Causalities of Life…

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The homeless cannot sleep on cold nights, some gather around burning barrels, men, women and children, forgotten, shattered and despised by those who are more fortunate… those who have a home, a job.  In the distance, you may hear a baby cry.  Mothers’, Fathers’ are begging for food, living on the streets, no jobs, the family no longer sound. 

Government talks end up in contradictions, a lifetime of poverty is the homeless prediction.   The spirit freezes, fruit of labors rot, life squeezes and struggles persist.   Bad luck smothering heart and soul, hope ceases to exist.  Shifting winds turn into storms, will the world grow wiser or beaten back into servility?  Trust departed, a cardboard box in the streets is where the homeless make their beds, hope disappears and the future appears dead.  Wake up America! 

 

 

Writing

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

Choices – A 100 Word Story

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Choices

A roar of thunder melds with a coming storm, Tom Thornton’s heart is stone; he knows that because he feels nothing.  His wife’s veins once flowed with a passionate fire; now the crimson liquid spread across the floor.  Doors locked, a decision had to be made and quickly.  His life also ended when he would not let Sarah leave.  His heart will never soften; he will never feel the heat of Sarah’s fire again.  The police and ambulance sirens filter into the house.  He sat on the bed asking, “God, will I go to Heaven if I choose to die”?

 

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Unyielding Heart – A 100 Word Story

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Unyielding Heart

Amy Dumont woke begging the world to stop; today her memories did not fill the emptiness left in an unyielding heart.  Her plan was to seal shut the door on life, quietly fade away.  She asks herself how others survive.  At times, she knew that her soul peaked over her walled up heart wanting to escape or be found.  She walked up to the grassy mound laying upon it a single yellow rose, softly she touched the headstone tracing the words Andrew Dumont; then looking to the sky she watched clouds part and said to herself  “Be patient doubtful heart”.

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

Amazon.com

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Books at Amazon.com

Coffee Table Books – 8 X 11

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On a Blue Bird Day

It is spring, warm breezes float through magnolia trees.  A gracious woman of the South rises from past memories; her thoughts behind the ice blue eyes. She sits on the bank of a pebbly brook under a Blue Bird sky, the scent of lilac rises from her starched dress.  She dips her fingers slowly into the cool water; she is old and life has passed her by, and the depths of her truth never known.  In her secret place of selfishness her hate for an unwanted child; she stops to ponder her own question; does she deserve the name “Mother”.

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Happy Father’s Day Daddy…

30. Women in cottonfield

The painting is from an acrylic and watercolor I did in 2012,  it is one of my favorites as its subjects are from the memory of my childhood; of a place that I loved, and as a child understood the hardships of the times.  My daddy passed away in 1977, he was a good man; he was a Native American farming and living in Northern Alabama.  He farmed almost 500 acres of cotton as a “sharecropper” he made $80 a month and we lived in a tarpaper shack on a small patch of green next to a natural spring that ran into a small creek.  He was the parent who raised me and I would ride on cool mornings to the field in the back of a wagon pulled by two old mules.  At the end of the day I nestled in that same wagon on a soft bed of cotton for the trip home.  My hopes are that he is somewhere beyond the veil of life sitting on the back of a wagon with the sweet smell of smoke from his pipe circling his head as he visits with those he loved and respected.  I wrote the poem below as a tribute to him drawn on the memories of those day.

“A  tribute to Daddy”

 

The Chickasaw Farmer

Rickety old man stood on the cotton wagon a tin of yellow salve in his hand.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

A hot southern sun hides behind the willows on muddy Flint Creek, cotton pickers sweat falling on parched lips taste like salty brine while they wait for the Old man to call “quitting time”.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Young, old, children, women and men bloody fingers cut by the barbs of the cotton boll dig into the old yellow salve tin.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Tar bottom sacks emptied of the soft white gold weary feet follow two old sway back mules down a rutted road.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Crimson clouds from wagon wheels whirl around tired bodies and drained minds; feels like pickers were working in the cotton fields since the beginning of time.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Mules stop at the fork of the road as the cotton pickers walked into the dark of the night the Old man’s heart filled with appreciation, because he is just an old Chickasaw farmer trying to survive inside a “White Nation”.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

©2015.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Back from my road trip…

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Back from my road trip…

I needed to get away; from where I live, away from the multitude of “retired” people who live around me, and the stress they put upon their lives and try to push into mine.  I needed to drive, listen to music, spend all day smiling without my heart feeling infringed upon or standing still.  I wanted to be happy and carefree as I drove away from Wisconsin.

The road stretched forever over the flatlands of Illinois.  After driving all day it was time to stop, nightfall was quickly approaching and I was still in Illinois.  The small towns scattered along the way some bustling, others stood like ghosts from yesteryear.  A hot tub and a swim took care of the stiffness and people watching built new characters in my mind.  I had no problem with sleep as I prepared for the rest of my drive through tall, narrow Illinois.

Waking to a swim and breakfast of fruit  I stared out the window at wind and rain; ahead lay an endless road and pounding windshield wipers, then suddenly the sun came through the clouds and I was in Kentucky.   For a while, my thoughts reflected on my life and what route it might be taking me; I recharted my destiny and smiled with the thought of following my own dreams.  The rolling hills of Kentucky and Tennessee open up my mind to my past and future.

It seems as if I have been lost my whole life within a world that I did not plan for myself and I remembered the old cliché, is this all there is?  My dreams had slept for years waiting to be awakened as I collected life’s baggage and continue to question life.  At times the question haunts me still, Is this all there is?

I stopped in Alabama to visit family, eat familiar foods, swim in blue waters and get back in touch with my roots; the ones that I ran from years ago.  Leaving to return home, I circled back into the hills of Tennessee, lingered among the folks there and took in the smells and sights of the South.  I allowed myself to enjoy the beauty of Kentucky and grand horses that grazed upon blue grasses.  I somehow glided through Illinois without noticing the flatness; it was no longer boring to me.

When I reached the sign that read, Wisconsin, I knew that I was home; I love the South, but I had been gone too long.  Past that Wisconsin sign the grass looked greener, the air fresher and I smiled.  It took two weeks and over two-thousand miles for me to realize that I did not need a road trip to find peace and happiness, it was around me; it was the place that I had lived for years and had not really called home.  Those of my age living in the village that I had considered “God’s Waiting Room” would soon turn into characters in yet another story and their aging lives would no longer impact mine, as age did not fit into my plans.  I love my home, my little village; and I could already smell the wonderful scents of home baked bread coming from Saturday’s farmers market, taste the season’s vegetables.

As I pulled into my garage, I had but one thought…now it is time to get back to my dreams, the dreams that were mine.   eajm
 

Salty Water – A 100 Word Story

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Salty Water

Jenny’s and Jim’s hearts felt ripped from their chest as their baby, their only child lay unmoving; a blue tint already replacing soft pink skin still covered with sand from the beach.   Why were they not watching her? When the ambulance drove away, they ran to their car driving away from the tiny blue and white cottage by the Gulf. As their car went through the guardrails, they held each other tightly and smiled while the cool salty water flowed through broken windows. Both called out in the darkness; “Sandy we’re coming”. The single headstone read, “HERE LIES THREE HEARTS”.

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree  thBPHSKA15

 

Love Will Live Again

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A southern wind, a promise of spring,

days longer, soon and the robins will

sing.  Rains bring life, snow is gone,

and the warmth is welcomed as the

winter has been so long.

 

Every creature man or beast can feel

the pull of the moon, trees are budding,

the Narcissus in bloom.  Dreams are

building in both the young and old, a void

needs filling in a misplaced heart; spring

gives birth to loves new start.

 

For some love never ends, others it never

begins, it flows into the hearts of those

searching the waves of a soft southern

wind.  Loves lost, hearts tossed, tears fall,

we grasps for a chance at happiness despite

the cost.

 

Walking in the deepest valley or climbing the

tallest hill, once you find love your heart will

battle with your mind, you breath will be stilled.

Your thoughts will be filled with love and brought

to your new love on the wings of a dove.

 

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
 

 

thBPHSKA15“Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish it.”

 

 

Click on author’s book page to view poetry and art books at Amazon.com

 

Rubble of Yesterday

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Rubble of Yesterday

Promises of the mind set aside in the days of youth;

visions stored in a hopeful place to become dim

memories and fade away.  A glimpse into the window

of twilight time lays the tombstones of yesterday’s

promises; rubble covered with reminiscent vine.

 

Embers burn within the soul no peace can one find;

there are fewer tomorrows, weep for the uncertainty

of the future and of dreams left behind.  If you could

turn back time would you trust your heart to relive your

life, accepting the future whatever it may be, would you

disregard truth and trust what your eyes see?

 

Yesterday’s promises are hidden dreams, try to find new

excitement in your life, rid yourself of turmoil and strife.

Awake your consciousness, your journey is not yet over,

there are new mountains to climb, forget the rubble of

yesterday, use wisely your time.

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

thBPHSKA15“Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish it.”

 

 

Click on author’s book page to view poetry and art books at Amazon.com