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




 


Who Lives Here?

By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)


This challenge is very much a challenge for the imagination. Who lives here might be a newly wed couple, a little old lady, a gardener for the estate, a couple of seniors. Or, maybe YOU live here. :)

You might want to write about the flowers or what she/he does to occupy her/his time. The story is in your imagination and all you need to do is write it. I hope you'll take the time to participate in this because it should be fun. I for one, always enjoy the different way each of us writes to the same picture.

Fiction of fact, we look forward to your entry.








 


Who Lives Here?

By Doris (Toto38@aol.com)


It's a place I'd like to be
My little pets and me
I'd paint the rooms so bright
I'd need no lamps at night


The dog would have his space
In this, my private place
The cat would come and go
And sleep by the fire in snow


This place is made for me
The garden so colorfully free
No lawn to mow, says I,
Just flowers and bushes so high


Come knock at my garden door
Some tea we'll have and more
We'll chat of life and things
While all of nature sings









 


Who Lives Here?

By Amy (Fabulousfilly@aol.com)


the path leading to this door
the view will remain in my head evermore
it reminds me of
somone i love


the flowers along the walk
where she and i talked and talked
stopped sometimes to pick a few
sometimes some flowers would be askew


we laughed and joked going to that door
my best friend and i....sad no more
i lost track of her years ago
i even had a friend look so so
hard


alas it wasnt meant to be
for you see
life goes on, oh but i wish i could see


her smiling face, playing records at home
but no she had to go and roam
hither here hither there
i wonder where oh where
she is right now
and how how how


might i find her again
she was once my best friend









 


Day Dreaming

By Joy (JOY3032@aol.com)


When I look outside the window
And see the landscape white
I dream of other seasons
When my grandson flies his kite


The wind is blowing softly
No gale that brought the snow
I see the garden planted
And flower beds that I must hoe


I dream of fields of green
And the clouds billowing up above
The sky of blue and sunshine
The days that I do so love


But time is flying quickly
And soon the rains of Spring
Will sound upon the window
Such a happy thing


The snow will succumb to warming
And be washed right down the drain
The cleansing of the streets and sidewalks
Glistening in the rain


I awake from my afternoon slumber
And see that Spring's not here
It will be awhile for flowers
But the thought just brings me cheer









 


I'm Home!

By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)


All those years I wandered,
Looking both near and far.
All the money I squandered
Wondering where you are.


You are looking so familiar,
Down to each flowery bloom.
I know it will all be similar
Each and every room.


This is the home I have searched for!
In every dale and hill.
I won't have to look anymore.
I know every window and sill.


I know by my heart's reckoning.
This place where I will live.
My soul feels the beckoning
There is so much here to give.


Elves playing in the flowers
I see them peeking out.
Playing hide 'n seek for hours
Losing with a smiling pout.


From the back door I can wave to the sea.
The surf is almost within reach.
The sea gulls laugh at me,
As I dance upon the beach.


This is where I'll spend my days,
What matter how many there are?
This is where my best dream stays,
I'll send a kiss to my lucky star.









 


The Path to Gran's House

By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@comcast.net)


The path to gran's house was always paved with flowers and good cheer.
It didn't seem to matter what time the year.


You see, Gran was the best that ever was,
And there was nothing to compare, I mean what does?


She was my Gran, a little lady with a white bun at the nape of her neck.
I couldn't wait to see her, and give her cheek a peck.


Hot biscuits coming from her oven as big as a cat's head,
Made me so happy, there was nothing I could ever dread.


Home made butter and "lasses" dripping down my chin.
What else could make a child have such a big grin.


Gran was old, "purt" near a hundred I would recollect,
For her I had nothing but the deepest respect.


She could do "bout" anything a body could do.
Why, she could shoot a rabbit, clean it and make it into stew.


My Gran was the smartest woman I ever knew.
She read her Bible, walked to church, and could feed a hungry farm crew.


Gran, I love you best of all there is to love.
I hope you are resting in peace in heaven above.









 


Grown and Ever Gone

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


See they left Momís curtains,
Let her garden wildly grow
Over the path I once skipped,
A forever in time ago.


She would have loved the butterflies,
Even the new blue paint,
She was so off-the-wall,
A free-spirited and lovely saint.


Strange to visit roots,
Remembering when I ran away,
Surely next year Iíd return,
Time - old time - had its say.


Now I view "home" from this Chevvy,
Not mine to enter any more,
Hope they forgave me, understood
That urge to wander in my core.









 


Who Lives Here?

By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)


Who lives in the house,
The one I saw,
The one that seems all grown over?
Is it all by design?


Walked down the alley,
And a gate I saw open.
Looked in and was taken aback.
For I smiled at an overgrown scene.


Flowers and bushes flourishing there,
With a white, graveled walk.
So much greenery there was,
I wondered if there were any garden snakes?


Wondered about bugs for it was plain,
The bees had visited to pollinate,
And the fresh aroma of green,
Lots of carbon dioxide.


I pushed the gate closed and smiled,
As around the block I went.
Went to see the front of the house,
Went to see if, this was their garden of Eden.









 


Are You Asking For My Hand?

By Connie (CSThomas@aol.com)


Ms. Beth was a handyman's dream. She could cook, sew, work on cars, and even do some carpenter work --- for she needed no man like most women her age. Been married, but since her husband ran off with another woman, she decided it was time to go it alone. Her children were all grown and gone and she needed something in her dull life other than just wilting away like a lot of women who are without a man around.

However, this was all to change one day. The city in which Ms. Beth lived was giving away this run down house or it was to be condemned and sold for taxes due. It really belonged to Mr. Krouse, but he became lax in paying the taxes. The weeds had begun to grow in the once beautiful flower beds that surrounded the house, but in order to acquire it, the one who wrote the best poem of why they should have it, would be the winner. Now, of course, they would have to pay the back taxes on it, which amounted to several thousand dollars!

Ms. Beth figured she could write as good as anyone -- besides that, probably no one would want it anyway since it needed new plumbing, and the rooms were too small for a family, but would be just right for her. After all, she was still paying rent at this old duplex and wanted to have something to call her own.

What could she write that would be the most appealing story/poem of all? Needless to say, Beth had never written a poem before, but felt she could do just as good as anyone else --------.


Are You Asking For My Hand ?



The city's fair was coming soon,
Giving away this house.
All one had to do was write a riddle
For the man who's name was Krouse !


Out of boredom she comes;
' I'm gonna win this home, she cried;
It's the master of the house I want,
Hoping to become his bride ! '


A crab ole sort was he;
Too hard to even please.
But Beth had a way with men;
She'd bring him to his knees !


Beth once had an eye for him,
But he never looked her way.
Guess she was too dower for him;
At least, that's what they say !


She made a cake for him --
One he didn't refuse !
He had to guess what's inside,
And saw he got no clues !


' A pill of passion, he said,
One to fill my drink;
You want to marry me,
He uttered with a wink ! '


' Are you asking for my hand,
Beth managed to say in jest ?
I've waited way too long;
I'm sure by now, you've guessed ! '


Not knowing her real intent,
Krouse saw she was sincere
He presented her with a ring ---
The reason is still not clear !



Needless to say, Beth sent in her poem to the judges that night and the Mayor announced the winner.


Did Beth win ? ------ Of course she did !!!









 


Who Lives Here?

By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)


Gray hair pulled back in a bun
Her high topped shoe laces undone
In her stockings a long crooked run


An old dress patched and worn
She wears no jewelery to adorn
Her big toe has a painful corn


Her front yard a flower showcase
Her walk the slowest of pace
A wrinkled leathery face


In the backyard animals galore
A few chickens a goat and more
She's the subject of town's people lore


She talks to herself, her best friend
Her clothes have a need for a mend
Her garden she loves to tend


She sells Watkins products on the side
Has an ancient car in which to ride
Loud mouthed people she can't abide









 


A Spot On The Prairie

By Marilyn (mterwilleger@bresnan.net)


It was the bluest noon in June
without the slightest hint of breeze.
I stepped upon the tawny plain
circled by mountains high and steep,


In silence I trod with calm and ease.
A slumbering cabin came into view,
sides and roof splintered with age.
I stepped inside the lazy door


and felt the hair creep upon my head.
Gossamer ghosts hovered above the floor
like every fairy wheel and thread, long
fingers of light shone through the lath.


No robust phantom lingered there,
only sunbeams that danced on silver dust.
My hard breathing ceased, my joy increased,
I drink of the stillness and peace.









 


Who Lives Here?

By Pat (Patagain71733@aol.com)


as I walked I came up on the house
the home of which my mom had dreamed
with all the flowers she had loved it seemed
I knew though all her hopes of happiness had been doused
by one over bearing wife beating spouse
she made do with life as it unfolded
giving her children strength and truth as their young lives were molded.
I grew up and so wanted to buy mom the house she had so often described
a home where all the love I had for her in the very walls would be forever inscribed
life often takes us down unknown roads
where plans and dreams
get pushed aside and adventure and mistakes bring responsibilities own heavy loads.
God who has plans of his own and
knows what we need and directions we so carelessly heed
watches over us in love
yes she was my mom
but first His child
her dreams of a home with flowers
was replaced with a mansion that towers
and a sweet song of happiness
yes mom has passed and now coming upon this house I know even though mom never lived there
instead she lived the life she wanted most serving her God and raising her family at all cost
some day home again with her I will be
and all the flowers in heaven together we will see
my answered prayers and God's promise to me









 



Who Lives Here?

By Lilly (Lilprincessitali@aol.com)


A big house in city many years
My friend said someone selling theirs
Was small one in need of no repairs
We went and found it within despair


Sold lots stuff and moved no panic
Just paint inside and new carpeting
Small house but nice bright lighting
Nights dim light and very romantic


We flower lovers, putter outside
look and try to name what is there
Pulled yucky weeds, sore backside
My friend, handy man and gardener


We made plans to add or remove
Will leave the path way we do love
We have lots privacy in the make
Not sorry and for sure no mistake


Small house and yard easy upkeep
Little mowing grass wont get steep
Will figure to get breeze from a cove
no matter what, a house we both love









 

May's Place

By Barbara (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)


This house and flowers I know.
I used to visit the lady, way up in years she was.
I would sweep her floors, take out her garbage.
Wash her clothes and take them home with me to dry them.


Her son in law lived next door, his wife had passed away too.
Mae was a soft spoken easy going, country girl.
She would tell all about how things used to be.
She paid no rent, had only two rooms.


Farmer Seth promised her the house as long as she lived.
A good Christian man he was.
When she was younger she helped on his farm.
She was the best at stringing tobacco, he said often.


On her good days she worked in her flowers.
She knew all their names, those pretty posies.
She wore her apron putting different seeds in her pockets.
Next year there would be even more pretty posies.


She lived alone couple more years.
One day I noticed things looked different.
Sure enough Mae had passed away.
On to heaven to mind the flowers.









 

By Mary (MusingByMary@aol.com)


See the pathway winding
with flowers bright n fair;
foliage different shades of green
the house behind it there.


Oh, the precious memories
of those in residence;
the sounds of lil' voices
ring with tickling resonance.


Grandmother with gardening tools
with seeds n trowel in hand;
kneeling pon the pungent earth
oh how she loved this land.


How tender were her nurturings
for all God's precious gifts;
family, plants, animals n flowers
thoughts give the heart such lifts.


Memories fill each nook n cranny
strains of harmonies we'd sing;
when grandmother played the upright
such nostalgia memories bring.


Heaven is her home now
with flowers that ne'er grow old;
treasured memories kept forever
OH, THE HALF CANNOT BE TOLD!



Mary Carter Mizrany©
January 11, 2008






 

May's Place

By Barbara (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)


This house and flowers I know.
I used to visit the lady, way up in years she was.
I would sweep her floors, take out her garbage.
Wash her clothes and take them home with me to dry them.


Her son in law lived next door, his wife had passed away too.
Mae was a soft spoken easy going, country girl.
She would tell all about how things used to be.
She paid no rent, had only two rooms.


Farmer Seth promised her the house as long as she lived.
A good Christian man he was.
When she was younger she helped on his farm.
She was the best at stringing tobacco, he said often.


On her good days she worked in her flowers.
She knew all their names, those pretty posies.
She wore her apron putting different seeds in her pockets.
Next year there would be even more pretty posies.


She lived alone couple more years.
One day I noticed things looked different.
Sure enough Mae had passed away.
On to heaven to mind the flowers.






 



Up The Garden Path

By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)


Up the garden path, a heavenly spot,
A well-kept, humble home waits you and me,
Set among such blossoms nature has wrought,
That sweet scents pervade for eternity.


Itís here, my sweet love, we will reunite,
Far away from the troubles we have borne,
Where each day is bathed in warmth and sunlight,
With no further need for either to mourn.


Here, at last, contentment weíll discover,
No further concern for health, wealth and such,
Where petals float and butterflies hover,
Poignant pleasure found anew in each touch.


There, in silence, we will sit and recall,
Sharing without words all of our thoughts,
Where not a solitary tear will fall,
Midst the aroma of forget-me-nots.








         

 

 



Resolutions ( 7 Authors )



A New Year's Poem



Tears in December



Wild Times and Dandelions



Softly Spoken Words



The Snowfall



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