Books at

Coffee Table Books – 8 X 11


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”.





Ann Johnson-Murphree at


June 12 – July 12, 2016

Six Poetry Books Available :

All  – $5.50


Coffee Table Art:  $10.00



Pungent Memories


A crystal moon, a frozen branch dancing outside the window, a fire, ash and a crumpled charred log; memories open and angry, resembling streamers in the wind of life. Always remembering each day, each hour, fate unrelentingly climbs, seeks answers and nothing in life is forgotten.






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








Words written, well thought-out

expressions placed upon a blank sheet,

like an energetic artist selling canvas

upon a busy street; waiting to have a painting

bring a price; the poet is patient using time

wisely to write.  Writing, creating gave meaning

to the hunger days, rhymes read, know that

there was delight when someone reads the poems,

a poets appreciation.  Recognition of long days and

nights, living with hunger and fright, to write an

immortal poem remembered like an Angel’s song;

a poet’s aspiration before life is over, before life is






 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. Would you accept 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.

Wake up your conscious your journey is not yet over, there

are new mountains to climb, forget the rubble of yesterday,

use wisely your time.


Free Kindle Weekend – Honeysuckle Memories – July 18 – July 19


Free Kindle – Honeysuckle Memories – Saturday July  – Sunday July


(Click on images to enlarge)

With Death Comes Freedom

Smoke circled within the birch bark shelter,

a tiny mouth suckled upon his mothers’ breast,

born in a world without fear in a world that would

one day disappear.

Innocent he grew into a man, a warrior, riding into

battle with only a “coupe stick” the blood of another

had never stained his hands until he was taught how

to kill by those who called him friend from a far away


The once peaceful coupe sticks of war soon lay rotting

below the ground, principles, and the right to freedom

within time was gone and the lands where they were

born became the white man’s home.

Driven to desert prisons broken spirits would never mend,

no longer peaceful warriors they lived with scars on their

souls as well as their skin.

Mother’s eyes cried invisible tears, aching breast and arms

mourned for dead babies that would not be forgotten by the

passing of the years.

Proud people herded and confined in a worthless land, no

longer free because of lying and greed, hungry and dying of

the trespassers disease.

Truth is in the journey, many tried to take a stand, the rivers

became their burial grounds, and their blood stained the desert


Remember these people, they held onto hope until the end,

warriors, women, children, all dead because they thought the

trespasser, the white man was their friend.

An old man in his final moments knew that only in death freedom

could be found, his fading memory returned to songs merging with

wood smoke, a tiny mouth suckling upon his mother’s dark breast;

born in a world without fear, a world he now remembered, a world

that disappeared.


Cabin in the Meadow

10.Cabin in the Meadow

Cabin in the Meadow

10 X 12  Watercolor

Northern Alabama Two-Pen cabin, a central opening with one room on either side, built in 1929; it was a sharecropping place where my daddy lived and work, already ten years old when I was born.  In 1950 my parents and my aunt rented the place as a summer home until it was vandalized and burned down in 1954.  The painting was created from memory.