Writing Prompt 1

Welcome to the first day of our 30/30!

Your prompt today is:

 

my grandmother’s hands

 

 

Image credit www.cliparts.co
Guidelines, if you want them:

  • Posting your response is not required
  • Feel free to post your response   🙂
  • This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
  • While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
  • Tips & encouragement are here
Advertisements

13 comments

  1. My grandmother’s hands rest
    folded in her lap,
    freckled and plump,
    still and quiet,
    resting from all the labor,
    from tending the lettuces and radishes,
    chopping the ends from the green onions,
    primping and praising the flowers,
    pinching off the old growth,
    only the gold band adorning one finger.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. My grandmother’s hands feared as much as her sharp tongue
    and her shrill calls to sit nice on the
    furniture. Pointing like a dagger as the screen door slams,
    to not get dirty. Flung in the air in frustration at
    grandpa for spoiling us with treats.
    Always ready to reach for the brown leather strap
    hanging in plain sight in the bathroom.
    She sits in her chair, slapping her woe-is-me cheeks,
    turning over each other in her lap,
    fussing with her apron, moaning
    what these hands have
    had to put up with.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. My grandmother’s hands
    were always busy
    stirring pot of soup
    dusting
    arranging the table
    pouring drinkgs
    making ravioli
    serving at the table
    Like a magician tho
    in spite of all the work her hands had to do
    she managed to create wonderful
    fun surprises for her grandchildren
    slight of hand from a hard life

    Liked by 2 people

  4. how they spin/the beads on a sandalwood rosary/
    counting faith/in prayer/these chapped,
    blackened hands/once they too/counted
    bangles/played with toys/marbles with a brother/
    who no longer calls/ her sister any more./
    these hands, that have birthed/many a baby/many
    a mother’s tearful eyes/bathed with gratitude./forlorn
    now, they remember/being bridal once/blooming in henna/
    blushing, being held/then, pale alabaster/too early, snatched
    away/into swathes of white./they bore the heavy pots/the logs of wood/
    the lone son/the hot cowdung/on the village sand./i remember/
    these hands/massaging the fragrant oils/on my long black hair/
    washing them tenderly/with shikakai & aritha/never shampoo/
    then grinding the chutney/bottling pickles/oiling the rice and dals/
    “to protect from insects” she says/ carrying me as a toddler/and now
    carrying my bags to the airport/handing me over to a man/telling him/
    i’m innocent/i know nothing/that after her/he will be the only one/
    who knows me best./ she is right/ he has the same hands/ except/
    i long for the ones/with the jagged nails/she never cuts/wipes off her
    laughing tears/ at my silly jokes/ never hugs me/ holds me in the night/
    when she thinks i’m asleep/not looking/but ever-knowing/where they are.

    //my grandmother’s hands

    Liked by 2 people

  5. i was so confused about yesterday. i am just getting the hang of this. i am a day late, but will be caught up today.
    Day 1, a day late…

    grandma’s left hand

    my grandma had a mean left hand,
    with youthful skin until her end.
    no wrinkle or scar took away its skill.

    my grandma had a mean left hand,
    could lime and turn a dirt backyard,
    all by herself and plant collards,
    tomatoes and red-hot peppers.

    my grandma had a mean left hand,
    kneading yeast-puffed dough or peeling
    peach skin into a thin spiral or beating
    heavy cream into fluffy sweet stuff
    for her sweet cobblers.

    my grandma had a mean left hand,
    could bury a butcher knife in
    her skirt’s fold and invite
    anyone to come mess with her.

    my grandma had a mean left hand,
    standing on our stoop, watching
    me play with children, too afraid
    to stay outside and play with me.

    my grandma had a mean left hand,
    she could catch my leg before i
    got out of her sight and threw
    an old oxford with perfect aim.

    my grandma had a mean left hand.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. She Wore a Tortoiseshell Ring

    Here hands were made smooth by
    Jergens Lotion, nails neatly manicured,
    cuticles and half moons shining with
    clear polish or the occasional splurge
    of red for a celebration. They pulled
    on kid gloves for Sunday Church or
    traveling in the car, gingerly adjusted
    the veil on a pheasant plumed hat,
    unlike my mothers’ hands, thick and
    chapped. She only used Trushay
    when my father pushed, nails chipped
    from garden rocks, the endless laundry
    hung from dripping lines. Early on,
    I wanted my grandmothers’ hands,
    the ones that made Wolferman’s
    hermits and the occasional pie.
    At the time, I thought hers an
    easy elegance, later knew it
    to be a studied effort at rising above
    the old washtub and boarding house.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. My Grandmother’s Hands

    My grandmother’s hands still clap
    to the music as she thinks about her black flapper dress
    with all the fringe around the bottom.
    She was the star of the ball room once-
    when she could still wear that size eight dress.
    The disco ball in the nursing home spins as
    the music plays.
    Her memories had the same effect of
    another place in time when all
    of the stars twirled around
    in her own universe.

    Like


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s