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Monday, April 5, 2021
The Essence of Paradise
Joyful simplicities are a
means to survive, inspiration keeps the soul alive, watching seasons as they
have come and gone. One survives year
after year, as the heart continues on the journey to where it belongs.
Attend to life’s garden
reach for impossible dreams. Let the
mind seek what it envisions, look beyond all of the tomorrows, and do not settle
for only what the eyes can see.
Learn to shed the skins of
time never give up hope, the path leading to dreams will be easier to find,
walk hand in hand with a true love during a warm misty spring. Drink in the aromas of life and it will bring
back memories of the essence of paradise.
©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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Tuesday, March 2, 2021
Bangles and
Colorful Cloth for Ma…#316
“Prose Dedicated to my Great-Grandmother”
When I was born,
you were a young ninety-years old,
your hair pulled
tight at the nap of your neck, still
black and bold. At night, you let it down to braid before
you went to bed;
it almost fell to the floor; at first, I would
watch in silence
from a crack in the door.
The night you
caught me I was six, you called me into the
room…asking that
I bring you a single broomstick.
I quickly plucked
it from mother’s broom, and rushed
back into the
dimly lamp-lit room. You showed me how
to
break it into
small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile
showed all of
your dark wrinkles and creases.
It was then that
my eyes opened wide as you put the stick right
through the lob
of your ears, it's magic I thought; but this is my
Great-grandmother
I have nothing to fear. As a child, I
did not
realize that
there was a hole, because when I would touch the
bangles on her
ears, she would quickly scold.
Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her button up
shoes by raising
the hem of her long dress, she did not have on
shoes, there were
moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have
guessed. Yes, I was a child without a care, and I
spent many
hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.
I never tire of
the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together
and now I can
say, as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she
called it
“hell”. Her parents had walked on the
“Trail of Tears”, proud
and strong, with
every step wondering where they had gone wrong.
She help raise me
and she taught me “The Way”. When her mind
begins
to wander in
those later years, I was sad when she would tell her stories
that she only
remembered the bad. This grand old lady
dressed in bangles
and cloths of
many colors, long braids, and black hair; a great-grandmother
like no other.
She died a few
days before her birthday; she would have been one-hundred
and five. My daddy said, Ma as we called her would have
scolded you saying
don’t you ever cry? I was fifteen-year-old and the world was
bright and
colorful with the
artwork of fall, a befitting day to bury a beautiful and
proud
Chickasaw.
[Repost]
Copyright©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
Thursday, January 21, 2021
Free Style Poetry - A Life Unrepressed
A Life Unrepressed
Lighting surges through a war of disrespectful words, tears descending, wet. In times of uncertainty, an unknown sadness is out of control, a smile, a gesture; or fear clings to a receptive body. Words may not bring rest or smiles, the soul deep within knows.
There is no one that can unlock the heart, nothing that can be said or felt. Thoughts, do not reveal or conceal, disguise the lack of sympathy, place blame and criticize. Alienate the voice, if only for one moment feel free. Fate, possession, strife, and life.
The genuine self, forced to obey, despite and un-regarded life blind to the hurt of others will embed hate eternally. The knowledge of life fire and force, walking down a rough path; deep pain. No spirit, hate has the power to control, nameless feelings that have conceded to a life unrepressed. Speak and act so no one will know hidden damage floating down to the soul.
The hidden self, inward strife and following demands; in return, a thousand nothings, all-miraculously give power. Hide in the depths of the soul; echo speaks of pain. Lackluster eyes stare, glare, and the words unspoken deafening creating fear. A bolt of tones, frightening, is piercing ears.
No feeling stirs, the heart laid plain, unaware of a life winding down, no meadows of flowers, no sun, no breeze, and the madness is elusive to all. No feeling, no respite. In quietness, the war of mocking words; the tears, the sadness. The thoughts of the sea, the crashing waves; soul and spirit sinking within its wet madness and always stay, stay, and stay.
Too late, love revealed itself in death, and the heart has nothing to say. Living and moving in disguises, alien, until the end. Life had nothing to possess, strife, identity. Blind, uncertainty, life no fire or restlessness, a thirst for the mystery of it all, nameless feelings lived in vain. The loss, the heart lay open for all to see, the hurt hidden twisted among the rubble of pain. Yet, after all that, there is tomorrow.
©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
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Saturday, January 16, 2021
LOVE DEFINED...
Love
Defined
Love
thy face a shapeless flame,
A
wonderful nothing it claimed
Did
I see, as sensation set itself?
Free. Love steadily gone, a
Choir
of seraphs did I hear, as love
Spent
within my sphere.
©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
#Love #Free #Seraphs #Amorphous
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