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Category Archives: Watercolor

Second Anniversary…

womanwriterblog

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

 

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Poetry and Art at Amazon.com

AWAY UNTIL JULY 11, HAPPY 4TH OF JULY EVERYONE…

 

 

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Posted by on June 28, 2016 in Art, Book Promotion, Landscape Painting, Poetry, Watercolor, Writing

 

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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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Ann Johnson-Murphree at Amazon.com

BOOK SALE

June 12 – July 12, 2016

Six Poetry Books Available :

All  – $5.50

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Coffee Table Art:  $10.00

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Altered Senses

thTJWIWQDU

Existence, scene after scene, characteristic of

life’s environment and promises that

reveal nothing, the past descends like rain from

the sky, washing away all dreams. Phantoms of

youth chanting within the soul, paths blocked;

evil has spread across the landscape of a lifetime.

Loneliness limits love and happiness; boundaries

slow down the process of moving into the future

shrouded with abundant solitude from where there

is no escape. Rethink your future!

 

 

 

©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

 

 

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Outside My Daughter’s Room

thLQNT3I9O

Out Side My Daughter’s Room

 

My daughter slept as I watched over her,

outside a howling storm raced through the

Cabbage Palms and Bull Bay Magnolias.  The

Atlantic wind sends a salty spray over the levy,

I pray as an immense gloom enters my mind.

 

A stream of water has formed across the yard,

a threat to the new growth of tender plantings in

my garden.  Now rain is pounding the earth like a

possessed drum from a distant shore far away; the

sea is not innocent.

 

I look at the guiltless face of my child, beautiful, filled

with natural compassion and spirit.  I hope for her a life

of abundant love and wealth, and to find a man that will

worship her, not a troubled fool.

 

May she become like a hidden tree in the forest, her voice

be that of a songbird, a heart of great generosity and of

spirit?   May she never know hatred from evil, safe from

assault like the wind outside her window and dreams that

burst with happiness; I wish all this as I pray for the

calmness to come to the sea.

 

©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

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Dragonfly #100

DRAGONFLY

Dragonfly #101

 

Beginning a new painting… while thoughts of the what the next fountain of words will bring me.   When the well runs dry I paint.  E

 

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