Wings of Poetry…#67

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.


Honey Wine – A short – short story

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



When will the Earths Lights go out…#15

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.




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.



Earthly Cycles – #6




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



The Journey – Monday – Day 14, 2019…

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.


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.



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.









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.