Her hands

Always lumpy.

Long slender fingers with unsightly large joints.

Flexible. Too flexible. Tips curved up slightly.

Always chewed and bitten. Cuticles, not nails.

Sometimes calloused.

Always dry.

Now with scars from gardening. From cooking. From art.

Now spotted from brilliant sun light while biking. While kayaking.

Now wrinkled from years passing. Quickly. Far too quickly.

Always gentle.


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/grasp/”>Grasp</a&gt;

What lefties want

1:34 pm

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I’m a lifelong Democrat who loves my country. I’m definitely a liberal. In all my years, I don’t believe that I have ever met someone who wants to take away all guns. They are out there I’m sure but most lefties like me want some common sense changes.

I want guns and accessories with some features regulated. Brand name and the look of the gun makes absolutely no difference to me. You are right, the hunting rifle with it’s wood finish looks traditional and yet does exactly the same thing.

Here’s what I want: Reduce the number of rounds before reloading. Reduce the number of shots a person can fire per minute. Eliminate gun show and private sale loopholes. Improve the background checks process. Ensure that violent behaviors such as domestic violence are reported. Provide a mechanism for families to be able to address suicidal family members. Too many veterans are lost because trauma left them suicidal and they had access to a gun during their darkest hour.

I think some conservatives like yourself could collaborate with us lefties on a few common sense solutions.


The invisibility of all our privileges

Fifty three percent of white women voted for trump.

Fifty three percent.

White women are often blamed for electing trump.

I’ll admit it. I hate being grouped with the women who voted for trump. I hate people putting me in the same box.

Hate it.

But here’s the truth.

I get it.

I am a college educated middle class white woman. My privileges are many.

I am given more societal advantages than people of color, people without a degree, people living in poverty, immigrants, LGBTQ people.

Privilege surrounded me like the air I breath. I could not see it because it is the fabric of my existence. My struggles were relative to the people in my bubble and, in my psyche, I was far from privileged.

I was raised in an abusive home, bogged down by sexual assault, surrounded by people with more wealth. I had to work harder than my male peers in the STEM field and still faced harassment and discrimination. I fought hard against my own early gender based wage gap and closed it.

If I did not have my scholarship to college, my first sexual assault could have broken me. Instead, I escaped my hometown and I was able to keep my life moving forward.

When I made mistakes as a young white educated woman (and I did), people were always willing to give me a second chance.

Second chances are given to the privileged.

White women have the ability to thrive in white patriarchy, at least as long as we conform to the expectations.

Some of us can even be activists as long as we wear the hat of the charming idealist. The white male power system will still reward us. Our activism can be a hobby, even a passionate one, because we will always be protected by the envelope of privilege.

In my late 20s, I ventured out of my bubble and my privilege came into view.

I imagine some of the white women are aware of their privilege and intentionally seek to succeed within the constraints of white male patriarchy. For those dependency is a costume they wear to access the bigger payouts. For others, privilege is as invisible as the air we breath.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fabric/”>Fabric</a&gt;

George and his sudden success

The poetry world was abuzz. Out of nowhere George was thrust into the public stage. They said he was a quiet man who lived in a small farmhouse in Maine. (Or was it Vermont? Does it matter?)

They say his word choice is exquisite and the effects of the precise order and pacing of his pieces are almost alchemical.

They say his poetry emerges fully formed while milking cows or tending to his fields or some other farm-like task.

(He lives in a colonial in an affluent suburb just outside of Boston.)

He simply comes into his cottage, cheeks rosy from the cold and pulls up a chair next to his wife, Grace, who is usually kneading bread.

“Honey” he says. “Guess what I was thinking.”

Usually she lets out a shriek.

“Not another word George!” She cries and she brushes the flour off her hands. Bits cover her cotton apron but she knows he’s going to say something monumental so she puts vanity aside.

She pulls the shopping list from their icebox and grabs a pencil. She looks intently at him.

“Now George. I’m ready”

And words flow from his mouth in their finished state. Grace embraces him with joy, tucks the scrap of poetry away and then makes him a cup of coffee.

(After his morning stroll, George passes Grace on her way to the office. They embrace briefly. He then makes a coffee and settles into his office for a few hours before heading off to his job. He choses each word carefully, sometimes thumbing through an dog-eared thesaurus that he kept from his undergraduate days. He considered rewrites to be the key to a tight, well-crafted piece. Generally he only shares his work with his editor but occasionally he will read aloud the final drafts to Grace over a glass of wine. Her feedback is disappointing to say the least. Quite honestly, she doesn’t know what to say. Poetry is not really her thing.)

They say Grace collected the scraps of poetry in a coupon envelope and drove their old pick up to New York to meet with the publisher of a prestigious magazine. The editors thought it would be a fun diversion to see the work she held in her chapped, calloused hands. She trembled slightly when she walked up to the polished conference room table. Her voice was clear and true as she read George poetry. The editor wept silently. They published his work in the next issue.

(George has submitted his work consistently for nearly a decade. He attended workshops, networked, and most importantly honed his skills. He looked at each piece with a critical eye. He was systematic in his approach. He never let the rejections get him down. He felt each no brought him closer to his first yes. Then one day, the yes finally arrived. A prestigious magazine was going to publish him in their next issue.)

George was an instant success.


Thinking about hard work and inspired by the daily prompt, suddenly.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/suddenly/”>Suddenly</a&gt;

All the things he may not know

I wonder if he knows that I drive fast on the highway singing at the full volume to songs new and old. The songs I sing boldly proclaim my feelings for him.

I wonder if he knows that I mostly only write in my journals when I am angry. The words he would find scattered around do not tell the story of my love.

I wonder if he knows that I both love and fear the passing years. A graying  beard and laugh lines suits him well.


Inspired by my love and the daily prompt: wonder.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/wonder/”>Wonder</a&gt;


Please help me remember a time when we could work together.

Once, our people valued compromise. Differences in opinion were not reasons to scream insults. There was power in restraint and a common code of decency.

Please tell me that my hindsight is not just rosy nostalgia.

Part rosy and part true. Our people have a history of hate and bigotry. Waves of white supremacy have swept through our country. So many people lost their lives and livelihood to weak people driven by hate. Over and over again, the bigots have been defeated when decent people unite.

Please tell me how the old battles were won.

Many people spoke up and stood side by side. Many people risked everything to speak against hate. The risks were high but the cost of being agreeable in disagreeable times is too much to accept.

Please tell me everything will be okay.

There’s good reason to hope.

The marginalized voices have much to say. Are you ready to listen? They are ready to lead. Are you ready to follow?

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/uncompromising/”>Uncompromising</a&gt;


The conference room was glorious. One wall of windows looked onto the bay. White sails sparked on the brilliant blue water. A pastel patchwork of houses adorned the hills. From here the city looked pristine.

Of course, she knew that appearances can be deceiving. People love to believe in the smooth glossy perfection.

She gave them what they wanted. Curls tamed into a smooth professional spunky bob. That horrible hand drawn tattoo on her collarbone expertly concealed with scar hiding make up.

She chose a cream suit, the only concession to the artfulness of her page existence was an on trend silk blouse. Gone were the layers of jewelry that brought music to every gesture. Gone were the long auburn curls and the brightly layered scarves, blouses and skirts.

The bird of paradise was now a appeared to be a dove.

Oh who was she kidding. She was never a bird of paradise, she was a raptor. A soaring raptor who caught the up drafts and soared high over the golden headlands seeking pray in the fog cooled earth below.


Today’s prompt inspired me to rewrite the opening of a longer piece.

a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/messy/”>Messy</a&gt;