The Real LJ Idol * 3 Strikes * Week 3: Morgenmuffel
Give me slow mornings;
rolling over gently into the sun,
listening to the birds singing in the tree.
I want coffee in bed with the cat.
I want to sit with my dreams scrawled out
like a delicate ribbon.
My feelings tender and
shimmering in the afterglow
of a night out on the road,
a winding path through the
tallest mountains, while an old
friend made silly faces as
we laughed and enjoyed a kind of
freedom we never shared in waking life.
I gently rock my tender heart awake these days;
No rushing out the door, nor answering to anyone's
beck and call.
Industriousness twisted my mother’s hands,
And my grandma’s hands before her, and I wonder,
was the work ethic from my immigrant foremothers?
They came to the land of plenty to settle in the Pennsylvanian mountains, raising families in
small houses with dirt basements and coal dust.
They watched for bears coming down
the mountain to shake fruit trees.
Would they look at me, their spoiled golden child of modernity and say Morgenmuffle?
I tentatively start my days, careful to reserve my energy for later, when the grogginess has dissipated, and I am more ready to engage with the act of living.
My unpracticed tongue
doesn’t recognize the acrobatics
of those syllables, but when I follow the
thread of grave records through the ages and find names
I never was told, and birthplaces I could only have
guessed at, I think,
my ancestors must be proud of what
they have made for me here.
A life of comfort and expansive love
they could not have dreamed for themselves
in those early days, when their eyes were open before
the sun's, their sighs and elbow grease the fuel on which the
day rolled out of its bed, lazy and sullen in the face of their preparedness and duty.
***
If you are a contestant and liked this entry, follow this link for directions to submit your vote for it: https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1180125.html.
Voting closes Friday, March 18, 9 EST.
rolling over gently into the sun,
listening to the birds singing in the tree.
I want coffee in bed with the cat.
I want to sit with my dreams scrawled out
like a delicate ribbon.
My feelings tender and
shimmering in the afterglow
of a night out on the road,
a winding path through the
tallest mountains, while an old
friend made silly faces as
we laughed and enjoyed a kind of
freedom we never shared in waking life.
I gently rock my tender heart awake these days;
No rushing out the door, nor answering to anyone's
beck and call.
Industriousness twisted my mother’s hands,
And my grandma’s hands before her, and I wonder,
was the work ethic from my immigrant foremothers?
They came to the land of plenty to settle in the Pennsylvanian mountains, raising families in
small houses with dirt basements and coal dust.
They watched for bears coming down
the mountain to shake fruit trees.
Would they look at me, their spoiled golden child of modernity and say Morgenmuffle?
I tentatively start my days, careful to reserve my energy for later, when the grogginess has dissipated, and I am more ready to engage with the act of living.
My unpracticed tongue
doesn’t recognize the acrobatics
of those syllables, but when I follow the
thread of grave records through the ages and find names
I never was told, and birthplaces I could only have
guessed at, I think,
my ancestors must be proud of what
they have made for me here.
A life of comfort and expansive love
they could not have dreamed for themselves
in those early days, when their eyes were open before
the sun's, their sighs and elbow grease the fuel on which the
day rolled out of its bed, lazy and sullen in the face of their preparedness and duty.
***
If you are a contestant and liked this entry, follow this link for directions to submit your vote for it: https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1180125.html.
Voting closes Friday, March 18, 9 EST.