The INDEX for our Archived 'Write To A Picture' pages is HERE.




 


Field of Buttercups

By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)




I took this picture last week when I was in Maine. In fact, I took more than one picture of this field. The old abandoned barn, the fencing, the trees and the buttercups was a beautiful scene, and I seriously doubt that I was the only one who stopped to take a photograph.

If you choose to "Write to the Picture", you might write about the family who lived and worked this farm. There may have been children, or it may have been a childless couple. A story or poem about an artist who saw the scene and decided to paint it would be interesting. Or a poem about buttercups.

How about an animal's viewpoint? I didn't see any animals, but the fencing tells me that once upon a time the farm had animals.

Fiction or fact, we look forward to your entry.








 


Field of Buttercups

By Jeanie (Mingo184@aol.com)




Little Jessie came out of the old farmhouse and looked across the narrow road to the old barn. Out in front she saw all the buttercups that filled the field surrounding that worn out looking barn. She scampered down the path and heard her mother call out, "Look both ways, honey, before crossing."

"Yes, Mommy. I will", Jessie answered. She paused briefly before crossing the road and looked both ways for any oncoming cars. Even though she and her mother knew there were hardly any cars or trucks passing by these days, her mother had told her it's always best to be safe.

She came to the fence and climbed through and knelt down amongst all the buttercups. She smiled and giggled with glee and began to pluck the tiny buds, one by one. She hummed a little tune as she gathered the flowers. High above an unknown bird flew across the clear blue sky. She looked up at it and waved, hoping the bird would see her and dip its wings in recognition. But, it just flew on.

Jessie stopped for a moment and gazed at the old barn. It was unused now. The paint was peeling and the shed next to it was leaning like an old, bent grandfather. Not too long ago, there were horses and some cows in the barn. Her father had nurtured the animals and used them to plow fields; they would graze in the far meadow and he would milk the cows for their neighbors. But now, nothing was inside the barn. Daddy had a heart attack a few summers ago and had died suddenly. Jessie's mother was unable to hire someone to keep up the chores, so she had to sell the animals and leave everything standing unattended.

Jessie's mother had gotten a job at the town library and was able to keep the farmhouse so that she and her daughter could live there. Now, Jessie lay on the grass with thousands of buttercups surrounding her. She gathered the ones she had picked and went back across the road, pausing to look both ways again, and scampered up to the farmhouse. She ran into the house and into the pantry and found a small vase. She brought it to the sink and filled it with water and placed the buttercups in the vase. She carried the vase, ever so slowly, to the kitchen table and placed them in the center.

Her mother came into the kitchen, her forehead was covered with specks of flour, for she was baking Jessie's favorite blueberry pie. "My goodness," her mother exclaimed. "What have we here?"

"It's for you, Mommy. 'Cause I know you're baking my favorite pie today!"

Jessie's mother put her arms around her daughter and hugged her. "Thank you, my sweet. You've made my day".

"There are millions of them out there, Mommy, But, I couldn't pick them all."

They both laughed and Jessie's mother tugged on her arm and said, "Well, help me finish the pie. You can lick the spoon from the blueberries."

"Yay!" Jessie squealed and went to the sideboard to help.

Her mother turned and looked back at the buttercups on the table. She glanced out the window and saw 'millions' of them swaying in the breeze around the old barn..and she smiled.










 


Buttercup

By Mary (MusingByMary@aol.com)




She wadnt in her prime ya know
as some heifers young n sprite;
but "BUTTERCUP" was such a joy
pure n simple, a delight!


Her home was in the faded barn
had seen its better days;
but BUTTERCUP could not care less
that barn had all her praise!


She gather'd there with Prissy Pig
N Missus Meow, the cat;
hours they'd just while away
heh, they'd really chew tha fat!


BUTTERCUP was Jersey
with her hide as smooth as silk;
she'd hear em brag a lotsa times
about her creamy milk!


That's why her name was BUTTERCUP
least that's what she'd heard;
N when Farmer Baker got his stool
tha other cows said not a word.


He'd pat her backside n he'd say,
"Mown BUTTER, do yur stuff";
she'd fill a bucket quick as a wink,
he'd git more than enough!


"That's me girl, OLE BUTTERCUP,
you're the bestest a tha lot;
traded two goats n a mule fur ya
best bargain I ever got!"


BUTTERCUP would shyly smile
and wink at her friend, Jenn;
who'd snicker into her oatbag,
N say goodnight ta Penny Hen:-)



Mary Carter Mizrany©
June 26, 2007











 


Fields of Buttercups

By susi Taylor (Texaswishr@aol.com)




I have never seen a field of buttercups, but I can imagine it must be as beautiful as the scene in Dr. Zhivago of the fields of yellow daffodils. Quiet, waving balls of tiny yellow petals covering the field that surrounds the deserted barn. How many years have they come and gone? How many stories could they tell if they could talk? Generations of children running thru them or picking small bouquets to take to their mothers. Perhaps, out of our sight, there is a tree where picnickers laid their tablecloth and spread their dinners, maybe read their books and laid in the shade of the tree with the buttercups all around them. Do you suppose there were lovers who walked thru these fields of gold, holding hands, making plans for their future together? Bright yellow buttercups, subject for an artist with dreams of becoming the next Van Gogh with splashy paintings like his Sunflowers. Carriages coming up the road might stop and let the horses munch on the delicious buttery taste of the tiny flowers. No, I have never seen a field of buttercups, but my mind can imagine what it would be like to dance in that field, spinning, twirling, or to lie down and sleep for awhile amidst their sweet scent, or to become a child again, running and playing. Maybe, just maybe before I no longer have that imagination, before I grow too old, I will see a field of buttercups. Who knows? Maybe the golden streets of heaven are really fields of buttercups.










 


Field of Buttercups

By Lilly (Lilprincessitali@aol.com)




One time on a trip I came to a small town
I stopped for breakfast in a coffee shop
A small crowd sitting, one telling a story
I joined, listened and found it interesting
Wanted to know where and directions
Was not out of my way and worth to see
After I ate and ready to walk out the door
A couple said follow me, will take you there
Drove on a dirt road some miles away
Arrived at the site, thought what a waste
Got out looked around a bachelor's paradise
He bought lived in the small farm house alone
No money to fix the run down house and barn
Bought a couple horses, loved and rode them
Put in posts and did not complete the fence
I looked close at something yellow, ohh my
Such a beautiful sight, around the corner
they were everywhere growing in tall grass
Someone bought horses and had estate sale
Got a good promotion to work in the big city
He moved away and met and married a girl
He thought they would live in the country
Not her dream and then his dream had faded
Drove back to town and cheer among people
Just heard somebody interested in that land
Oh,Yellow Buttercups, free to grow and bloom











 


Abandoned

By Connie (CSThomas@aol.com)




Old, abandoned, full of decay
depicts an image which saw better times
once full of pride for all to see
filled with treasured items
useful to all in need
now laden with rotting boards
lacking of color to give it esteem
useful now only for an artist brush
who paints the hardships of the times
surrounded by little flowers
trying to give it an air of beauty
but soon to be demolished and replaced
with a more treasured one ~


Much like our aging bodies
when our children leave their nest
forgetting the old who once was
so proud of their structured homes
where laughter and good food
were the topic of conversations
only to be shoved aside and forgotten
as we become aged and
our bodies are in need of repair
now forgotten since we have
outlived our usefulness as
we wither and decay much like
this barn of old.... only without
little flowers surrounding it
showing it aged with dignity
but now resides in a nursing home
full of other discarded souls
where dignity..... becomes a word of the past ~


Connie
6-26-2007
CSThomas@aol.com











 


A Field of Buttercups

By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)




The garden at the old house is a laying fallow,
People are a living there,
And it is very run down.
New cars I see parked there,
But grown over it has become.


The garden at the old house is bright and yellow,
As the flowers have just taken over.
A small sea of yellow where the garden used to be
Weeds and grass accent it, but it is still pretty.


That garden did the family feed,
The five of us it,
And momma and poppa did
In that field a garden have.


Fed us during hard times,
And momma canned and stored,
Now it is lying fallow
As yellow flowers are growing there.


The roof needs a fixing,
Things are falling down,
But the garden is a sea of yellow
And in a way it makes me proud.



©tomWYO, 062607











 


A Field of Buttercups

By Marty (mjford19@aol.com)




The worn weather-beaten barn stood
among the overgrown field
Masses of yellow buttercups shone
themselves
within the rusted barbed wire fence
Their delicate glossy petals brought
much beauty to one's eyes
Over looking the wood slats
embracing the long uncovered windows
Some see old as ugly as others view in awe
The wonders of mother nature
The overall magic of it all.











 


BUTTERCUP CONVOCATION

By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)




All those people who lived here on this spot,
Hardly noticed the buttercup plot.
They grew quickly and quietly too.
Blazing yellow to the skies of blue.


Over time the people changed,
To other places they all ranged.
Leaving behind the field of yellow.
And one tiny field mouse,,industrious fellow.


A hundred years have come and gone.
And the buttercups still live on.
More mice than ever live here too.
Like the flowers, they just grew.











 


FIELD OF BUTTERCUPS

By Barbara (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)




The past can be felt here in the field of this old farm.
The future too, the buttercups come back each year.
A field that once grew food for the cows and horses
Now it grows eye candy, buttercups by the zillions.
Remember the year it grew hay and the aroma as it was cut.
New mown hay, the next year it was clover, aw the smells.
Remember the children as they came along and grew.
There were twelve, and by then grandchildren came too.
Watching the farmer and his family, how they worked.
Then how they shared with their neighbors.
Apples from the orchard and eggs from the hens.
When the farmer died the little church couldn't hold
All that came to show they cared.
The farmer wore his Sunday suit, the only suit he owned.
People cried, children cried and then they sang.
They sang his favorite hymns.
"On a hill far away................
An old rugged cross".............











 


Buttercup House

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)




Let me tell you a story of a house on Irish Street. Once it was a home for two parents, two sweet daughters. The girls were fair and soon grew up. They were as cheerful of face as a buttercup. Married, they moved, and Mother died, leaving a lonely father inside. After a time, Dad had a stroke. Even then, with one arm dangling, he mowed the yard. Oh, did he mow the yard. Dad mowed everything down, including all pretty spring buttercups. The day did come though, that he could mow no more. Long the house stood empty, degraded, and the yard without water, gave up and died. Then to all’s surprise, the run down house caught the eye of a little teacher lady. Molly saw the yard as her pallette, painted it with flowering bushes galore. So many she planted they hid the door. Spring came and neighbors were surprised again, shocked, appalled. "She doesn’t trim, she doesn’t mow! Report that mess they called!" Then one sunny day out of the blue, the yard appeared as net as a pin. It was manicured and each bush stood alone in its flowering. So lovely a sight.

To Molly all nature was too precious to cut. Molly had just waited through the life cycle of the spring wild flowers, her yellow buttercups.










 


The Barn and Buttercups

By Barbara (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)




JUST BEYOND THE FIELD OF BUTTERCUPS
THE OLD BARN ALMOST STANDS, WITHOUT PAINT.
ONCE IT STOOD PROUD AND HOME TO ANIMALS
ALSO TO THE ANIMAL FEED, LIKE HAY.


ONCE THE WORK OF A WHOLE FAMILY SHOWED INSIDE THIS BARN.
COWS WERE MILKED AND HORSES WERE GROOMED.
CHILDREN STOOD BACK AND WATCHED.
UNTIL THE YOUNG ONES WERE OLD ENOUGH TO HELP.


GROWING UP ON A FARM IS AN EDUCATION.
LEARN AS MUCH ON THE FARM AS IN SCHOOL.
THE OLDER CHILDREN WORK LIKE AN ADULT.
THEY KNEW THE SKY AND THE WEATHER.


THEY KNEW WHEN THE MARE WAS GOING TO FOAL.
THE KIDS WOULD SLIP OUT OF BED TO THE BARN.
JUST TO CHECK ON THE OLD GIRL.
PAT HER A MINUTE OR TWO AND WHISPER SOFT WORDS.


A NEW MOUTH TO FEED AND ONE MORE ANIMAL TO CARE FOR.
THEY DIDN'T MIND A BIT, FARMERS' CHILDREN THEY WERE.
CROPS AND STOCK WAS THE WORK THEY DID.
MOST OF THE TIME WITH A WHISTLE OR A SONG.











 


Buttercups, Mums and Stella D’ora–Nature’s Sunshine!

By Evelyn (Evenccw@aol.com)




I know that spring has finally arrived on the ravine when the skunk cabbage down by the stream is surrounded by buttercups! But I have a confession to make. It took me a while to learn that there is a difference between a daffodil and a buttercup. William Wordsworth’s poem “I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud” reminded me of the difference. But I don’t know why I can’t just say “buttercups” instead of daffodils!


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:


For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.



A picture of an old barn overgrown with a field of buttercups can have me marching down Memory Lane in a nano second. In my growing up years on the farm in Alabama, behind our barn was a large fenced in pasture with a stream running through it. In the spring, on the north slope at the east end of the pasture would be a haze of yellow flowers that I now know were buttercups. On Sundays, after dinner, Daddy liked to walk the fence and take the time to “talk” to his prized cows. Those were halcyon years before World War II broke out. I’m grateful that he liked to document his life with that little Kodak box camera!




Where buttercups once grew
Daddy and his cows



One of my favorite old snapshots is of my sister Edna and me in Daddy’s mum patch. He had the touch for growing pretty flowers and prized his mums. He had a Kodak moment when he chanced to see us picking the flowers--without permission! We thought we were really in for a good scolding and started to run. But he had us go back so he could capture us plucking the flowers. Every time I see that picture I’m a four-year-old again, feeling the warmth of the autumn sun and the love of a doting Daddy who took joy in his little daughters. And I swear, I can still smell the pungent fragrance of the chrysanthemums!




Edna Mae and Evelyn caught picking
Daddy's prize mums!



As we approach the Fourth of July, the buttercups along the fence in my back yard have gone to seed. They are prolific and in the coming year they will be popping up here and there in my flower beds as unwanted guests! My daffodils have now gone to rest, their bulbs awaiting another spring. My flower garden continues to be ablaze with yellow flowers. The early primroses have now spent their gold and my night-blooming pale yellow primroses are a joy in the morning. My yellow cannas are beginning to bloom. Bees, butterflies and humming birds have been visiting my coreopsis bush. Spring planting is done and watering and “dead heading” is the order of the day.




Tom in a yellow blaze of
coreopsis and Stella D'ora



Sumner is here. Hallelujah!











 

 

 



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