This page, WRITE TO A PICTURE, is an invitation to our regular writers and to our visitors. Send an original poem, a story, or your recollections. Share your thoughts and experiences with those who like to READ what others write. Send to me at LaraOct7@aol.com.

 Early 'Write To A Picture' pages are archived. The links are here:

Beach Scene "1"
Old Train Station "2"
The Carousel "3"
The Fifties "4"
Summer Picnic "5"
From The Heart "6"




 


Your Title

By Your Name (LaraOct7@aol.com)





Your text goes here.

The title of this page, "From The Heart", might inspire you to write to someone you care a lot about. You might write to someone in the military. Another idea is to write to a deceased loved one. Or write a journal entry...something you saw or a scene that touched your heart.

I'm sure you have other ideas so how about it? Let's share some of the feelings we hold in our heart.








 


And The War Goes On

By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)





She waited for him to return
From the war in Viet Nam
She saved each of his love letters
When he served his Uncle Sam


He didn't return from the war
Not even his body found
She raised their children all alone
Without her true love around


Now her grandson was going off
To war in a foreign land
No longer a school boy at all
Playing music in the band


She pleaded with him not to join
At the time there was no war
But anger and tempers flared up
Again as it did before


She cried when he left his home town
Knowing the danger he would face
Why is it that all men must fight
To kill and maim the human race


Would her grandson return from war
Or would he die over there
She read again the love letters
And cried it just was not fair









 


From The Heart

By Amy (Fabulousfilly@aol.com)





the picture depicts;
conjures up a image
of a garden in bloom
and a private room
of love in the afternoon
oh my love don't leave me so soon


oh my love i wear your ring
oh my love you make me sing
oh my love how great you are
you know i'll love you ,near and afar


the letters you write, are close to my heart
i hope that we will never again be apart..
i put them in a very safe place
all for the view of the whole human race.









 


Afternoon Memories

By susi (Texaswishr@aol.com)





Old memory boxes and old love letters
Reminiscences that I can reach out and touch
On a rainy afternoon what could be better?
As in my hands your words I clutch


My love, my soldier from so long ago
Your letters came almost everyday
But you weren't in any fighting, that I know
I felt your love going away


The letters became fewer and longer between
Till that one that read "Dear Jane"
"I've met another whose name is Christine
I'm so sorry if I caused you any pain."


My tears came down and my heart shattered
I vowed I would not love again
No other man would ever matter
Never again would I sing love's refrain


But time has a way of drying the tears
The scars and the pain fade and die
And before you know it a new love appears
And you kiss those old letters goodbye


On a grey rainy day in the attic you find
An old box of letters tied in blue
For so long they've not entered your mind
'Cause fifty years ago you found a love so true









 


Love's Souvenirs

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)





Love has no rationale,
One day I kept your rose,
Another, we fought,
The roses were tossed.
But I loved you.
 

Pearls and petals are tucked away,
Withered but fragrant red are they,
Birthday once remembered,
Only one, Only one,
But I loved you.


  You were so cruel,
Then so was I,
So sweet were you that I could cry,
Heartsick I could not live with you
And I still loved you,
 

No one else could take your place,
No one, no one, no one else
I can still see your twinkly Irish face,
Before remembering the sick, mean one,
‘Til we meet again.
I’ll ever love you,









 


Mementos Of The Love

By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)





Visions of love are what I saw,
Memories of the past that are old.
Things treasured, special thoughts,
That is what she had kept.


A lace hankie he did give,
Those few letters she received,
An empty perfume bottle and
A purple plume from a play.


So short was their love,
How quickly it did come and go,
But she her life those did cherish
And they with her went.


A summer love long ago,
Two young lovers oh so bold,
Gave their souls and undivided love,
He gave his life in the war.


Marriage plans went for naught
A life together with that special home,
But for many a year,
She had the thoughts and dreams.


So I looked at her dresser,
As things I did put away.
Things that were special to her,
Those I placed in her casket.









 


From The Heart

By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)





When I picked up my pen
To write to you a 'Happy' letter,
Could you read between the lines then?
I tried to make it better.


Oh, how I missed you!
I longed to have you near to me.
That was between the lines too.
You didn't know you were dear to me.


Just good friends exchanging views.
Who did what and where and when.
All the best of the latest news.
Didn't want my heart to open.


I never wanted to let it out.
That I thought of you night and day,
Just wanted to scream and shout,
"I LOVE YOU! And that's all I got to say!"


But I wrote about the other friends we had.
And the parties that you missed.
When you left I was so awfully sad
That good-bye was the only time we kissed.









 


From The Heart

By Mary Carter Mizrany (MusingByMary@aol.com)





Lacy handkerchief what would
you speak had you proper lips . . .
As I count the petals of the daisy
with my fingertips?


He loves me ~ he loves me not
one by one they fall . . .
ne'er to be gathered up again
the writings on the wall ~


I catch the subtle scent of
the fragrance you retain . . .
tears tell the story of those
ribbon~bound notes; bittersweet pleasure/ pain ~


Why no sweet fragrance wafting
from the silent, lovely, rose? . . .
unreal are they, just as our love,
yes, God, in Heaven knows!


I will not grip the feathe'd quill
into an inkless well . . .
nor e'er divulge our secrets, dear
NO, never , I shan't tell ~


Safely in my memory box
with other treasures there . . .
to you a farewell kiss I blow,
to God, a whisper'd prayer !









 


From The Heart

By Brier (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)





ON HER DRESSER LAID HER COMB AND BRUSH
HAND MIRROR AND A PICTURE IN A FRAME
A TRAY TO HOLD HER EAR RINGS AND PINS
HAIR PINS AND RINGS.


THE FIRST LITTLE DRAWER HELD LADIES HANDKIES
WITH CROCHETED EDGES
SHE WAS A TINY DELICATE BRIGHT LADY
SHE NEVER MARRIED.


NOW SHE LIVES WITH A LADY FRIEND AND HER BLACK POODLE
NOTHING NEW IN HER CLOSET BUT EVERYTHING IS PERFECT.
SHE HAS A LAMB COAT AND ELEGANT SHOES
SHE DESIGNED HER HOUSE WHERE SHE LIVED MANY YEARS


VERY SOFT SPOKEN LADY
WE CALL HER AUNT VIOLET
WELL, CALLED HER NOW SHE HAS GONE TO REST
AND NOT LONG AFTER, HAPPY, HER POODLE PASSED TOO.


HER PICTURES IN OUR FAMILY BOOK
AS WE ALWAYS INCLUDED HER
SHE LOOKS RIGHT AT HOME
AND SHE WAS AT HOME WITH US.


THE LADY SHE LIVED WITH WAS MY MOM
THEY SUITED EACH OTHER
I HOPE SOMEONE FINDS ME A PERFECT FIT
WHEN I CAN NO LONGER LIVE ALONE.









 


MY AUNT FREDA – 1911-1951

By Evelyn (Evenccw@aol.com)





To my Aunt Freda, whom the world called retarded, I dedicate this paper on "IQ and the Heritability of Intelligence." The freedom she instilled in me as a youngster is now only just begun to be realized. Biblically her talents were few. This was the theme of her eulogy. With her few talents she flew over the cuckoo's nest. - May 1986

***


My Aunt Freda loved to look up to the sky, spread her arms in complete joyous abandon, and say:

Wire, brier, limberlock
Three geese in a flock.
One flew east, one flew west
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest!


Aunt Freda always had a friend---she knew the need to have a buddy, a friend. As she advanced in chronological years, her "buddy" was more likely than not, someone with her "mental" years. She never met a stranger. Aunt Freda died December 28, 1951, just a month before her forty-first birthday, January 21, 1952. Her birthday was always a time for celebration. She taught me to take joy in mine.

Aunt Freda could not read or write. Arithmetic eluded her. She associated her age with the years on the calendar and lost track of her age when she passed thirty-one. Before her thirty-first year she could point to her birthday on the calendar and say, "This is how old I am." When she passed that age she would point to her birth date on the calendar and ask, "How old am I, or how old will I be on my next birthday?"

Aunt Freda taught me many useful things. She did not know about biorhythms. But she did know that when you go to bed at a certain time, you arise without difficulty early in the morning. She always awakened at six in the morning to the sound of the Angelus bells that wafted across the fields from the church in town two and a half miles away. We didn't have electricity but she never had to milk the cows by lantern light. With her talents she mastered all of the skills necessary for farm living the year around and she always had time to plant and tend a flower garden. She particularly loved zinnias, which she called “Old Maids.”

I was her buddy, her pal. We were bed partners in the drafty upstairs room that we called the "old house" until I was six or seven. She kept me warm on winter nights. I can still smell the fresh corn husks inside the ticking on which we slept. In those long ago sultry early summer days in Alabama, with gallon syrup buckets tied around our waists, side by side we picked blackberries. As we picked we were serenaded by mournful turtle doves and the buzzing of June bugs. We were content. I was secure in unconditional love.

Milking the cows was Aunt Freda’s primary responsibility–--morning and evening. When I was six years old she taught me how to milk, though she never really trusted me to do it right! Morning and evening, before taking the precious milk to the kitchen to be processed, she poured some into a row of pie tins for the barn cats that always waited on the stone sill for their special treat.

Every morning she would pour a pitcher of warm milk and place it on the breakfast table. The remainder she divided into earthen bowls that rested in the milk cupboard. When the cream rose to the top she would skim it by ‘blowing’ it into the butter churn. In the evenings she placed a pitcher of skimmed milk on the table for supper. As the overflow of the milk began to clabber some was churned with the cream for buttermilk and butter. Some she hung in a flower sack to drain on the clothes line outside for cottage cheese. When Aunt Freda was absorbed in these tasks they took on the air of sacred rites!

My Aunt Freda taught me the joy of a starry milky way night as we searched the sky for the big and little dippers. On those starry nights we bathed in the cold spring water in the concrete watering trough down in the meadow. I lost my fear of the icy water and began to anticipate the "refreshed" feeling that followed. The restful sleep that followed always helped to meet the challenge of a new day. I began to anticipate a dip in the cold spring water when the hot southern sand burned the soles of my feet as, together, we chopped cotton, hoed corn, or just carried water to the next field where other chores were going on.

Aunt Freda loved any five-cent movie that had horses. Mounted horses being swiftly ridden across the silvery screen always thrilled her. She loved the beauty of the steeds, but more than that, they took her on a flight of fancy in her zest for life.

Sadly, I find some things on Memory Lane that are painful for me to look at. There came a time when I was no longer her "buddy" because I started to get embarrassed because she was "different." I was not yet in my teens when she cried all the way home after seeing "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves." She was very touched when the lovely Snow White was released from her witch-induced trance as the handsome prince bent down and kissed her. She cried harder still when they rode off on a white steed!

Memory isn't perfect, but the smell of milking time, newly turned earth and the aroma of blackberry cobbler, fodder time and new-mown hay easily bring back memories of Aunt Freda. Add to these, the whistle of a train. When she heard a train whistle she would always stop to wonder where the train was going–and dream that one day she would take a train ride. To the best of my knowledge, she never did. To her a hundred miles was "around the world!”

Feelings like joy, discovery and delight easily come to mind when I think of Aunt Freda. With her world view of simplicity, joy and wonderment she showed me the way over the cuckoo's nest. I somehow managed to lose the way. Better still, I didn't attach enough importance to her example.

Yes, Aunt Freda showed me the way, but it has taken me years to realize that my "cuckoo's nest" is of my own making. The good news is that I am beginning to feel free at last, oh Lord, free at last!

Aunt Freda, I was privileged to have you for my Aunt. Your love for me was unconditional. It was, and continues to be, my mainstay.

“Because you have been faithful in a few things, enter into the joy of the Lord!”

Matthew: 25:23


Requiescat in pace, Aunt Freda.












Watch this site for more Write to a Picture pages.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.


Ordinary

What Would I Do Without Love

Preshus Memories

As We Walked Along

Dang Dawg

My Grandparents' House

A Twist

When I Was Young

Summer Picnic (10 Authors)






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