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




 

Studio Portrai

By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)


They say that everyone has a story and if so, what is this woman's story? I found her picture in an attic I was cleaning out. It was in an album and I couldn't find a name. Her dress and the sepia tones suggest the 1800's. What do you think?

Your challenge is to give her a name and a story. We look forward to your entry.








 


Studio Portrait

By Amy (Fabulousfilly@aol.com)


im staring at a picture that looks just like this one
except its of my great grandpa
and it has not come undone
it is so old i care for it well
i surely love it as you can tell
its hangin on my wall
im hopin it doesnt fall
i dust it clean
dont treat it mean
its oval framed
and paul he was named









 


Studio Portrait

By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)


When our children were small, we took our middle son to the mall for his birthday. He wanted very much to have his picture taken in one of those studios that let him dress up like a pioneer boy in vintage clothing. So we had that done. We got several copies and sent one to my parents. At the time we were living in a state across the country from them. They thought for sure it was an ancestor of my husband, and not our boy. They showed it to everyone in the family and we got lots of mail asking us which of my husband's ancestors it was, and commented on how much our boy resembled him. It gave us quite a laugh.








 


Studio Portrait

By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)


Grandpa Jeb was a lonely man,
But folks all said, way back,
He was quite the ladies man,
And was chased my many a lady.


But it seems Grandpa Jeb,
Married Miss Lulu Bell
And three children they did have,
But one day she ran away.


He raised his children quite well,
But never at another woman did he look,
Just worked and his bible read,
As he loved his children and all other kids.


After he died at ninety-seven,
I went to get his house in order.
And only one picture I found in the house,
On his bedroom wall.


A portrait of Miss Lulu Bell,
Did hold the place of prominence.
And when I went through the large trunk,
I found it was full of letters.


Each day after she left,
Grandpa Jeb did to his wife write.
Wrote a love letter oh so sweet,
Wrote things oh so neat.


One for each day until he died,
As he told her about their children,
And how he loved her so,
And was waiting for her return.


Oh how neat and much he did love,
That lady who up and ran away.
Seems she married a preacher,
Who got drunk and did beat her.


Now I think I understand,
And all of this comprehend,
And I wish every man,
Could love a lady like he loved Miss Lulu Bell.









 


Studio Portrait

By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)


She had thought long and hard
before she decided to accept the position.
She had sent her application months ago,
and just last week had received a
letter saying she had been accepted.


A school of her own, but situated
in northern Minnesota?
Yes, she would take it because she wanted to go
far, far away. She would miss her family,
and she would miss her parent's comfortable home,
but she wanted to be on her own,
especially so since her childhood sweetheart
was about to marry someone else.


At her parent's insistance, she was having
her picture taken. A studio portrait, no less.
Then next week, she, Miss Cynthia Jane Miller,
would be on her way. She was twenty-six years old,
and she was going to be a teacher.


In the middle of what would be one of the coldest
winters in Minnesota's history, Miss Cynthia Jane Miller
had a visitor. It seemed that Mr. Jonathan Browning
had made a dreadful mistake when he let her go off alone.
He loved her. He wanted to marry her if she would have him.
Did she love him? He had traveled a great distance
in hopes of winning her heart.


Miss Cynthia Jane Miller and Mr. Jonathan Browning
were married that spring, and when Miss Miller's
teaching term ended, they left Minnesota and went
on a very long honeymoon.









 


Miss Blanche

By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@comcast.net)


Miss Blanche was quite the lady in her day.
She sat for a studio portrait at the request of her sister who wanted it to hang in their home on display.



Miss Blanche was never married, and her sister Eloise was a widow of many years.
They chose to live together and to their city were members of several organizations and volunteers.



Miss Blanche gave piano lessons to add to their income and loved the laughter and chatter of the boys and girls.
The boys sat stiff and correct at the keyboard as they played, while the girls bounced on the piano bench sending their curls in a whirl.



The grand piano sat across from the practice piano in the front room.
It was at that piano that students found that their talent often blossomed and began to bloom.



I wonder what happened to the old house and that portrait of Miss Blanche long gone to her reward.
Perhaps someone bought the house and had them both restored.













 


Kindred Souls

By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)


In a Cracker Barrel restaurant,
On interstate highway ninety-five,
You’ll see all the artifacts you’d want,
Waiting for your dinner to arrive.


Antique tools, old toys, and framed photos
Are some of the things that you will see;
Also signs with forgotten logos,
Like Ethyl, Burma Shave, Busy Bee.


One photo I just couldn’t ignore,
Hung to the left of the fireplace.
Somewhere, I knew that woman, I swore -
Hard to forget that beautiful face.


So fascinated, I couldn’t eat,
From her eyes, I couldn’t shift my gaze.
A century ago, did we meet?
She wore the clothing of long gone days.


I was very reluctant to leave,
When my companions all rose to go.
I wondered, can one possible grieve
The loss of one you don’t even know?


That’s how I felt as I walked away,
Bereft, with a flutter in my chest,
Wishing for any reason to stay,
But we’ll remain kindred souls, at best.



By © Richard McCusker (rmrickmack@aol.com)









 


Grandma's Heritage

By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)


Look on the face of Hannah Kilbride.
An Irish lass with lots of pride.
You'd never know that she borrowed the dress,
Her family was poor but you'd never guess.


They lived in Cohoes, New York,
Their fore fathers came from County Cork.
She married a fellow named Willie Ryan,
He didn't have much but he was tryin'.


He'd put up wallpaper and paint your house.
She let him think he was the perfect spouse.
She would never raise her voice.
Her wisdom she whispered, that was her choice.


They had three daughters and one son.
At that point she whispered.."I'm done."
They were married almost fifty years,
When Willie passed on, she shed many tears.


A few years later, he must've called for his wife.
It was her time to leave all this in our life.
I'll always remember her hugs and her kiss.
Dear Granma Hannah, who I still miss.










 


REST IN PEACE ALICIA GRACE

By Mary Mizrany(MusingByMary@aol.com)


What a lovely face
with a nose for news;
half~smile on her lips,
perhaps she's a muse.


Refined and subdued
but a fire in her eyes;
sparkling with adventure,
that she could not disguise.


Her name is Alicia,
her demeanor reserved;
pictures can be deceiving,
a name be well~deserved.


Her middle name Grace,
described her to a tee;
diminutive and dainty
as kind as kind could be.


She nursed the injured,
nurtured the needy;
prayed for the dying
in places that were seedy.


When she smiled her smile,
'twas like a sunray;
gentleness and peacefulness
are what she would portray.


"Call Alicia Grace"
was the soldier's hurried cry;
the God she serves will help,
this brave one not to die.


Exceptionally brilliant,
beautiful of form and face;
upon her grave stone carved:
Rest in Peace Alicia Grace!



Mary Carter Mizrany
February 24, 2008










 


Studio Portrait

By Emiliano (Poeta48@aol.com)


The mystery in her eyes
makes her even more intriguing
near the edge of intense
and the mood she seems to be in
rhymes with the music and attitude
of this written simple verse
that escapes out of my pen.










 


Her Portrait

By Barbara (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)


Yes, I remember the portrait was said to be of an ancestor.
She was Princess Feather, an Indian princess.
We were proud that native American blood surged through our Quaker blood.


One summer day the aunts drove from the mountains in Maryland,
over into West Virginia, on the track of more veins of our family tree.
The three of my mother's sisters: Ila, Fran, and Bernice.
I wish I had been a fly in the back seat. I am sure it was very interesting.


Once they had spent the day picking the brains of distant cousins
and other relatives, home they drove with heads full of facts.
Seems my dear Princess Feather was only a dream.
The lovely black haired lady who hung in Granddad's bedroom...
Well, she was of German descent and we couldn't even give her back her real name.


Once again, to prove an old adage about stirring up trouble... well just don't.
With loving respect for my aunts and their adventures.










 


Studio Portrait

By Jeanie (Mingo184@aol.com)


Her name was Lucinda, and she lived in San Francisco at the turn of the 20th Century. She was companion and nurse to Agatha Greenway, wealthy widow of Charles Greenway, a railroad tycoon.

Lucinda applied for the job she had seen in the newspaper. Mrs. Greenway liked her immediately and she was hired.

Now, she had been working for Mrs. Greenway several years. She tended to her needs, dispensing her medication when her allergies flared up or her painful, arthritic hands caused her much discomfort. She would take Mrs. Greenway out onto the patio of the big mansion on Nob Hill, so that she could view her fabulous garden. It was the talk of San Francisco, that garden. Mrs. Greenway had tended that garden herself for many years, between raising her 4 daughters and attending dinners with her husband. Now, though, she could not handle the work and had hired gardeners to keep it up. She did, however, tell the gardeners how she wanted flowers and ferns planted.

Mrs. Greenway had a collage of portraits on her grand piano. She insisted that Lucinda have hers taken so she could add it to her collection.

In 1906, the great San Francisco earthquake struck and everyone had to flee Nob Hill as the fires, that had erupted after the tremors had ceased, spread towards the fabulous mansions there. Lucinda pushed Mrs. Greenway in a borrowed wheelchair down the hill to safety.

Long after the fires were put out, Lucinda went back to where the mansion had stood. All that was left was a huge pile of rubble. She walked around the debris and saw something salvageable sticking out of the pile. She reached for it and, pulling it out, discovered that it was her studio portrait, the one Mrs Greenway asked her to pose for.

Years later, the portrait was hung in Lucinda's own home after she had married and raised her own family. Somehow, after moving many times in her married life, the portrait had disappeared. It was again found by Lucinda's granddaughter, and namesake, in a trunk in her mother's attic. She had the portrait reframed and it now hangs in the dining room of her own home in Sausalito, just across the Golden Gate Bridge in California.

It has, you might say, come full circle.










 


Mystery Lady

By susi (Texaswishr@aol.com)


Mysterious lady, who are you?
I can't tell from the picture,
Are your eyes blue?
Do you take after your mother?
She must be a beautiful lady too.


Are you dressed up for a dance?
I'll bet your dress is a lovely red,
And do your shoes match?
You have diamond teardrops in your ears
The candle's firelight to catch


From the look in your eyes
You are trying to catch the attention
of one of the guys
and maybe take a walk in the garden
fan in hand and using guileless sighs


Mysterious lady, your face always serene
Your small enigmatic smile brings questions
Rather like La Jaconde
We don't really know you, we can only imagine
How much you were wanted.


More generations will ask you your name
No one will answer, how silent your voice
As you sit looking out of your oval frame
We'll never know what you wanted to be
But a mystery lady is what you became










 


Studio Portrait

By Cara (Cara617@aol.com)


Picture on the wall,
a mysterious lady.
Was her life happy?
Did she get married?
Did she have children?


What is left of her?
Just a studio portrait?
Any memories?


Who claims this picture?
Is there a family tree?
Questions to answer.










 


The Story of a Lady

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


There is fire in her eyes
With firmness of face
A young lady of taste
A demure touch of lace.


Tomorrow she would wed,
But today she would pose
Impeccable, unflappable,
From her head to her toes.


Tonight she would see her lover ordained,
And travel to his west English church.
She prayed she could live up to a minister's wife
Her passions on hold, a fine lady of worth.


She tried, oh, she tried
Served Earl Grey tea with scones,
Even though that music director
Tempted and quivered her bones.


She helped her rector to Bishop,
She seemed like the perfect wife,
The musician the while carries this portrait,
For he gave her a secret kind of life.











         

 

 



Satin Sheets



Today We Live



Deaf Music



Red Rose, Red Rose



Valentine Date



My Valentine



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