Birth

All Poems, Birth, Death, For Children, Natural Beauty, Trees

How Often Do You Get to Watch?

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How often do you get to watch blossoms fall from a favored tree?

In slow motion?

Gliding in graceful pirouettes toward the ground?

Lavender lanterns from the Empress.

Alighting on path, fence, forest floor.

Right behind the house.

To whistles, chirps, trills.

From robins, wrens, catbirds.

Funeral melodies.

In an otherwise silent scene.

Behind the kitchen where I awaited April flowers.

Longed for them.

To burst from golden velvet buds.

Disperse honeyed perfumes.

Through each window, door.

There, I witnessed renewal, birth.

Only weeks later, letting go, dying.

Life span brief.

Though every day lived, lusty.

Existence, elegant.

Adored for aromas, delicate shape.

Color, easy on the eyes.

Blessed am I to sit with you

at your mid-May demise.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 19, 2024

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Birth, Change, For Children, Gym/exercise, Parent Love

From the Window of the Gym

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I watch from the window of the gym.

As I make rounds on the track.

Staying dry on a damp, drizzly day.

Gazing at geese.

Two parents, five goslings.

Roaming a distance from the pond.

Vigilance diminishing as hatchlings grow.

Bigger, fatter, faster.

Poking, picking at grass.

Unbothered by showers.

Maybe even rejoicing in them.

Finding them cool, refreshing, cleansing.

I think how patient parent geese are.

Wondering, do they ever lose their tempers?

As the babies age?

Become teens?

Obey less, defy more.

Claim independence.

I don’t really know.

Because by then, they fly away.

Till next Spring to nest.

Showing me their parenting

at its very best.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 13, 2024

 

 

 

 

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Babies, Birth, For Children, Love, Mother Love, Parent Love, Stories

What Is It About Geese in a Pond?

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What is it about geese in a pond?

Luring me toward them?

Multiple times a day?

To observe, snap photos?

Is it the goose honking each morning from a rooftop?

Announcing something new?

First the emergence of goslings.

Then, parents teaching them to swim.

Or, is it my own curiosity?

Admiration for these birds?

Calmly awaiting hatching?

Mother on her nest for weeks.

Father on duty around her.

Protecting his mate, progeny.

From outside threats.

Is it the way they pull together?

Now that the brood, born.

Both teaching chicks to glide upon water.

Withstand vagaries of weather.

Sunshine, clouds, drizzles, downpours.

Know when to nudge their small ones into naps?

All piling in under mother’s ample wing.

Hidden from prying eyes.

Instructing them to poke, peck for food?

While father continues his patrol, hissing at intruders.

What is it about geese?

A dedicated conjugal pair

prioritizing their young.

Collaborating tranquilly,

imparting inspiration.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 28, 2024

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Birth, Emotions, For Children, Miracles, Mother Love, Natural Beauty, Pleasure, Stories

April Morning

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The April morning, glorious.

Crisp, cool, but not cold.

Early sun warming hands, face.

What was that honking?

Rhythmic, loud, incessant?

Coming from nearby?

I searched in all directions.

Till I saw a goose perched on a rooftop.

As though making a pronouncement to the kingdom.

In a flash, I knew exactly what was being bellowed.

Despite my ignorance of the words.

The babies, born.

To the goose and gander by the pond.

So I dashed over to take a look.

Seeing father on duty.

His partner shielding yellow chicks under one wing.

I counted three.

Then a fourth waddled out.

Four, I whispered to a woman on a bench.

Then, a fifth.

Five, I breathed.

Taking in the miracle of the scene.

Then, to my amazement, a sixth.

Six goslings, the color of bright sunflowers.

Creeping in and out from under mother’s wing.

Beneath pink weeping cherries, sending out bouquets.

Surrounded by carpets of lavender vinca blooms.

A village of frogs and turtles.

Graduate students, neighbors.

All having waited, now rejoicing

the wonder of new birth.

In a season bursting with color

sprouting from tender earth.

Lynn Benjamin

April 26, 2024

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Birth, For Children, Mother Love, Parent Love

Father Goose

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I think Father Goose doesn’t like me, said the woman.

Passing near the pond.

Where papa was on patrol.

Swimming, waddling, pacing.

Back and forth, to and fro.

While his partner sat upon the nest.

In rain, wind, cold.

Even through tremors of a morning earthquake.

Shaking ground around us.

From an event miles away in New Jersey.

Nothing flustered her.

She endured, rooted in place.

But the father wandered a wide berth.

A wary policeman on duty.

Checking out any and all walkers.

Who could disturb his brooding family.

Shooing even the most innocent away.

Jumping, screeching, flapping wings.

For hatching time is near.

Any stranger is a threat.

What do you expect

from a gander never met?

Lynn Benjamin

April 15, 2024

All Poems, Birth, Change, Family, Grandchildren, Growth, Natural Beauty, Seasons

Home from Playa del Carmen

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Home from Playa del Carmen.

Grandchildren, back in Manhattan.

The late February morning, chilly.

The sun, a distant tease.

But, I hear robins chirping.

Exchanging confidences.

Crows laughing.

By afternoon, five geese glide the pond.

Glancing, one to the other, with secrets.

I start shedding outerwear.

As the day warms.

Like an oven pre-heating.

I gaze around after a week away.

To see snowdrops spreading on a field.

Teeny pink buds on ornamental pears.

Bursts of white bitter cress on a hill.

Lavender flox, mini irises, Lenten roses.

Even a cactus pad perking up.

I smell change in the air.

Scents of gestation,

as February bids farewell.

Making way for fecundity

on a seasonal carousel.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 2, 2024

 

All Poems, Birth, Politics, Seasons, Time

Off Her Rocker

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Mother Nature is off her rocker, pronounced the trainer.

As I entered the gym this morning.

Shivering, pulling my jacket closer.

Yesterday was rainy, warm.

Today, windy, cold enough to freeze the bones.

I listened to his lamentation in silence.

Though the weather variable, I don’t think Mother Nature looney.

Not even fickle.

After all, it is still February.

A leap year’s twenty-ninth.

She’s entitled to summon frost.

She never promised early spring.

Besides, global warming gets in her way.

Pushes her around.

Does what it pleases.

I’m certain she’s steady on her rocker.

As she shakes her head.

Observing a world in disarray.

Disorder and despair.

Greedy people initiating wars.

Not caring for innocents in need.

Violating natural resources.

Trashing ethics, decency.

Perhaps, she the stable heartbeat,

not off her rocker at all.

The world around, berserk.

She lucid, rational.

Mother Nature rocks in rhythm

to cycles of the earth.

Waiting like the rest of us

for quickening, rebirth.

 

Lynn Benjamin

February 29, 2024

 

 

 

 

Aging, All Poems, Birth, Change, Death, Environment/Mother Earth, Loss, Love, Natural Beauty, Sleep

When Do You Pause?

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When do you pause to ponder life’s end?
In a pandemic when so many, plucked too soon?
When loved ones pass?
While reading obituaries?
On Yom Kippur, Judgement Day?
When Spring bursts white, pink, lavender, yellow
in April splendor?
Seductive aromas,
lures for bees and me,
recitals galore, free.
Cardinals, finches, robins,
even hummingbirds, woodpeckers
to swell the concert pit.
Or when grandchildren climb upon your knee
to caress your tree bark face
between smooth fingers?
In an instant, you know
with certainty that requires
no scholarly debate,
no religious affirmation,
no actuarial explanation,
that days are short for you
despite lengthening light
and Mother Earth’s annual gestation rituals:
breaking water, spreading sunshine,
birthing warm, green, pristine;
cracking eggs, unraveling cocoons;
yawns of rabbits, squirrels, raccoons;
nature’s palette brushing blooms.

Zap, in the magic of the moment,
in the mystery of genesis
lies concealed the inexorable course of demise.
The ecstasy, sorrow,
lovers intertwined, tangled tight
commingle pain, joy
loss, light.
Perchance protected,
amid arms, senses, musings, beliefs,
acceptance triumphs,
resistance retreats.
Heart calms.
Breath stills.
Eyes flutter.
Sweet relief.

Lynn Benjamin
April 5, 2021

All Poems, Art/Arts, Birth, Creation, Family, Love, Spouses, Worry

Winter Word Worries, To Bob

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I’ve come to understand why writers
seek tranquil spaces to spawn thoughts,
hone words.
Like pregnant women who want births in special centers, at home,
or accompanied by calming images in the mind.
Labor of any kind sans stress is most productive.
I know I think best amid quiet songs of finches, chirping crickets, drumming cicadas.
Or rhythms of the surf, howling seagulls, shifting sands.
All warm weather sounds.
How do I cajole those words on winter days, marooned inside the house?
Though heat vents puff, appliances hum,
it’s the flurry of your breath,
little spritzes of warmth in the sharp, frosty air, conferring necessary calm for creation.
You breathe.
Let me bare my soul.
Release my words.
Set them free like hummingbirds.
Forward, backwards, up, then down.
They hover by your face,
siphoning nectar from susurrations
in their newest winter place.
These word birds glide, halt, drink
from each cold exhalation,
while I, serene, content,
continue meditation.
Thank you, my love, for settling me
through winter’s quiet hours.
Spring serenades will rouse the earth
with rain, sun, wildflowers.
The hummingbirds, we’ll set them free
to wander, seek columbine.
Expectant, I will follow them
blooming images and rhyme.

Lynn Benjamin
September 9, 2021

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Birth, Change, Environment/Mother Earth, For Children, Growth, Hope, Miracles, Natural Beauty, Plants, Seasons, Thank-You

Wonders

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Wonders, myriad natural miracles pop up every day.

A tree I thought dead outside my window,
overnight reveals royal lavender bells.

A bee finds an open blossom on the lemon tree.

Cicadas  poke through
the ground, thrumming their abdomens.

Honeysuckles and mock oranges infuse
the breeze with perfumes.

Maples launch whirly wigs like kites.

A rainbow arches across the sky after a
devastating storm.

The first pea pod flower flashes white.

Life resurrects itself in green:
moss, fern, ivy.

Colors parade in waves of daffodils, tulips, irises,
azaleas.

Songbirds soar, then dart along the ground
to collect debris.

Springtime air is moist.
It smells of regeneration, birth.

Before this splendor, I am small,
my senses large.

Thank you, Mother Earth,
for slipping me back in time
while exhorting presence.
For generosity as womb,
consolation as tomb.

Lynn Benjamin
May 5, 2021