certainty of hell? I questioned my faith, would my lover and I die within this doomed place, God please hear my pleading. I cried. Did I fall asleep, did I fall into a restless dream, and then an obedient voice was heard. Within this dream. I witnessed countless people, their hopelessness as they walked slowly through a gate.

The dream continued on, leaving me bewildered in my darkest deepest sleep. Then rose a widening light, it filled half of the darkness, “Who Master are those that walk through the gilded gate”. My master smiles at me, it was then that the gate opens to me wide green lawns stretched as far as the eyes could see. Then marvelous spirits approached. I moved quickly trying to walk into the moving light.

I woke and the darkness fell around me, the wind had left the valley, I would live for another day.

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

AUTHOR’S NOTE: A Dream

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

Excerpt: Poetry from Rhythm Rhyme Thoughts

rranst

Dance

My life was not to be, it stopped, astonished, I hold to the memory as you would a child upon your lap, I grow old without growing. I most frequently return the grave. The grave will not give up my child. I am an old woman with nothing left but memories.

I have no home to go back too, no one wants me to visit, aunts, uncles all dead. No longer does anyone whisper of them. I wish the people of my youth were gathered in one place. Nevertheless, it was not to be, not for me, no mother, no father, their all in the graveyard.

The child in me is ready to go home, to change, and to stand by the road crying out “I am home”. I stand on the stump of my childhood. Life is still lost. The branches of my tree are barren, only air fills that space. The world that was my world.

I am all burned out, a flash in a century, now ash. No one notices me here on the stump by the road, the sap runs out of the trees; I too will soon do the slow dance toward my permanent home.

Copyright 2018