Honey Wine – A 100 Word Story



Honey Wine

Serena knew that beauty had an ending, that all things fade and die 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, she kept repeating the words…

“Old, old, old.”

The clouds of time have spun away like fall she now waited for the last leaf to drop.  All that was left was the sweet memories like Honey wine.  Please she whispered let it go quickly…

“I am so tired of time”.







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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”.





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




Ann Johnson-Murphree at Amazon.com


June 12 – July 12, 2016

Six Poetry Books Available :

All  – $5.50



Coffee Table Art:  $10.00



Rachael – A 100 Word Story


When Rachael discovered she was pregnant, she thought of suicide; married to a poor sharecropper she did not want another mouth to feed.  She felt anger, she feared God’s wrath, but would take that chance.  She did not want the burden; she was determined to kill the unwanted seed.  The cries coming from the bed told Rachael that the baby was alive; there was nothing in her heart but hate as she placed her hand over the baby’s mouth and nose, to suffocate life from the tiny body; its journey on earth was cut short.  Rachael rolled over and smiled. 

Rachael is a fictional character in the “100 Word Story” however, hundreds of children are killed each year; mothers are most likely to kill newborns because of mental illness such as postpartum depression or because they cannot handle the stress of caring for a baby.   The research on this subject reveals that the day a child is born is the day a child is most likely to be killed by a parent.  Mothers who kill tend to do on impulse and then there are those that just do not want a child.

Psychiatrists say parents who kill their children tend to fit one of five categories:

  • A parent suffering a psychotic break.
  • A parent who thinks he is killing out of altruism because he doesn’t want a child to grow up without him.
  • A parent acting out of revenge against a spouse or partner.
  • A parent who kills an unwanted child.
  • A parent who kills from neglect or by recklessness

If you are aware of someone that possibly comes under any of these categories; reach out to them and offer your help.


Journey’s End


Journey’s End

The essence of descent into life takes root in childhood.  Without choice, the journey in due course will end.  The caretakers of our childhood existence bestow the gift of direction upon our tomorrows.

The perception of childhood can be deceived. Livings within the shelter of acceptance in a world filled with make-believe.  Youth passes, living merely in the yesterdays of our minds.  Life becomes complicated and the visions of early days our minds eye suddenly becomes blind.

We must learn if what we are taught in the beginning is true.  One finds after they have walked the crest of mountains and in the valleys of discontent that the years one has are few.   If life is not what you wanted; it is time to follow your own path; you determine how your journey will end.


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




24. Yellow Dragonfly


The riches of March have pierced the landscape,

bathing earth’s veins in the promise of warmth,

expectations come from the possibly flowering of

the countryside; the winds are melodies.

The thought that a heart could have fallen never to

beat again the seasons marked by hours; speaking softly

a promise to return as time and space were silent toward

a journey into a place that only death can relate.

The pilgrimage moved forward exhausted, pain seized the

helm of a sickened ship; a war fought by a spiritual soul as

the tides of suffering rolled in and out.

March the soul felt alive, the pain gone living more than a

stagnant lifeless pond, life flowed like a river long and wide

and hope turned into grace.




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


Sanity and Sorrow…


Sanity and Sorrow

Evidence clear about an unwanted Soul,

upon conception the possessor wanted to

cast it away, fear or greed.  One life could

not see a future, yet starvation by the mother

did not kill the seed, not fear… self-greed.


Why did the tiny Soul survive, destiny or fate;

it survived a life without love never held by the

mother with her heart filled with hate.  The new

Soul born within a life of oppression from the

moment of birth; scared and burdened with

emotional wounds throughout its journey on earth.


All of its tomorrows’ found the Soul’s path long and

steep; it searched a lifetime to find out why the mothers’

anger ran so deep, to the moment it laid the mother in

the ground.  Truth in its abandonment never found,

this abused Soul tries to remember that sanity and sorrow

are closely bound.



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

Benevolent Memories

I have enough memories from the past to last me for the rest of my life. My bountiful memory will not bury them from which they were born.  A small country church, a chorus of crows; the splashing sounds of the brook running through the Birch trees. The wind caressing the colossal row of Oaks in the field.

Death, a road away from the weathered house of worship, followed by black feathered angels. No longer will the water beneath the Birch cool, nor will the winds surrounding the Oaks embrace flesh.  The rocker on the porch is stilled, no hand waves goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of the room, the sun shines through a cloudy window, as the image of tattered curtains dance in a nearby mirror. Childhood is dead.







“Our past is the map we followed into the future!” eajm

Life’s Ambiguous Journey…


Life’s Ambiguous Journey…

Birth, polluted air fills new lungs,

Vision blurred, reality in a psychedelic

Arena called life, first panic, crying, then

A false sense of peace.

Breathing, suckling, crawling,

Walking; the essence of existence creates

Fragile times fused in a harsh world of

Happiness and discontent.

These certainties, these realities,

End life before it begins; to live by the law

Of nature, constantly fearful, fighting for

Happiness and trying to conquer discontent.

Can anyone survive the journey?

Through mist of doubts and move forward

Toward the next juncture of existence; in life’s

Ambiguous Journey.


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