There is a place where the chill of the morning air cuts through a person like a knife. To stand up would take every muscle of the body, but even that would take too much energy. Thus, one sits upon the icy pond called the floor. Is this a dream?
Somewhere a voice answers that it is more like a nightmare, so one just makes the most of it.
All around the sights and sounds of the morning begin to take affect. Very few people are there in the beginning. They all are in a sleepy haze, yearning to be back in the sweet comforts of their own bed. There they can wrap themselves in a blanket of never ending warmth and dream a never ending dream. In the harsh reality of the morning, they are here in the chilly morning air. There are very few sounds in the twilight of the day. All that one can hear is the buzz of what is the beginning of talking. Far off there is the sound of an early morning basketball game. There the players can hear the cheering of the crowd of a championship ball game in its fourth quarter. Will they win? Who knows?
There is some strange aroma that starts to wake the senses. In a nearby room there is a fresh, hot pot of coffee brewing. It begins to wake the senses and the mind, however, one still would rather be at home in bed. An awful stench begins to take the place of the coffee. The smell of breakfast begins to drift down from the kitchen. It has the aroma of mom cooking scrambled eggs. One begins to ...
In the stanzas of Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, the speaker very honestly observes the scenes from outside her apartment. From her point of view, she sees a both a bird and a dog in the process of sleeping. The speaker views these animals as having simple lives unbothered by endless questions or worries. Instead, the two live peaceful, uninterrupted existences, rising every morning knowing that “everything is answered” (ln. 22). However, the speaker lives in contrast to this statement instead anxiously awaiting the next day where uncertainty is a likely possibility. Unlike the dog and the bird, the speaker cannot sit passively by as the world continues in its cycle and she carries a variety of emotions, such as a sense of shame. It is evident here that the speaker has gone through or is currently undergoing some sort of struggle. When she states that “Yesterday brought to today so lightly!” she does so in longing for the world to recognize her for her issues by viewing the earth’s graces as so light of actions, and in doing so, she fails to recognize that she can no longer comprehend the beauty of nature that it offers her. In viewing the light hitting the trees as “gray light streaking each bare branch” (ln. 11), she only sees the monotony of the morning and condescends it to merely “another tree” (ln. 13.) To her, the morning is something
“The house is settling,” my Italian carer would say as the lights dimmed and glowed in her ghostly presence… but this wasn’t all the house did. I slept in my room. Well, not really slept. Sleep was never something I did much of, especially early on. My worries at seven pm far outweighed my need for sleep. Awake. Forever awake. My father had left me. My mother…
The poem that will be discussed in this essay is “Whats That Smell in The Kitchen”, written by Marge Piercy. This poem was really tense and a bit comical; but it was also sad at the same time. Some emotions received often while reading this poem is seriousness, sadness, and comedy.
morning to when we lie our heads down to go to sleep, we are bombarded with
I jumped out of my bed, rushed to the window and took a very deep breath. The morning air was full of special fragrant. I could not understand that scent; just remember that it was quite special. Now I know that it was a scent of freedom. It seemed like I could see all the molecules that were dancing in the rays of the sun as a little cartoon bulbs: very light and happy.
I woke up feeling exhausted and wondering what the day has in store. The giant sun rose into the sky-high above and the sea shimmered in the sunlight as the first rays of morning sun tiptoed through the sand making its way towards me. The light ran furiously and parched my closed eyelids as it poured in a white image. The sounds pounded my head like a construction site. In between this time, I prised open my eyes and saw a bottle of VB lying on the carpet and next to it was an ash tray full of cigarette buds.
As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, penetrating the dark, soft light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost surreal landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the barn, my riding boots soak it in. The crickets still chirp, only slower now. They know that daytime fast approaches. Sounds, the soft rustling of hooves, a snort, and from far down the aisle a sharp whinny that begs for breakfast, inform me that the crickets are not the only ones preparing for the day.
The third maddening buzz of my alarm woke me as I groggily slid out of bed to the shower. It was the start of another routine morning, or so I thought. I took a shower, quarreled with my sister over which clothes she should wear for that day and finished getting myself ready. All of this took a little longer than usual, not a surprise, so we were running late. We hopped into the interior of my sleek, white Thunderbird and made our way to school.
ness. Nevertheless, it was easily the warmest place in the house and all household activities were being conducted there that day. My dad was trying to conquer a video game with little success, and my brother and I toiled with our homework achieving an equal lack of accomplishment. The culprit of our distraction was undoubtedly the pot roast that waited upstairs for us, taunting our empty stomachs with its heavy smell which floated over the moldy air of the basement like oil on water. The aroma must have reminded my mother to afford the roast a checkup, for she had abandoned the laundry and was ascending the stairs.
I awake to lukewarm water dripping down my forehead from a damp towel. I feel a thick liquid against my back. I scan the area, Unfamiliar. I find myself lying in a cot in a filthy room. The sight room itself was depressing, not that it was in extremely bad conditions but it was all…brown, the kind of brown that makes you feel depressed. It reeked of fish and motor oil, one of the queerest combinations of scents I have encountered. My ears start to pick up the deep monotones of a man speaking in other room. In my drowsy state I couldn’t make out exactly what he said but I did manage to g...
The heart begins racing the moment the car pulls into the airport parking lot. The smell of jet fuel, automobile exhaust, and hot tarmac combine to assault the senses with images of exotic escapes and the kind of freedom that can only come from airports. I feel the thrum of the engines at takeoff and the vibration of the plane during the flight in my skin. I see people listening to MP3s and playing video games. I hear the couple behind me chatting about the weather in Florida and the possibility of rain. I recognize the smell of fading perfume that women are wearing. Chanel, Windsong and White Diamonds clash with the smell of popcorn and Quizno sandwiches.
Usually when you end up drifting off to sleep, you fall into a deep sleep and begin to experience a so called dream.” However, most children, and even some adults, experience some even more terrifying so called dreams. These dreams are called nightmares. Nightmares have been occurring in people’s sleep for hundreds of years. People have been interested in them for centuries and they have quite an interesting past to them.
In the early summer mornings, when the sunshine is young and playful, inside the church another realm is born. Sitting in the back rows one can see a heavenly mist flowing though the windows and filling the sleepy altar with life and hope. It is a different dimension in the breast of an unsuspecting world. Moments such as these bring you joy and reassurance and also show you that there really is someone out there: your soul is elevated, your mind is thirsty for new experiences and your body is strengthened.
""An Interpretation of "on the Pulse of Morning"" StudyMode. N.p., n.d. Web. 28 Jan 2014. (4)
I brush my eyes awake, feeling the cold seeping in from my window. It’s 9 AM and it’s winter in Minnesota. Feeling sleepy, I stand up and go outside. I love the winter air. It always refreshes my mind and there’s just a cold bite to it that I enjoy. Coming back inside, I boot up my computer, hoping to enjoy it a little before heading out. The winter days swim together, phasing throughout my mind, and I fall asleep again, or I have woken up.