Tag: Peace

When will the Earths Lights go out…#15

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ Leave a comment

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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The Journey – Monday – Day 14, 2019…

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The Ticking Clock…

A weathervane stilled under a glowing moon bares to the moon its raven wings, in predicted circles it swings. Fishing boats rise and fall behind the jetty wall, the old man mending his netting can hear the sea call.

Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman’s mind rushes like the tick of a clock. Time for one more catch before winter freezes the shore; the nets have taken too long, an overwhelming chore.

He sits remembering his world, its ghosts that the ocean has taken, the young men that God had forsaken. In the beginning the ancient winds brought the fish to earth, they filled the sea to give birth.

Our ancestor’s footsteps imprinted upon the pier, late in the night their sorrowful cries we can hear. Hurry, hurry the time is growing near, soon your boats will freeze in their moorings, the winter winds are what you should fear.

Look upward at the weathervane and its circular world, around and around it whirls. The daybreak will quickly be gone and you will ask God…where did I go wrong. Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman mind rushes like the tick of a clock.

 
©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.

 
AUTHORS BOOK AT AMAZON.COM
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The Journey – Sunday – Day 13, 2019…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ Leave a comment

I  recently spoke to an acquaintance who told of her husband living in a nursing home, he was unhappy and so was she. Being ten years his junior placed such a burden on her shoulders. 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, not my belief. The function of one’s body grows weaker, sitting in that doomed place with little human contact. The sunset-glow 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 this fog in the mind of the aged; at times, they remember of those long ago youthful days. They may flitter across the closed mind like an open window. Nonetheless, the prison door of the mind never opens; it is walled-in unknown to most what thoughts lay buried deep within. 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 one’s self. Like the snow-covered winter landscape, life is stilled, a shadow of one’s self. Life from the womb begins a painful story, a stormy world like summer winds and rain. Beauty spent and done, despite Hells rage now silenced by the passing of time. With the eyes looking past what lays ahead, bondage no longer a threat as the mind realizes it will only end in death. Whom can we blame? No one!

Mindfulness provides a simple but powerful route for getting our selves unstuck, back into touch with our own wisdom and vitality. It is a way to take charge of the direction and quality of our own lives, including our relationships within the family, and to the larger world and planet, and most fundamentally, our relationships with our self as a person. Begin now, to become aware of what lies in the future our future. The key lies in the works of Emerson and Thoreau, Whitman and Native American wisdom. Read and become aware of what your future might be, the words of these great people will pave the way to your tomorrows.

Do not fall prey to the thoughts of those who would harm you. Hold on to your opinions, expectations and the many possibilities that will open to you as you age. Mindfulness is simply an art of conscious living. Be yourself, keep in touch with your deepest feelings, and let greatness flow from you. This will go a long way to keeping you young.

 

©2019.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

The Journey – Thursday – Day 10, 2019

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ Leave a comment

We are day ten into the New Year, I try to recall the past and what have I done, what have I accomplished during these many years. My childhood, I more often than not I raised myself, along with those wonderful women my great-great-grandmother whom I call “Ma” a solid rock of full-blooded Native American ancestry and “Aunt Francis” a black woman of wisdom. I raised five children alone . Along the way, I worked in the public sector for forty years. During retirement, I begin searching for who I was, and what I wanted out of the second half of my life.

I returned to painting and writing. I have written and published nine books of poetry.  I had a daughter who passed in 2010; I published her story, I also published a photo journey of my special companion Mason, my four-legged child, in pictures. I published a book of my own paintings. I have tried to reinvent myself during these past twenty years and I am still working on myself as I continue to travel down a mysterious path on my journeys into yesterday, tomorrow and that final day. What have I learned?

I believe that the journey we humans lead down one of three paths. The first path leads to success, these are the people that have material riches and yes, sorrow. Then there is the second path, one that leads to happiness and sorrow, yet, these people live a good life. They are capable of handling life. The third path is one of total destruction. The important question now is how you and I are going to live our lives, which path will we take.

When you find yourself at the crossroads of the here and now, will you put in the effort to be free, will you walk through the doors of reality, choosing the path wisely. I believe in meditation, it is simply about being yourself, finding yourself, your life is always unfolding in front of you, seeking the answer to truth. If you are not careful truth will be ignored, be fallow and unacknowledged.

Life is at times like a slippery slope, the grave will hold all of those years of  life-unexamined half-truths, fears, you did not achieve that which was given to you on the path of your life, and you ignored the wealth, happiness and greatness. If you wake up and breakout, your life unfolds on a path of success. Get off that slippery slope and follow your path to importance. No one can do this job but you. At the end of a long life, dedicated mindfulness will be acknowledged and you will be remembered as an individual of understanding and wisdom.

 

 

©2019elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

The Truth about Thanksgiving…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 4 Comments

 

Thanksgiving…

When you were sitting at your Thanksgiving table, did you begin your “feast” with a prayer to “GOD”, the “GREAT CREATOR” or whomever you believe to be your deity? I relate Thanksgiving to Slavery and Bloodbaths by those people who came to the Americas without being invited. It was the home of many tribes of Native Americans.
Most of us associate the holiday with happy Pilgrims and Indians sitting down to a big feast, once. I believe that the entire human race and its progress were based on slavery. In 1614, a band of English explorers sailed from the Americas home to England with a ship full of Pawtuxet Indians bound for slavery. These Pilgrims left behind smallpox by the time that the Pilgrims arrived back in Massachusetts Bay they found only one living Pawtuxet Indian, a man named Squanto who had survived slavery in England and knew their language. He taught them to grow corn and to fish, and negotiated a peace treaty between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Nation. At the end of their first year, the Pilgrims held a great feast honoring Squanto and the Wampanoag’s. A peaceful Thanksgiving?

As word spread in England about the paradise to be found in the new world, religious zealots called Puritans began arriving by the boatload. Finding no fences around the land, they considered it to be in the public domain. Joined by other British settlers, they seized land, capturing strong young Natives for slaves and killing the rest. The Pequot Nation had not agreed to the peace treaty Squanto had negotiated and they fought back. The Pequot War was one of the bloodiest Indian wars ever fought. With white Puritans illegally taking land from the Indians and placing the strongest into slavery.

In 1637 near present day Groton, Connecticut, over 700 men, women and children of the Pequot Tribe had gathered for their annual Green Corn Festival, which is an America’s Thanksgiving celebration. In the predawn hours, English and Dutch mercenaries who ordered them to come outside surrounded the sleeping Indians. Those who came out were shot or clubbed to death while the terrified women and children who huddled inside the longhouse were burned alive. The next day the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony declared “A Day of Thanksgiving” because 700 unarmed men, women and children had been murdered.

Cheered by their “victory”, the colonists and their Indian allies attacked village after village. Women and children over 14 were sold into slavery while the rest were murdered. Boats loaded with as many as 500 slaves regularly left the ports of New England. Bounties were paid for Indian scalps to encourage as many deaths as possible.

Following an especially successful raid against the Pequot in what is now Stamford, Connecticut, the churches announced a second day of “thanksgiving” to celebrate victory over the heathen savages. During the feasting, the hacked off heads of Natives were kicked through the streets like soccer balls. Even the friendly Wampanoag did not escape the madness. Their chief was beheaded, and his head impaled on a pole in Plymouth, Massachusetts — where it remained on display for 24 years.

The killings became more and more turbulent, with days of thanksgiving feasts being held after each successful massacre. George Washington the first founding father finally suggested that only one day of Thanksgiving per year be set aside instead of celebrating each and every massacre. Later Abraham Lincoln decreed Thanksgiving Day to be a legal national holiday during the Civil War — on the same day he ordered troops to march against the starving Sioux in Minnesota.

This story doesn’t have quite the same warm feelings associated with it as the one where the Indians and Pilgrims are all sitting down together at the big feast. Nevertheless, we need to learn our true history so it will not ever be repeated. Next Thanksgiving, when you gather with your loved ones to Thank God for all your blessings, think about those people who only wanted to live their lives and raise their families, they also took time out to say “thank you” to Creator for all their blessings. How they died defending the soil they lived on…isn’t that what America does today, defend the soil of this country? Does each and every American want to live on their land, pray for peace without the possibility of being slaughtered, well, that is all the Indians wanted. Each and every American gain was paid for by the blood of whom you now call Native Americans or Blacks in Slavery.

Is Thanksgiving really the word we want to use? Is it possible that we are no different from any other country? We have been squatters, takers and killers on this land called America for years. If you want to “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN”, “GIVE IT BACK”.

E.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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I am Woman…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 6 Comments

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

 
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On Writing…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 1 Comment

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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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Mindful…

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 2 Comments

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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The Parsimonious Me Returns and Other Thoughts

~ elizabethannjohnsonmurphree ~ 2 Comments

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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

 

 

 

The Beast has no fears, no tears…

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The Beast has no fears, no tears…
The deep voice foul and inflamed cast its disgusting face toward the gentle and the brave. Some said do not listen to the lusting rage of the golden haired Beast who wants to be called King. He scorns the Justice of God; the Beast rages on day and night, it never recoils. Many minds quickly became splintered fissures, torn by the evil of this Beast; these people, their minds seized could see no guilt in the actions of the beast, nor those who encouraged his deceit.
Greed gives power to those who listen to the Beast with its insatiability to rule and those who praise its vices; they become fully surrendered to blindness. The darkness that the Beast spreads across the land called doom; it is a mockery of what the people once knew. Does no one oppose this creature from Hell? No, they soon become weary souls lost within the claws of its contamination. The Beast is spreading a life of splendor, all the while depriving many souls of truth.
This Beast is a serpent, those who follow in its path become deaf to its words, and he claims to be godlike. It dwells above human law, as people walk a dark, narrow and steep path to build his greatness, his followers will struggle in slime while the Beast spreads its rage. The air that once smelled sweet now nothing more than a stench of a murky swamp, most choking on the wrath that one must endure to please and promote the Beast who is untouchable in the highest of places looking down upon its own created filth.
The Beast has no tears or fears, damned are those who praise its glory, damned are those who wallow in its kingdom feeling the gnashing of its teeth. It is the wailing, deplorable and unceasing, that will be heard over what was once the land of greatness and plenty. Laughter can be heard within the walls of those who served him. The gentle Savior will come and the Beast will turn its head away. There will be fear and anguish, people will see the heat of his messages go cold, the beast will fall before the people, and it will have no words. It will walk into hell unhindered and descend upon the path trembling, his time over, his voice stilled by the gentle people.

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Beast with golden hair wants to rule the world it is the people, all people that must open their eyes and see the filth that spews from his mouth, lies. It is not God who can save the people, it is their free will and they must save themselves.

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