Misery’s Problems…

 

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Misery’s Problems…

 
Misery has sent many souls Hell. They condemn

themselves; a mournful cry comes from their place

of unrest. They cry for what they wanted in life and

did not get, they could not be satisfied with what they

had, misery prevailed. They have helped destroy the

earth.
In the beginning there was cold, unceasing and

relentless rain, there seem to be a mutation of the earth

as the decades went forward with minds unchanged.

Days were heavy with hail, turbid waters mixed with

cold and snow, fiery had a tight hold on the waters that

covered the earth, still many humans could not see the

doom and darkness upon the earth.
Their souls are putrid, the soil of the earth is foul, above

them the ravens swarm in and out of the acid sky, the

beast of the earth roams follow grounds. Each of those

misery humans fell to the ground gathering handfuls of

soil casting it into the hollows of the earth. They now

know that gluttonous greed will bring rancid air and their

belly’s growl like the beast of the night with hunger.
There are many who tried to save Earth, they toiled in the

dead ground and prayed for blessings, they watch the

writhing shadows of misery, it was too late. Everyone hungry,

cold, uncomforted, everyone will die for the mistakes of few.

The waters both salty and fresh began to dry, cracks became

vast and deep. The land was soft and filled with bugs and worms.

The air clogged their lungs they cried and they prayed it was

too late. Those who did not believe that one day we would destroy

the Earth now became sinful spirits living in irrevocable doom.
There are those that believed the earth was being destroyed,

there are those who tried to find a resolve for these worldwide

conditions. To those that did not believe the earth was dying,

became accusers living in great pain. Warnings from the sinners

were no more than strange words, there is no way that we can

reach perfection on earth, it is too late. It is not too late to resolve

misery’s problems, we must cease our downward path and heal

mother Earth.

 

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree.2018

 

RIP Sam Shepard…

samA great American Artist 

“There are no words to describe how I feel, we have lost another great one!”

 

 

ELIZABETH ANN JOHNSON-MURPHREE BOOKS AT AMAZON.COM AND BARNES & NOBEL.COM

FLYING WITH BROKEN WINGS

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BEYOND THE VOICES

11th

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HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

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REFLECTIONS OF POETRY

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ECHOING IMAGES

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ASTERIAL THOUGHTS

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RUTTED ROADS

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SACHET OF POETRY

55th

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MY JOURNEY INTO ART

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Thanks for reading and in advance thank you for your comments.  EAJM

 

 Painting below:  Acrylic and Watercolor created December, 2010-The First Christmas without Charlotte…

19.charlotte winter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Down by the Creek…

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Down by the Creek…

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We walked down by the creek where your ashes nurtured the strokes of nature spreading across the land.  The children skipped and danced in the tall grass, paper and paints in hand.  Their fingers soon became the shades of a fresh rainbow, one screamed “Look”.  Those colors were “Her” favorites.  Then, flowers were drawn in pinks and purples ever so bright.  She had died one year ago that day. A bench inscribed with her name.  We knew that our lives would never be the same but she found such joy in walking among the wildflowers.  We came celebrating her life.

Text Copyright © 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree 

Publishing Rights AsterialThoughts.100WordShortStories 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

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Down by the Creek, is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Second Anniversary…

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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

March

24. Yellow Dragonfly

March

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.

 

©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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Everything Dies

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Standing on a cool green bank

watching a bowed stream move

through the shoal toward a far-away

sea secure in it journey’s end, endless,

rocky weather worn and grained.

Across it a Willow grows, filled with nimble

squirrels searching for food; brown nuts

cracking, fish splashing.

These are the sights and sounds of my

childhood, skinny legs running, torn breaches,

runny nose, toothless grins, and scraped shins.

Hiding beneath the ledges of caves, fearless,

trusting, happy days in the fresh clear air;

remembrances of these days hidden behind

a fog of despair. Childhood forever lost.

Your joy did not last your voice is no longer a

pleasing song; life has frozen your senses; your

soul. Soon your sweet breath of life will float

through the air, everything dies; your days are few.

©2015.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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