The City of Destiny…


The City of Destiny…

I have the key to the city of destiny.

Through me, you will find the entrance

to everlasting tenderness, to those

who are lost. I myself have built this

imaginary city from beginning to end

with wisdom and love. It has seen

many dauntless days. The entity of life

said I am deathless; I do not die. I feel

distrust, I am a coward in this city of

Will you be fearful if I tell you that this

place is one of doom and darkness, one

of the damned, filled with heartless

secrets? As the darkness closes in on the

city, wailing begins loud the weeping

of unending pain. The voices with

passion filled the night, our souls

dancing in the wind. In this

everlasting night.
A Voice filled the darkness, do you fear

the Lord, the God of many, and then

this voice spoke of hope and death.

There is memory of them on the earth,

those lives that remain behind, and

their outcry does not reach your ears

in this make-believe place. Is there

justice beyond these walls, move

quickly or you will be doomed. The

souls are unnumbered.
I thought the whole city as dead, is

this retreat before everlasting life.

I saw the victims all naked and loud.

Weak and painful, some with blood

upon their faces. I gazed forward

and beg for daybreak to end all this

and me, wake me before it is too late.

Before me is nothing, a fearful abyss.
Then demons rose, one after the other

descending into the chasm. The evil

seed of the demon did this throughout

the endless night. I lay there silent with

an unspoken thought, he will come, and

he will spur justice and fear for those

that are within his reach, those that call

his name.
Then the ground began to tremble. It was

a terrifying sound. The wind rose and a

blood red moon cast its light upon the earth

where we stood. I sank further into the

dreadful dream hammering me with

waves of fear.

Wake up!




Dreaming Life is Fine, Fine as Honeydew Wine…



I walked down the dusty road toward Flint Creek; I sat on the bridge, muddy rushing water twenty feet below the bridge. I was a motherless child, I could not think, I slid with ease off the rough planks into the Creek; I sank.

I broke the muddy water with unrestrained speed, I rose from the dank depths and gasp for air, the second time I emerged I swam to the slippery bank heaved myself onto its clay sides and I cried. The water was cold; I wiped the tears from my eyes, if it had not been for the Angel I would have died.

Yes, there beneath the cold muddy water swam an Angel, she smiled shaking her head; go home she spoke softly in my ear, life is not always fair but you have nothing to fear.

I was at the fork of the road, one road lead home the other up the mountain where the sheer cliffs towered over the land. I stood there, I hollered, I stood there and I cried; I was a motherless child.




Days of Pondering…


Here we are beginning August…I have many things to recall from this month as all the others.  January marks the death of my father, my daddy the subject of another book series; and brings to mind my mother-in-law and the Smith family, which I have a book outlined waiting in line for others to be finished.  A gift came on a cold January day, my granddaughter Elizabeth was born.

February marks the birth of my oldest son Carl, a wonderful father and husband, towers over all, intelligent, a man who can take control when necessary, he and Cindy have given me three wonderful grandchildren.  February is also the month that my daughter Terri was born coming into a world with fiery lungs that has only grown throughout the years; her words are quick and sharp, and sometimes kind.

March, April and May have been lost in the foggy paths we all have taken.  June brought the baby of the family Chuck, a quiet, intelligent man; loves life and his wife Karen; he is a serious writer and educator.  July, a month of remembrance, the loss of my daughter, the pain never goes away; the scars of her death are prominent on my mind and soul.

This month August, I remember my only sibling, my sister Billie passed away.  September is the month I lost my mother, one that I loved and the one who could never love me back, a painful month when I  truly felt like an orphan.  The other months October, November and December will come and go like a thief in the night; giving us time to reflect again and start another year.

This sounds more like and end of year post, but I sat on my patio alone accept Mason my four legged furry adopted son…and I had to work my way out of the “mood” that I was in…and get back to my latest project a series “The Generations – Secrets and Lies”.

I also thought of all of you, my followers and how lucky I am to have such wonderful support; my heartfelt thanks to all of you.  I wish for you love and happiness.  EAJM


At and Barnes &




RIP Sam Shepard…

samA great American Artist 

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























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












The Future is dead… 

The homeless sleep in boxes hidden by tall and bushy shrubs, their last meal from a nearby restaurants dumpster; men, women and children, forgotten, shattered and despised; in the night, a hungry baby cries.  Veterans, White Collar, Blue Collar, all begging for food, living on the streets, no jobs to be found, families are no longer sound.  The Government talks end up in contradictions, lies, and the future “poverty” that is the prediction.  


The spirit freezes, fruit of labors rot, life struggles persist, bad luck killing the heart and soul, hope ceases to exist.  Shifting winds turn into storms, will the world grow wiser, or will it be humbled and beaten back into servility?  Trust departed, a cardboard box in the streets is where the homeless make their beds, hope disappears and the future is dead.



The Tapestry of Life


The Tapestry of Life…

The individual self is an actor, life is the stage; we are masters of our emotions capable of expressing self-assurance, joy and rage.

There is a hidden self, living deep within the forest of life, one that we prefer not to show, it is only the image of strength and confidence that we truly choose to expose.

It is during the times of valleys and peaks, darkness and fear; that we wear a mask, we masquerade keeping emotions hidden in the forest of our souls, yet within sight and near.

The landscape of ourselves guides us to better places, and it is the silent strong self that transforms our outward faces.

To believe in our aspirations and make our lives worth living, to hope we cling; it is within the landscape of our strong confident selves that allows us to dream.

We perform in our world upon the stage of life where we remain perfect impressionist; yet it is only when we change the landscape of our lives we find true happiness.


Books by Author at locations below:

[All writing 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.]

Your support of my blog and its contents are appreciated

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree


For Brian…


For  Brian…

All is quiet accept the music in my head, remembered from something that was once so beautiful, now dead.  In the end, you were easily broken like glass, you touched my heart, and how was I to know that our time would so quickly pass?  My heart, blessed by your hands and your eyes, oh so dramatic, yet wise.  When you left, my heart became rigid with each beat, painful when I would see lovers kiss on a hushed city street

These memories are like arrows in my heart; nothing but death could have torn us apart.  Now I am old, and I dream of a time when my heart was not filled with such sorrow.  When the sunlight falls upon my pallid face, I close my eyes asking God to take me away from this mourning place.


All is barren accept the music in my head, remembered from something that was once so beautiful and sweet.  Soon I will feel your breath upon my cheek, as we stand side-by-side, on a far away shore walking Heaven’s golden streets forever more. 








I have enough memories to last me a lifetime.  They will not bury themselves from which they were born.  I remember a small country church, a chorus of crows, the splashing of a brook running through the nearby Pine trees, wind stroking the branches with its unseen fingers. There was love and peace on top of Burleson Mountain.  Death, a road away from the weathered house of worship, the hearse black and cold; followed by black feathered angels. 


The years go by quickly, and I returned.  No longer will the water near the Pines cool my Grandmothers thirst, nor will the winds embrace her leathered flesh.


The old shack stood for decades, the rocker on her porch is stilled, no hand waves goodbye.  In a cobwebbed corner of the old tenant farmers shack, the sun shined through a cloudy window, while an image of tattered plastic curtains dance on a nearby cracked mirror hanging on the wall.  Childhood is dead.



Authors Books on Line:







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