Honeysuckle Memories

By

Ann Johnson-Murphree

Copyright © 2013 Ann Johnson-Murphree

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Ann Johnson-Murphree.

Disclaimer

All the material contained in this book is for entertainment only. No responsibility can be taken for any results or outcomes resulting from the use of this material.

The author does not assume any responsibility for the misuse of the content.

***

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 land.

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 sands.

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.

***

In the Darkness of Night

I hear the cries of my grandmothers and grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears. Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted trail, every scar on their backs another story to tell.

They planted crops, gave blessing and took from the land only what they would need, a word they did not know… greed. Strangers with pale skin came from the east, my people taught them how to live, when no longer needed it was the pale stranger’s who drove them from their ancestral homes.

The Grandfathers and their families stood tall, their backs they refused to bend, and the pale strangers herded them like cattle to a far off land, to die in hot barren sand. My people believed the land belonged to no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still they died with broken souls never knowing that their story in time would cover the blood-splattered pages of history.

My people watched as women gave birth and warriors carried the dead, the children went to sleep hungry with the ground as their bed. The day came when these great people were corralled, given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat, in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were bound; a killing field where the blood of my family spilled upon the ground

I hear you my grandmothers and grandfathers, your cries donot go unheard in the darkness of night; for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake each morning with the taste of your tears.

***

The Chickasaw Farmer

“A tribute to Daddy”

Rickety ole man stood on the cotton wagon a tin of yellow salve in his hand.

Rickety Ole Wagon

Rickety Ole 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 Ole man to call “quitting time”.

Rickety Ole WagonRickety Ole 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 Ole WagonRickety Ole Man

Tar bottom sacks filled with soft white gold weary feet follow two old sway back mules down a rutted road.

Rickety Ole WagonRickety Ole 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 Ole WagonRickety Ole Man

Mules stop at the fork of the road as the cotton pickers walked into the dark of the night the Ole man’s heart filled with appreciation; because he is just an old Chickasaw farmer trying to survive inside a “White Nation”.

Rickety Ole WagonRickety Ole Man

***

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma

“Dedicated to Great-Grandmother”

When I was born, you were then a young ninety-years old, Your hair pulled tight at the nap of your neck, still black and bold. At night, you let it down to braid before you went to bed, it fell to the floor; at first I would watch in silence from the crack in the door.

The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick. I quickly plucked it from mother’s only broom, and rushed back into the dimly lit room. You showed me how to break it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile accenting all of your dark wrinkles and creases.

It was then that my eyes opened wide as you put the stick right through the lob of your ears, its magic I thought; but this is my great-grandmother I have nothing to fear. As a child, I did not realize that there was a hole, because when I would touch the bangles on her ears, she would quickly scold.

Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her button up shoes by raising the hem of her long dress, she did not have on shoes, there were moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have guessed. Yes, I was only a child without a care, and I spent many hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.

I never tired of the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together and now I can say it…as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she called it “hell”. Her parents had walked on the “Trail of Tears”, proud and strong, with every step wondering where they had gone wrong.

She helped raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begin to wander in those later years, I was sad when she would tell her stories; she only remembered the bad. This grand old woman dressed in bangles and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair at the nap of her neck was a great-grandmother like no other.

She died only days before her birthday; she would have been one-hundred and five, my daddy said, Ma would have scolded you saying, don’t you ever cry. I was fifteen-years old and the

world was bright and colorful with the artwork of fall, a befitting day to bury this beautiful and proud Chickasaw.

***

Shattered

On a warm summer day, an old soul returned to a place where parts of it remain for years. Waiting while misplaced pieces of it floated through life on waves of tears. Many gathered on this day all had the same ancestral blood flowing through their veins. Some came out of respect; the unbroken circle… was there for gain.

These mortals had tried to keep the old soul away from this final commemoration. They did not care about its many years of painful isolation. Death had not fractured the unbroken circle had gone unchanged for years. The return of this old soul brought to the cloistered multitude panic and fear.

Disregarded, invisible with no right to be heard, the Old soul was damned in their every fearful word. Watched closely, made to feel like a thief, an intruder daring to be a part of their hypocritical grief. The old soul tried to enter this circle of mourning, doors slammed in its face. A reminder of why it was not wanted in this protected place.

Unwanted at birth, cast out on a journey at an incredible cost, to penetrate the unbroken circle was a battle that would forever be lost? The old soul believed there was a time to grieve, a time to pray. A time to remember when an innocent soul simply forgotten and tossed away.

On soft breezes, those that gathered could be heard with a pretense of moans. Their voices echoed memorials where truth was silenced the real story hidden, inside of the unbroken circle truth forbidden. The old soul stared down at a mound of dirt waiting for love that the grave could not offer, while the unbroken circle gathered and divided their coffers. a loving soul

had returned to where a part of it remained years, it gathered up the pieces of its heart and wiped away its tears. The shattered old soul had returned on that warm summer day, to grieve the loss of never hearing “I love you” or feeling a parent’s gentle touch. It needed to tell the unbroken circle when children are unloved their lives are crushed.

***

Wild Mountain Rose

There is a legend upon Mossy Ridge children hear while listening to the old folks weaves their tales around their supper table at night – About…Two gentle spirits walking the rutty mountain roads under the mystical Tennessee moonlight. These stories begin many years ago about an old Cherokee and a pretty little girl he called his Wild Mountain Rose – Folks …First saw her drinking from a cool mountain stream all legs and dirty yellow hair, abandoned by her family, so the story goes, but no one is sure of that, if the truth were told. The first time the old Cherokee saw her she was sleeping under a bush folks call the Wild Mountain Rose – Afterwards…She was with him no matter where he would go. Folks would say that without old Willie Youngblood she would not have survived – Willie…Knew that without her, he himself would have died. The years went by quickly and they both grew old, time had touched their hair with gray – And…They could only dream about their younger days. One cool spring morning, Willie woke to find her gone from his side; he sat for hours head hung low as he cried – Later…He found her lying peacefully; she had died under a familiar bush on a soft bed of leaves, a mournful death chant was the only way the old Cherokee knew how to grieve.

Now if you know where to look, it is in the Tennessee Mountains where Willie Youngblood’s Wild Mountain Rose can be found – Beneath…The damp rotting forest floor in a shallow grave, up on Mossy Ridge near the entrance of Chicopee Cave. The following winter Old Willie died, and they buried him next to his Wild Mountain Rose – Folks…Say in the moonlight two ghostly spirits can be seen sitting on the banks of Chestnut Creek, or floating along the rutty mountain roads.

When the sun comes up, they disappear…Or so the legend goes, but everyone on Mossy Ridge knows that it is Old Willie and that golden haired pup he found many years ago that he called his…Wild Mountain Rose.

***

Buttercup

Many years ago, when my memory first came to be I guess I was about three. I was alone all day while daddy worked in the cotton fields leaving long before the sun came up; it was just me and a big old yellow dog who watched out for me that everyone called “Buttercup”.

Daddy said that she wandered up one day about half starved and she never left our yard. I had a sister, who was about nine, but she was never around she and my mother were gone all the time.

I overheard mother saying one day that my sister was the only child that she ever wanted or even had; I did not care I had daddy so my life was not that bad.

I would eat cold biscuits every morning left on the old wood stove then sit on our back porch wondering where I could go. I

did not need anyone to take care of me – I had that old yellow dog you see.

She and I played in the fields under the hot southern sun, I would hang on to her and away we would run. Sometimes we would walk in the woods around the mountaintop where we lived. I had better care from that old yellow dog than most humans could give.

Life was not easy for me with no one to care, still “Buttercup” was always there. Soon it came time for me to go to school Buttercup and daddy would watch as the bus drove away, and they would both be waiting for me at the end of the day.

The years went by quickly when one day only daddy stood by the road with his head bowed down there were tears in his eyes as he stared at the ground. Later as my own tears fell upon that soft mound of red dirt I looked toward Heaven and told Buttercup to keep watching for me, “You’ll look up one day old girl and there I will be”.

***

Honeysuckle Memories

Deep within my soul I sometimes go to a place where my life began, I take an emotional journey, from time to time. Memories with or without images of those days are like a thunderstorms distance echo, you cannot see it, but you know that it was there.

A furrowed road, wild honeysuckle; a crumbled chimney beneath the kudzu vines, the remnant memories of that life and dim images never change. It was the cotton fields surrounding the old weathered shack that stole my father’s wandering soul.

In the warm red dirt life sprung from the blood and sweat that nurtured the white gold called cotton, it broke spirits, and hardened souls. In memory, the image from the past holds but one old leathered face, my fathers.

Life goes by quickly, places and people vanish without a trace, time and progress erases the landscape of our lives, but…the memories are made of gold. In the shadows of the mind is a

time of how life use to be; and with only a thought I can recall those sweet honeysuckle memories.

***

Soap Sticks

The dark russet of her hair, wiry, tickled the legs and her boney back made sore the tiny bottoms of our sparsely clothed Butts. She was a tough ole girl still walk slow, proud of herself when I climbed on her back, you would swear that old mule would strut.

Silver hair replaced the brown around her eyes and mouth, in her prime she pulled plows and wagons, Old Soap Sticks, agenuine mule from the south. She woke at four O’clock every morning with a braying that echoed off the nearby bluffs, like the barnyard rooster, it was her way of telling everyone, they had slept enough.

Her world in those days were filled with sunshine and all the oats that she wanted to eat, her long ears had finally gonedeaf, her sight weak. Soap Sticks wise, her senses distinct, she roam familiar fields by instinct.

She inhabited the brook in the fields, nibbled on whatever the land would yield. Her love for the children never slowed down,when I was close to her, she would instantly kneel to the ground.

Climbing on her back, holding to her rough old mane, she took me through fields of sweet sugar cane. She would go down into the brook letting the water tickle my feet, Old Soap Sticks on any given day would delight me with these special treats.

Unafraid, I knew that she would never bring me any harm, when she tired of the ride she would slowly take me back to the farm. It was fall when daddy came into the kitchen to say, that Old Soap Sticks had gone very far away. “Where”, I screamed, “She suffered all night,” He said, “But early this morning she just closed her eyes and died, she could no longer stay.

She was buried in the pasture by that rushing little brook, the water clear and sweet, the same one where she loved to wade and tickle my feet. I said a prayer over the big tall mound, she would lay there forever only a few feet under the ground.

I knew that Soap Sticks would no longer be old and alone, she would roam green pastures and drink from bubbling brooks, at last, she was truly home. She could now hear birds sing high up in the trees, and once again she would be able to see, and no matter how old I may get when I get to Heaven; Soap Sticks will know that it is me.

***

Mississippi River Nightmare

Uncovered and wrinkled is my sack, a gigantic hump on my

back. Frost clutches to these old rags, my body is covered

with burlap bags. My flesh like ashes, my face tinged with blue,

my chest rattles, my lungs sucking in the morning dew. I have

traveled on the railroad back and forth, does not matter where,

south or north.

I sometimes walk city streets when they are dark and dead, yet

the side of a railroad is where I make my bed. I eat my food

from old tin cans; I will steal candy from little hands. I scream

for the warmth I see coming from the riverbank, a bright fire,

from this cold I do tire. I think that I am burning, I smell

smoldering hair, and my arms are thrashing in the air.

I see evil darkness, what is this madness, I feel spiritually ill,

then, I gasp in horror when I realize that I am dead. Here on

this cold and damp riverbank, alas… someone has severed my

head.

***

The Wisdom of Teachers

“Dedicated to Mrs. Speaks Grades 1-5 Priceville Elementary School”

Remember early morning tossing off mounds of handmade quilts running across bare floors to put on shoes with holes in the soles; then pulling on a ragged coat to keep away the cold.

Life was innocent and sweet, the ringing of a school bell, big yellow buses, sharing secrets with your friends in your favorite seat. Big rolling wheels gave bumps and giggles hitting every pothole on winding country roads stopping at each mailbox one by one; it was a time of purity and having fun.

Some children that carried their lunch in paper sacks or ate in the cafeteria at school, but for most of us a tin bucket filled with nothing but a biscuit or two. A little country school where children were lucky to have clothes on their backs and shoes on their feet; where teachers with motherly faces brought the poor children homemade treats.

Teachers focused on children who were withdrawn and no child set apart; each encouraged to follow their dreams, to listen to their hearts. My memory is of such a teacher who now lives only in my heart; the last time I spoke to her she said that she knew I was one of those children who was withdrawn and set my own self apart.

Then in a firm voice asked, “In life, what have you learned”; I leaned close to her whispering, “You taught me well and you have no concern”. She pulled me close to her, telling me to remember that life is not always what it seems; to never believe that all is lost because in the end all that we have and truly possess are our dreams.

She closed her eyes seemingly lost somewhere in the past; I left with a heavy heart knowing that this visit would be my last. I drove to the place where the old school use to be, now vacant land that I thought of as hallowed ground; I could still hear her say as she did in those long ago days; “learn all you can my child because this tiny country school is where your future can be found.

What a privilege to have known such a kindred heart, the magic she created for each and every child; she taught us that life may not be what it seems, but that we should never lose the ability to dream.

A note came shortly before her death; she wrote that I was to remember the lesson that I had learned, and that no one could change me without my consent; and in conclusion, happiness and fulfillment did not always come from external events.

She wrote that I must be aware that I possess the inner wisdom, strength and the creativity needed to make my dreams come true; life is what you make of it she said; it’s all up to you.

Who does not remember the ringing of the school bell as a child, the rushing to get on the big yellow bus grabbing that favorite seat; always the place where you and your friends could meet.

The big rolling wheels stopped along the winding country road letting everyone out one by one, it was days of innocence and having fun. Yes, I lived in a shanty down by Old Flint Creek, and I owe my outlook on life to a treasured teacher who always made sure the poor children like me had homemade treats.

***

Another Spring for Aunt Francis

“Dedicated to Aunt Francis my African Mother”

Her knees bend forward away from the worn out rocker, her legs getting their bearings while she made a furrowed brow, looking out the window at the garden. Everything dies she thought; soon the fragrance of spring will be gone.

She narrows her eyes looking into the hedgerow at the end of her flowerbed to see if the sparrow hawks have returned, slowly she turns keeping contact with the old chair, holding onto its worn arms. At one-hundred years old, her soul still feeds on emotions of the stillness of the sweet-scented honeysuckle growing around her weathered front porch.

Holding her breath she falls back into the chair, it shudders under her weight, he knows not to take her being able to stand for granted. Closing her eyes to rest, bible in hand, and her thoughts were none other than she could get up and walk another time, another spring. Maybe!

***

Big Gus

“Dedicated to Big Gus, Daddy’s friend”

When days get bad within my mind, I travel back to another time. The fog clears and memory sends to me, a gentle soul, a man among men.

As a child his friendship I won, he a child of a slave woman, and the Masters son. Everyone called him Big Gus, though when I knew him he had shriveled with age, a religious man, he could recite the bible without ever turning a page.

Big Gus looked upon life steadily, he felt alive and whole, he road an old rusty bicycle wherever he would go. He lived in a little house on my daddy’s land; they respected each other, man to man.

We buried Big Gus one cold gloomy day; I did not understand why my best friend had to go away. Daddy placed a marker upon his grave, when he bought it he looked at me asking “Besides his name baby girl, what should it say”.

An inventive child, even in those days, of my childhood friend I knew exactly what I wanted the marker to display.

“IN HIS LIFE HE WAS NEITHER DULL NOR WILD, HE WAS KNOW AS BIG GUS THE MASTERS CHILD.”

***

Fall from Grace… (The Civil War)

Very few men died in their own fields, wrote the kinfolks of those that had been killed. They died in the wrong place, their bodies scattered in the mountains and fields, left like wild animals, it was a disgrace.

Hiding in haystacks, fighting with or against family and friend, neither side’s principle would bend. There were never any replacements, they were on their own, should not have gotten in that war some would say around the fire at night, should have all stayed home.

Letters home would say, they used us up until our bodies wore out… starved us, we have no shoes, they say the men are tough,

because they are from the South. Their bodies lay among people they had killed, they kept marching forward, and they sometimes wondered who believed that the South would ever again be genteel and serene.

Families did not know where kinfolk were buried, the folks may have tried, and it may have been years before they would know that, husbands, fathers or sons had died. Starting this war was the biggest mistake in any southerners’ life, but the south knew only one thing, that they were fighting for their rights.

A Romantic realm forever gone, cities burned, land lay fallow, treasures stolen, and all of the country in ruin before everyone was free to go home. It was never about the dying… not ever; there is a question that I asked about that war, was it worth forever wearing invisible scars.

***

The Hero

I raise my hand and heart to the worlds Hero’s in tribute… you have always been kind, your souls must soar each day as the sun rises like a million golden rays in the sky.

Your energy and brilliant minds carries endless thoughts that no one will ever understand what makes you do the extraordinary things you do.

Your deeds are unleashed like a flood of torrential rains. It is because of you I never tire of singing your praises as you are out there in this world of uncertainties give me peace of mind.

You should rejoice in your accomplishments, dance the dance of victors and dream of the wonders that you perform. I am eternally grateful and ask for your ongoing safety in the whispers of my prayers.

You shine like the stars and abundance will come to you. Your actions will bring change to others they will seek your wisdom. We the benefactors sing the truth of thankfulness.

***

Birth of Cotton Fields

Upon the waves of a tranquil sapphire ocean road a vessel from hell, the purity of white bellowing in the warm wind gave no warning of what lay in its dark belly. Fear of the unknown soon turned into panic for the confine souls taken from where God intended them to be.

Greed and ignorance of an unyielding master brought pain and profit from the warm earth. High upon his noble steed the taskmasters whip reached its mark while the plow buried itself deep within the rich red southern soil.

The sun and rain nourishes without judgment, both the just, and the unjust, the vessel from hell has since vanished; blood and sweat planted a seed in earth’s womb and she gives birth to the white man’s gold called “cotton”.

***

Kudzu

Beneath the small caves in my old home place at Burleson Mountain everyone knows, the rich greenery with great abundance grows. Rocks, buildings, fences, fields; a smothering vine with no special appeal.

Visitors coming to the South are amazed at how it frames the caves; to a southerner it is like a pest that will not go away. The vine attaches itself to everything; it is not meticulous, it does not care, a thriving sort that grows everywhere.

Worthless, you cannot eat it; it is never big enough to give you a shade. Yet it does have its own beauty as its greenery cascades over the side of the rocky cliff below the caves. It adds beauty to the tops of tarpaper shacks; entwines the cotton stalk a problem for pickers with a sack on his back.

People who live where the Kudzu grows have made their peace with this dark green neighbor, and they understand. It’s

engrained deep in the south’s environment; when you think of Kudzu…you think of Dixie Land.

***

The Cost of Freedom

Standing in what looked like a sea of white as a warm afternoon breeze touched their bronzed faces three young men rode home in an old wagon through fields of cotton unaware that their youth would soon be forgotten. There was a time when they were three babies crawling at their mothers feet waiting patiently for warm sweet milk and tea cakes luxuries in their world, a poor man’s’ treat.

Their mother insisted they go to school and discover their own dreams, she vowed at their birth that her children would not break their backs or sell their souls working as poor farmers in the cotton fields planting, hoeing and picking the south’s white gold. Eighteen, nineteen and twenty years old, they had never known anything but working the red southern soil day after day sacrificing their mothers’ dream for very little pay.

Threadbare overalls shirtless and shoeless they stopped at the dirt road leading to the farm they called home, knowing that this way of life was quickly to end their decisions saddened their father broke their mothers’ heart leaving it so crushed that it would never mend. They reached a nearby creek at setting sun sipped on moonshine, laughed had one last day of fun then left for home. It was no more than a shack but supper always a feast for kings, then they crawled into cornhusk beds it was a hard life but a life where they knew that they belonged.

Then one winter day it all changed as proud Americans that wore their pride like armor; there was no question they would answer the call, not only for them but also for us all. It was early morning when their father stood quietly drawing on his old pipe under an old oak tree, thinking of the warmth of the coming spring while their mother sat in her rocking chair afraid

of what the future would bring.

One by one they walk out the door childish faces broad smiles, shinny shoes, starched uniforms. Three young men proudly walked down the old dirt road that day no one knew when or if they would ever return; but these young men knew it was to defend freedom an endowment blessed with the day they were born. Mother and father held each other as they slowly walked into their home and closed the door while their three young sons walked away straight and tall ready to fight a war in a land they did not know on a faraway shore.

The window of their house proudly displayed three gold stars the days gradually turned into years their mothers’ heart had stopped beating, death had finally stopped her tears. Their father grew old as he walked fallow land alone with his life consumed by his many fears. Then one day as he stood beneath the oak tree, drawing in the smoke from his old pipe, while thoughts begin to drift back on his life. He wondered where it had gone but knowing that their mother at last is happy that her young sons were finally coming home.

He stared down the road as three shadowy figures grew closer would he recognize them, he could not even remember how long it had been. Their youth was gone their smiles were drawn the war returned his sons now three broken and scarred old men.

***

Mothers’ Freedom

It is good that I cannot remember the day of my birth, although since I have questioned why I am on this earth; my mother did not want me she wanted to be free. I understand the poverty in which I arrived, I did not understand years later when she told me she would have been happy if I had died.

She told of not having even an aspirin for the pain, and that she feared the future and afraid her life would never be the same. Mother told of the old iron bed with cornhusk mattress that

stood on a bare wooden floor. Of how they kept out the cold with raw cotton from the nearby field stuffed into the cracks of the homemade door.

Delivered by a neighboring mid-wife, weighing only two pounds my mother told her to take me away, I hope that she will be gone by the end of the day. It is said, that my father took me into his well-worn hands, whispered to me, live, I know that you can. He placed me in a shoebox put me on the front seat of his old pickup truck and carried me away. He would not see me until my birthday, exactly two-years from that day.

Left with a woman, that I until this day I think of her as mother, you see… I knew no other. She packed my clothes in a clean cloth sack, she cried, but she knew when I started walking my father would want me back. He looked at my birth mother saying that I would never again go away, she responded without feeling, it would be him that took care of me if I stayed.

The years, they quickly flew by and she was never at home, then the day came that she was finally gone. Also, the day came when my father died, I recognized her but did not see her cry. Me, I soon had children of my own and knew what kind of mother I wanted to be, and unlike my own mother, I always felt free.

I had not seen her for many years when I heard that she had died, too late to feel a mothers touch, too late to hear her say, “I love you so much.” I cried, but not for me, I cried because at last she had been set free.

***

Finally, Mother’s Love

In the stillness of the midnight hour veiled in glory my mother stood next to me. She touched my face where there are always tears. She placed her angelic arms around me to take away my fears.

What are these thoughts you have my child, she said to me with a mothers’ smile. Embrace my love let it take away, your sorrows we are here for only a short while. Be joyous of each

tomorrow. Forgive me, seek life not death; things are never as bad as they seem, cherish your life…follow your dreams.

***

The American Dream

There was a time when life flowed slowly like a perfect meadow stream, fresh was the air, blue was the sky and everyone had a chance to live the American dream. These things that use to be, will never return, we have put a hole in the sky, all because of our selfish greed, we are destroying earth out of self-seeking hunger for the things that we really do not need.

The sky is no longer clearly blue, only a dingy hue, the rivers and streams are filled with debris, between Heaven and Earth a cloud of toxic waste, we are destroying this planet and doingso at an incredible pace. Our wetlands taken away sold to build a summers get-away gone are the lands, forest and streams that wildlife was free to roam, today it is sold for some greedy persons million-dollar home.

Listen, do the birds still sing a joyous song, the animals are not happy; their lives changed, their feeding grounds gone, we never give it a thought as to where we expect them to call home? Nature tries to correct our mess with hurricanes, tornados and such, but Mother Nature believes that the rest is up to us. It appears we do not care and one day all there will be, are crumbling buildings, bridges and monuments turned to dust.

When you ask about the American dream, its lost among the rubble of crooks and banking schemes. The planet will die and waste away in fishless oceans and down dirty mountain streams. There was a time when the life flowed slowly like a perfect meadow stream, fresh was the air, blue was the sky and everyone had a chance to live the American dream.

***

Grandpa’s Jug

On a cold southern night, reading under the covers by a “coal oil” light, grandpa’s piano and laughter ringing in my ears, serenading grandma both had a bit too much “cheer”. I laughed so hard I pulled up the tail of my flour sack gown to dry my tears, grandma could not hear me I had nothing to fear.

Suddenly there was the smell of smoke, grandma came in giving my covered shoulders a poke. It does not matter to me she exclaimed, you may want to get out of bed before you go up in flames.

Through the hole in my quilt I could see… smoke rising through it like a wilderness tepee. Grandpa tossed a bucket of water at me from the door; it missed the bed and hit the floor. He jerked the quilt off the bed, folded it ever so gently and pristine, then threw it out my window which had no screen.

My aunt walked in laughing so hard she peed, and then said to the others, “Don’t yell at her, be happy that she likes to read. Everyone begin to laugh, drying their tears grandma said, well, it isn’t as if she’s committed a crime. It was then…I ran to the front room thankful for their “cheer”; and the help of a little old jug of “moonshine”.

***

She is an Old Woman Now

She is an old woman now, once young with roads to travel and songs to sing, a child not knowing what life would bring, rainbow skies, starry nights, a time where the imagination of youth blinds the truth. Then comes the long lonely road with no songs to sing, roads scattered with heartache, existence, waiting for what life will bring.

Hopes and dreams put aside, life in stagnant waters, worry, pain and dissension, could these have really been life’s intentions. Survival, breathing from day to day, choppy waves in a sea of disappointment besieged with life’s decay.

Time did not go quickly and existence hard to bear, in the end poignant images became clear; woven upon life’s tapestry was a face that held no fear. Thick black hair turned gray, skin furrowed with wrinkles that will never go away; a face that did

not know how to smile because it had said too many goodbyes, life gone out of tired old eyes.

As if an old rutted road where time, has not been kind and the bouquet of dreams now wilted with sadness lives only in her mind. As years go by fear of survival subsides, the mind absorbed no longer in, the when, where or how, the mirror leaves but one image, and it is… that she is an old woman now.

***

Let Me Stand Alone

Let me be alone, here at her special place still scattered with crumbling flowers and crushed grass, on my knees I fall, no more will I hear my child call my name, for a part of her lies on the ground and at the bottom of the creek.

I stood not with the sorrowful visitors who came to pay their respect, I could not have them surround me, I wanted her to rise, from the wild flowers, her flame red hair, blowing in the breeze, her large blue eyes and her gentle smile, these are the things that I wanted to see.

Even alone, as I stand, beside the creek she chose as her last resting place I grieve, I want to rejoice, to hear the comfort of her voice, why did she have to leave. Let me be alone, here at her special place still scattered with crumbling flowers and crushed grass, on my knees I fall; no more will I hear my child call my name, for a part of her lies on the ground and at the bottom of the creek.

Why?

***

Tainted

Here in my home built on rock and sand I have to take a stand small against the dark sea I watch the sparrows flit from tree to tree. While the gulls look on without glee somehow knowing that my soul is not free. Life viewed slowly through my hopeless eyes, windows to my soul.

Living with you is like flames to dry leaves upon the grass, your nonsense contaminates me to my core, because I do not want you, “Ass”. I longed to disappear for as partners together we both lie yet you bring me such grief and imprison my spirit the only way I may find peace is to… just die.

***

Nearer My God to Thee

This is a poem about my God, as he gets nearer to me! The Bible as written with many translations, it is very hard to believe. My God created the earth, the moon, and the stars! To accept as truth that he did this in seven days is very hard. As human’s if we believe that God created Adam from dust and Eve from a bone! Then why is believing evolution so wrong. Did he not create the ocean and that which lives within, why must we believe it impossible that God gave one species legs and said “Let life begin”. The nearer that my God gets to me and the Angels beckon me home, will my God understand if these beliefs; my own are wrong. Will he chastise me? I do not believe in Hell, and will he look at me saying, “As an earthly explorer seeking knowledge, and truth you have done well”.

My waking thoughts bright with praise, I continue to discover new and wonderful works of my God everyday. He allows me to be me, above uncertainty; I will one day be raised. Dust, bone, crawling out of the sea, our choices, our Will to believe isOurs, the right to “be”! Cleaving to the joy of the sky, sun, moon and stars, I know that I am permitted to think free, the nearer that my God gets to me.

***

The Empty Chair

Death sings sorrow to an immortal sphere, songs of battle fills our eyes with tears, young are the men and women, steady and bright, how many of their lives will be taken tonight. Many will fall to the foe, odds uncounted, yet with a command they go, the odds known, that they shall never grow old, some will argue

war and condemn, but they are not the ones who will remember them.

A mother mourns for the flesh of her flesh, the spirit of her spirit, fallen in the cause to help others from tyranny be free. They will sit no more at the familiar tables at home, they lay fallen in a land to some unknown, from their families they areforever hidden out of sight, and there will be an empty chair at their mothers’ table tonight.

***

The Mystery Box

Before the holidays last year, my Grandmother passed away, I went to her house to help for the day. In the attic, I found a box, a mystery with a lock. It had a label, “To be Opened, never more”, I picked it up gently laying it on the floor.

Should I, or should I not, I mumbled turning about, the suspense was more than I could take, I wanted to scream and shout. The message I understood, I was at granny’s house, don’t touch she would say about her many things and I was always good.

I would not try to pick the lock or break into this mystery box, with its label and its lock. I thought of that good child and wanted to be the same, I wanted to open it no one would know if I did, I picked up a hammer and broke open the lid.

Inside were letters tied with pink ribbon, I held them in my hands and I wonder if this treason of mine would be forgiven.They were addressed to my granny, the return was a strange name, I wondered if this man and my papa could have been thesame.

I open the first one, my granny was telling this stranger that he had a son, and oh of that fact did she dread. It was not until I opened the last one from my papa that told her, their good friend was dead.

I cried, I took the box and letters tossing them away, telling my granny in Heaven the secret with me would stay. It all happen,

before she married my papa and he knew that my Uncle Joe was not his son, but my papa was a gentleman; and his personal war before Uncle Joe’s birth had already been won.

***

A Letter to Santa

Christmas bells are ringing, the potbelly stove is lit, the raindrops sparkle on the windowpane, I sit here alone, knowing that my life will never be the same. Holly bushes covered with snow are dotted with red and green, the children went to bed hungry, their father I have not seen.

This little town is bustling with joy and cheer; I tried to tell the children that Santa might not come this year. I look at their Christmas tree through tears that fall upon the floor, their father gone…I do not know if I could take him back, like I have done before.

The sleeping children’s hearts are glad, yet here I sit on Christmas Eve holding a letter, crying and sad, it was from the children telling Santa they did not want toys this year, couldSanta please just bring back their Dad!

***

Best Friends

A little dog barked and leaped with his master in a quiet little town on a quiet little street. He fought with the he-dogs and sniffed at the she-dogs, life to this little dog was a treat.

Years went by, the Master walked with a cane, the little dog limped along silently, and their lives had changed. The little dog had lost his sight, he could no longer fight, and at the she-dogs, he had just enough strength to wag his tail.

The town people watched as the two of them aged, the Master never walked again, he had become just another tired old man.

Within time no one saw the Master and his little Dog, a neighbor knocked at their door, peeked in the window, and there they both lay on the floor.

The Master and his little dog had watched the morning sky lose its cast of gray, it was to be a very fine day. Then they watched the sun go down and the lamplights lit in the quiet little town.

They closed their eyes, Master dreamed that he was walking along the quiet little streets, the little Dog dreamed that he could once again bark and leap.

Master woke to find the little dog lying at his feet; he thought that maybe he was just asleep. Painfully he knelt down, knowing neither would ever walk again through the quiet little town.

The little dog was dead Master hugged him one more time, saying his last good-bye. Then he too, lay down beside his little dog and died.

***

Denial

Moments of hiding behind a cloak of make-believe reality as a dangerous storm blows across the recesses of the mind.

Unaware one moves forward…

First, the right foot…

Now the left foot…

Suddenly without warning, one finds themselves stepping into a pit of empty mortality, into denial.

***

Patience

Patience…incorporate it into your daily life, it is a choice not an inherited trait. It will help during times of hardship; a little patience is all that it takes. Challenge…Practice patience it will

liberate depression and stress, moving forward in life, patience can provide the ability to discover immense success.

Master…The art and science of being tolerant of your everyday world. Pledge that the important times will last. Patience creates freedom, casting away of a miserable present or Past.

Serenity…Of existence may be measured by the tolerance of intolerant ways. This practice will take you peacefully from day-to-day.

***

Crimson Fields

In a fields of red poppies caressed by a summer

breeze –

surrendering to twilight.

A union created by Mother Nature is quickly

blending dark and daylight.

Among the crimson meadow of blossoms

stands an old man watching the sun as its

golden orb begins to

hide behind a tawny sea.

Art brushes, paints and canvas in hand he follows

a narrow trail to his boat anchored at water’s edge,

his story now woven in color about life, as he believed

it should be –

Peaceful

Contented

Free.

***

The Mindful State of Reality

The knowledge of a loved one’s death brings forth a time for unearthing a part of the soul. Few accept reliving the past, looking for clues; and few are comfortable with life, this mindful state of reality brings…

An internal awareness…

A time to celebrate…

Moments of great revelation…

Embedded in an undying remembrance brings forth a time that within ones soul, the consciousness of life resonates.

***

Self worth

Sustain

The spirit with encouraging poignant

Conversations.

Surround

Yourself with those who understand,

Protective.

Seek

Surroundings that make it possible for you to hover over troubled waters instead of sinking into…

A stormy sea of life.

***

Someday-Somehow

In what seems to be that long ago day I questioned my life, would I walk a different path, somehow, someway. As humans, we wander through life trying to predict what the future will be; only to find ourselves walking a path littered with life’s jumbled debris.

Reaching ones dreams may never be, however the burning hope for tomorrow still lives somewhere deep within me. So once again, I wonder what I might be doing one year from now, as I wait for the change that will come…

Someday,

Someway,

Somehow.

***

The Hungry Soul

Truth hides behind a cloak of sorrow living with internal fears; pain alters the face of reality, living a lie in the presence of those who care, of those who are near. Fear kills hope for the future when life remains buried in the past; the desire for love will never be realize, if one believes that it will never last.

We band our mind with the mesh trappings of yesteryear; every step taken forward is difficult, as the loads we carry at times are too much to bear. Tenderness eludes the outstretched arms of need; compassion lies dormant, life stifles the hungry soul that one is not able to feed.

Divine assistance is always at hand, yet for many the eyes cannot see; blindness to faith stops life from accomplishing all that it will ever need. Spiritual does not mean that one must bind themselves to a devoted foundation; belief does not mean that our hungry souls be bound to one worldly location.

Emotional healing takes time and it will not be easy to journey toward the place where we belong; one travels many roads into tomorrow, but one never travels it alone.

***

Spirit of life

The spirit of life cannot fail no matter what ocean stream it takes, no matter where it may sail. You may stumble and fall, you may question the mystery of it all.

You may be pushed into the darkest of fear; yet you will hear the whispers of calmness because the Great Mystery is near. When you stop trying to reach perfection in life you will move ahead. Your spirit knows that there is nothing to dread.

Do not be afraid to move onto the uncomfortable edge and do not be afraid to fall, you are in the arms of the Great Mystery and your spirits tree of life will always bear fruit. If you live within the realm of spiritual truth.

Experience life with grace and ease; support the spirit of life,you will find wonderful blessing during the brightest of your days and throughout the darkest of your nights.

***

No Guarantee

Survival, a purpose without guarantee

doubt, existence beyond the last breath

void, behind the veiled curtain of tomorrow

darkness, without form, survival, searching

for the light.

***

Cancer

The swallowing of pungent fluid

wrath filling the throat

tears held back through

the pain.

Breast, the source of life now

hot, infested, anger cold a

secret untold.

The moans, the dying a

thousand deaths, stripped

the body.

Then one lonely night it

takes its victims last

breath.

***

Naive and Blind

There is one thing that I will cry for in the days to come;

the feeling is over, trusting and nameless I say

goodbye to your broken promises, to the arms of

the adventurer who caused me to leave home,

I long to be back when the world was new back when

I use to be young and new.

***

Hurry into Tomorrow

It is cold in the shadows of today,

this life is soon gone, I wonder

if below the earth, is strange?

I have shuddering thoughts about

the tomb until then, I am a in a

foggy dreamscape running

below ruby clouds where silver

raindrops are falling upon me.

I hurry towards an uncertain

tomorrow, I hurry to my life to

end my sorrow.

***

Secrets in the Woodlands

An untamed ray of light lulls one asleep under the forest foliage as the river murmurs slowly, and the woods sing. In a slumbering bed of pine needles, lovers cling.

In the soft breeze, her long veiled body moved with the rhythm of the nearby stream. Souls as one, this time, this moment, endlessly.

As the scented twilight melded into the forest floor, love had no boundaries. A time when happiness drifts in the air like a ship upon calm seas.

***

Needles in the Heart

Let us fight the moment we make our own fate, think before you decide to walk through that open gate. I know that we can never be the same after what you have done.

But you cannot just up and run our destiny is not entirely up to you, It is not over as long as our minds stay in the dark. Think about what you are doing leaving me will be like needles in the heart.

***

Weathering the Storm

A wet black crow landed in a tree, finding shelter from a storm that he was trying to flee. Disposed his down of the rain, he shuddered then tucked his head under his wing.

The storm howling through the woods would not get any better,he hid in the foliage to dry his feathers. I did not see him by mistake, he flew by my head into the tree dark and smart, he used it as a windbreak.

I walked ahead quickly leaving the crow to rest like humans he is doing his best. Trying to survive, trying to keep alive.

***

Sweetmeat Awakening

Lit by a summer moon of dark blue, floating white Ophelia’s as the river murmurs across the mossy rocks leaving misty foggy rings, stars coursing across the sky while the woodlands sing.

In the wine colored skies of day with clouds like dust of fine gold, pulled into the night a vapory breeze over a violet forest frigid and cold.

Near the edge of nowhere lies, calm black waters framed with emerald moss, the vision breathless, while the silence that mounts in the soul seems endless.

Like rivers through the distance of time of sweetmeats awakenings, waiting in soft pools twirling in the scented twilight.

***

Mysterious Dragonfly

My love for the dragonfly is so great,

My heart sings when it graces my day.

The night brings darkness and it flies

Away. Its beauty is great, its purpose for

Wandering is unknown, its presence

Causes me to cry, and life has now shown me

Why.

***

Death Would Not Leave

Reality is a staircase leading nowhere,

How could you treat another’s life that

Way. Words through which rage can play.

Death answers in its own peculiar way

The lives of others may seem bleary, why

Leave them to cry and cry your clear vowels

Rise like the moon, slowly, death a sickly

Sweet smell of lost souls, still you just would

Not leave.

***

A Redbird Day

It is a Red Bird kind of day as I carefully walk the bramble-hedged path through the forest that edged our home. I could hear leaves crunching, not from my boots… but a lighter slower movement.

I can hear the crusted creek running beside the path flowing gently through vein like openings in the ice. I can smell the wood smoke from our fireplace.

I know that on the warming shelves of the old wood stove are hot; biscuits and ham waiting for me to get home from scurrying the forest for nuts and berries, a treat while we sit

around the fireplace listening to grandpa’s latest tale of the war he fought in during his youth.

Mother watching from the window for signs of my bright colored hat she knitted me last Christmas, she opened the door and waved; I was late and she was worried. I showed her my overflowing baskets, she smiled…I wanted keep her happy so, I did not tell her about the Wolf.

***

The Dragon Toy

“Dedicated to my Son’s”

Slumped in this certain fiery place of life while living in the deep South, I wished for the toy dragon of my youth. Now I am divided and consumed by fear, I live in the dark corners of the earth where am I to go from here? I wish that I were once again that little boy who played for hours with his dragon toy. Why would you want to go back people ask, because it was when I lived with great joy.

***

I was Blessed

“For Charlotte”

A green sea, pale, amethyst clouds, what lies within, dies within, with utter grief. Salty winds blow around rocky coves; still, it calls to me from every valley and hill.

There waits more of this young night, the sounds of your voice is coming through the dusty twilight. I pray upon a brightly glowing star, that you are looking down upon me.

***

Doing the Best that I Can

I try, in life to love those that I sometimes fear; I try, to look at

the bright side of life while I hide my tears. I try, to find

pleasure in the little things of life and live by God’s commands, I

try, to search for wisdom and live the best life I can.

I try, to show forgiveness and good in others see, beyond their

petty judgments keeping my dignity, this is more difficult than

one can believe. I try, to be a good person, a good friend, but I

sometimes wonder if it is enough to do…just the best that I can.

***

Wings of Poetry

To a poet, writing is the blood that flows

Through the veins, words the sinew of

Their being, creating the movement of

The body, finishing uplifts the soul,

Failure not an option as the story must

Be told.

The lines may read of sadness, of stars

Hanging in the dark blue, shivering in the

Distance, creating against all resistance.

Waiting for the finished poem to float in

On a Morning Doves wings, in perfection ones

Poetry sings.

***

The Voices

I am a writer. From me you shall hearTrampling of insistent voices of thoseCharacters whispering in my ear. TheyAre fierce, burning with passion, theirMessages clear.

They speak to me with the force of aTurbulent sea, other times with theSurge of the tide, and always withRespect… within me they reside.

I am a writer.

***