In the Darkness of Night…

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Dedicated to my Grandmothers, Grandfathers and My Daddy…

 

In the Darkness of Night
I hear the cries of my grandmothers and grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears. Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted trail, every scar on their backs another story to tell.
The Grandfathers and their families stood tall, their backs they refused to bend, and the pale strangers herded them like cattle to a far off land, to die in hot barren sand. My people believed the land belonged to no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still they died with broken souls never knowing that their story in time would cover the blood-splattered pages of history.
My people watched as women gave birth and warriors carried the dead, the children went to sleep hungry with the ground as their bed. The day came when these great people were corralled, given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat, in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were bound; a killing field where the blood of my family spilled upon the ground
I hear you my grandmothers and grandfathers, your cries, do not go unheard in the darkness of night; for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake each morning with the taste of your tears.

 
©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

https://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

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The Chickasaw – Part 5

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The Chickasaw – Part 5

Hawk found a way to cross the Mississippi River into Northern Alabama.  They made their home on the Eastern side of Alabama.  They lived among a few Indians that were not forced to leave.  Hawk knew that if they did not live like the “white man” they would be forced to leave or killed.  Sipsee learned the language and would walk to the nearest settlement to work; they wanted to build a cabin.  Sipsee knew that they must change with the times, Hawk kept to himself and his own dreams.

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In 1848, Sipsee gave birth to a baby girl, the only child she and Hawk would ever have; she call her Jane and never gave her an Indian name.  It was Sipsee’s way of trying to go with the coming change in their lives.  This change did not mean that she would not teach her daughter to old customs just learn to survive.  Both Sipsee and Hawk learn to survive in their own ways.  He in the way of the land and playing the white man’s game to his advantage.

Once when Sipsee ventured into town and the general store’s proprietor ask her what was her name, she told him Sipsee.  He asks for her last name, she said “Over-Town”; they had tribe names, but no last name.  He misunderstood and called her Sipsee Overton.  Sipsee decided when dealing with the white man she would use the name Overton; it stayed that and continues in the descendants today.

 

To be continued…

Resource – Storyteller – Jane Over-Town “Overton” 1848-1954 at the age of 106 her mind was Like a steel trap, she never forgot anything, It was her body that was ready for death; she lay down for an afternoon nap and woke only to say goodbye to the grandson she raised, my father.

Other Resources:

Granddaughter – Vina Evans-Quinn

Resource and Post Writer – Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree Great – granddaughter

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RIP Sam Shepard…

samA great American Artist 

“There are no words to describe how I feel, we have lost another great one!”

 

 

ELIZABETH ANN JOHNSON-MURPHREE BOOKS AT AMAZON.COM AND BARNES & NOBEL.COM

FLYING WITH BROKEN WINGS

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BEYOND THE VOICES

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HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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REFLECTIONS OF POETRY

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ECHOING IMAGES

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ASTERIAL THOUGHTS

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RUTTED ROADS

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SACHET OF POETRY

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MY JOURNEY INTO ART

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Thanks for reading and in advance thank you for your comments.  EAJM

 

 Painting below:  Acrylic and Watercolor created December, 2010-The First Christmas without Charlotte…

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NEW BOOK: FLYING WITH BROKEN WINGS…

Source: NEW BOOK: FLYING WITH BROKEN WINGS…

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This book is the story of the “authors” daughter Charlotte Jean Murphree her life and the disorders she had to live with until her death.

Down by the Creek…

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Down by the Creek…

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We walked down by the creek where your ashes nurtured the strokes of nature spreading across the land.  The children skipped and danced in the tall grass, paper and paints in hand.  Their fingers soon became the shades of a fresh rainbow, one screamed “Look”.  Those colors were “Her” favorites.  Then, flowers were drawn in pinks and purples ever so bright.  She had died one year ago that day. A bench inscribed with her name.  We knew that our lives would never be the same but she found such joy in walking among the wildflowers.  We came celebrating her life.

Text Copyright © 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree 

Publishing Rights AsterialThoughts.100WordShortStories 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

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Down by the Creek, is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Brian…

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For  Brian…

All is quiet accept the music in my head, remembered from something that was once so beautiful, now dead.  In the end, you were easily broken like glass, you touched my heart, and how was I to know that our time would so quickly pass?  My heart, blessed by your hands and your eyes, oh so dramatic, yet wise.  When you left, my heart became rigid with each beat, painful when I would see lovers kiss on a hushed city street

These memories are like arrows in my heart; nothing but death could have torn us apart.  Now I am old, and I dream of a time when my heart was not filled with such sorrow.  When the sunlight falls upon my pallid face, I close my eyes asking God to take me away from this mourning place.

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All is barren accept the music in my head, remembered from something that was once so beautiful and sweet.  Soon I will feel your breath upon my cheek, as we stand side-by-side, on a far away shore walking Heaven’s golden streets forever more. 

FREE KINDLE:  ECHOING IMAGES FROM THE SOUL  FEBRUARY 10 – FEBRUARY 14

 

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©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree 

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Thinking of Charlotte…

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This coming summer I will walk by the creek where we scattered your ashes seven years ago to nurture the strokes of nature, the wind spreading them across the rippling water.  The children will skip and dance in the tall grasses in the meadow, paper and paints in hand ready to create “we love you” notes to tie to balloons.  Their fingers will become the shades of a fresh rainbow, flowers drawn in pinks and purple her favorite colors.  The wild flowers will surround our much-loved place, hallowed ground where a bench sits inscribed with her name.  We will all laughed, tell stories, paint and dance among the flowers.  In reality, our daughter, sister and aunt would never be seen again.  The underlying truth was that our lives have never been the same, in life, she taught us patience and love; in death, she taught us to appreciate every moment of every day

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree  

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Second Anniversary…

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Today is the second anniversary of my blog Confessional Fiction, Free Verse Poetry, Prose, Non-Fiction and Art. During the last two years, I have been fortunate enough to acquire 1363 followers, 680 Twitter followers from the blog and 355,885 hits. 

All of this is because of “you” my followers, and those who drop by just to browse.  You have supported and help me get through serious health problems and the continued grief of a lost love one; this is because of you. 

Then, there are those of you who have become “Cyber” friends, and to these friends…you held me up when I was down and you walked beside me in spirit as I struggle to become healthy, write and create, a special thank you goes to you and you know who you are.

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree   

27.Night Dragonfly

NIGHT ANGELS