Passover

All Poems, Change, Holidays, Natural Beauty, Passover, Seasons

Empress Tree

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The Empress tree heralds the end of Passover.

Bursting into lavender bells.

Suffusing breezes with sweet fragrances.

Wafting toward the porch, through the door.

Permeating the kitchen with aromas.

Sweeping away the holiday.

Last crumbs of matzah.

Seder plate.

Haggadahs.

Into annual hibernation.

As soft petals lure us deeper into Spring.

The merry month of May.

From order to abandon.

Maple whirly wigs swirling down like rain.

Pollen patinas blanketing outside doors, tables.

Seeds sprouting in chaotic patches.

Ferns unfurling leafy curls.

The scent of fertility, attraction in the air.

Coupling, mating, pairing

under ringing Empress blooms.

Branches swinging, scattering

irresistible perfumes.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 3, 2024

All Poems, Family, Gardens, Grandchildren, Growth, Natural Beauty, Passover, Plants

Foray to Morris Arboretum

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Our last foray to Morris Arboretum.

A month ago, on Easter.

Jammed with visitors seeking renewal.

Today, the end of Pesach, we took Elias.

Almost eleven.

To witness the season accelerating.

Lilacs, viburnums, camellias.

All in floral glory.

Aromas to match.

While fields of tulips swept us to Holland.

Azaleas clustered thick as strawberry taffy.

Yellow ragworts, white stars of Bethlehem, fleabanes.

All populated banks, hillsides.

It was Monday.

Few people roamed the paths.

Leaving the park’s majesty to us.

Empty trails, bridges, lawns.

A quiet afternoon.

Just before our grandson’s return to Manhattan.

Munificent, spontaneous matinee.

Natural delights, great, small.

Riots of color, smell.

Bounteous curtain call.

All bidding him farewell.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 1, 2024

 

 

 

 

All Poems, Family, Grandchildren, Holidays, Passover, Stories, Trips and Places, Water Mill

Epic Journey

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It was an epic journey.

From Elkins Park to the Hamptons.

Bob, Elias and I.

Skirting around Manhattan.

From Staten Island across the Verrazano Bridge.

Through Brooklyn, Queens.

Finally, to Long Island.

Pronounced long by the youngest passenger.

Listening to Harry Potter.

Prisoner of Azkaban.

Stopping to refuel our EV.

Grab a salad for Elias.

No bread or pretzels.

For it was midway through Pesach.

But the reward great upon arrival.

Three girl princesses all in a row

waiting with sweet embrace.

Two ballerinas and a toddler,

lithe-bodied, full of grace.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April  30, 2024

All Poems, Food, For Children, Holidays, Natural Beauty, Passover

Sunday Walk

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On Sunday, breezes warmed.

Luring us outside to walk.

The usual circuit by lindens, pines, flowering crab apples.

The afternoon, hospitable, inviting.

Perfect foray before dinner.

To admire blooming bulbs, daisies, violets.

When a metal object caught my eye.

A spoon buried part way into soil.

What’s that? I turned to Bob.

As if he’d know the answer.

Someone must be making a spoon kosher, he said matter-of-factly.

My eyes widened, questioning.

Can’t be, I said. People kasher utensils in boiling water.

Whereupon, we passed two neighbors.

What’s that spoon doing in the dirt? I asked.

The man shrugged, likely a landscaper forgot his spoon at lunch.

The woman, I used to see utensils lined up along Tookany Creek Parkway. People kashering flatware.

Of course, none of us knew its purpose for sure.

All guessing what it was.

An hour later, the spoon was gone,

vanished into thinnest air.

Too bad it couldn’t schmooze or tattle,

tell us why ‘twas standing there.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 25, 2024

Observant Jews kasher kitchen utensils to separate those used with meat from those used with dairy. Kashering has to do with making them fit for use, or making them kosher.

All Poems, Birthdays, Emotions, Family, Farewell, Holidays, Homages, Love, Memories, Natural Beauty, Parents, Passover, Trees

I Wish I Could

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I wish I could take my father’s hand.

Amble together through Spring’s annual spectacle.

He’d be one hundred three, the first Seder.

Moving to this town before I did.

Passing away before I settled nearby.

Departing on his ninety-seventh birthday.

So, this April stroll, fitting.

By turns, under fickle drizzles, sunny skies.

Admiring lindens, oaks, maples.

Unfurling leafy banners by the thousands.

After restful winter naps.

Or, flowering cherries, crabapples, plums.

Already sailing blossoms along gusty currents.

Assembling petal carpets along roadways, grass.

How about magnolias?

A favorite for the seed pods he collected.

Tended to on a windowsill.

Or dogwoods, like ones he cultivated years ago?

Blooming in flamboyant abundance.

While Viburnum bouquets perfume the air.

Making our passage regal.

Then, parades of flowers by our feet.

Though daffodils fading, tulips, lavender, yellow, red, stand.

Rows of heavenly chalices.

Grape hyacinths, irises spilling over in purples, yellows.

Phlox, violets, bushy clumps peeking through rocks.

Hosta lilies poking up in clustered stems.

One last tree before farewells.

The potted lemon, now outside, imbibing April breezes.

Popping buds to deliver fruits in December.

Once his to water, trim, fertilize.

Now my household, its steward.

If only wishes could come true,

how blissful I would be.

To watch the springtime world renew

in my father’s company.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 22, 2024

 

All Poems, Birthdays, Family, Food, Holidays, Humor, In-laws, Passover, Stories

Ethel Always Wanted

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Ethel always wanted a place in my kitchen.

Especially at Passover.

The springtime feast.

One she used to prepare herself till she handed it to me.

Some forty-five years ago.

A complicated celebration with many dishes, courses.

Seder plate with Haroseth.

A make-ahead paste symbolizing mortar.

Used by Jewish slaves to build pyramids.

Gefilte fish.

Matzah ball soup.

Entrée and vegetables.

Desserts galore.

An elaborate menu to be sure.

But, one I preferred to prepare alone.

Set the table for solo.

Making little place cards.

Placing wine glasses.

Clearing a spot for Elijah.

Today, though, I had no choice.

She accompanied me in the kitchen.

A yahrzeit candle lit for her birthday.

On the day chosen to prepare matzoh balls.

Wrap and freeze them.

For the soup on Pesach.

I tripled the recipe.

Eggs, matzoh meal, seltzer, salt, pepper.

Refrigerated the bowl before shaping balls.

Dropping them into simmering water.

The process, going well.

Ethel watching from her perch.

Saying nothing.

Not criticizing.

Not yammering.

Not competing.

Till I filled my eight-quart pot in the sink with water.

Lifted it to set upon the stovetop.

Not quite reaching the target.

Slamming it against the heavy metal burner.

Splashing water everywhere.

Filling the cooking surface like a swimming pool.

I turned my eyes to the candle.

Still burning, looking intently.

Grabbed a towel to mop the mess.

Heard a quiet laugh.

Chiding me for not using a pitcher.

To fill the pot on the stove.

An excellent point.

Though I wished she hadn’t witnessed my mistake.

But, I acknowledged her assessment.

And though the project, delayed,

in the end, sixty balls fluffed up.

Floating to the top, homemade.

Lynn Benjamin

April 21, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Holidays, Passover, Seasons, Sounds, Spirituality

March Winds

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March winds are insistent.

Pushing us to Manhattan.

Where they blow off hats.

Whip up debris on streets.

Overturn receptacles, split open trash bags.

Rattle aluminum cans against fences.

Blow plastic bottles, typed papers.

Tossed out by students for mistakes.

Agitate remains of last autumn’s fallen leaves.

As well as naked branches of trees.

Whose young buds hold tight.

Bat about just opened daffodils, crocuses.

New petals squeezing stems.

Like children pressing mothers’ hands.

Pigeons flap down to fight over strewn cereal.

The world outside is noisy.

Sirens, horns, screeching brakes.

Counterpoints to wind.

So entrance to JTS confers relief.

Shedding coats, scarves, backpacks.

Finding the chapel.

Protector of silence.

Where our daughter would sing.

Hymns for Pesach.

A holiday soon upon us.

Where, in anticipation, she chants.

Alone and with choir.

Praising God for goodness.

Beseeching dew for plantings.

After rain ceased.

In this Nusach recital,

her voice, a gentle breeze,

lifting toward divine ears

on sacred melodies.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 14, 2024

 

JTS is the Jewish Theological Seminary at Columbia University, New York.

Nusach refers to the text of a prayer service.

 

All Poems, Deception, Disappointment, Emotions, For Children, Holidays, Hope, Humor, Pandemic, Passover, Pleasure

Small Victories

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When the world seems a cauldron
of disease, disparity, disarray,
disinformation, distrust, despair,
even disappointment,
small victories remind us that beauty
resides in the ordinary.
Getting a child to bed on time.
Mailing a birthday card.
Preparing a meal.
Lending an ear, a hand, a heart.
Sharing a smile, a giggle, a laugh.
Organizing a soiree of like-vaccinated peers.
Or even, the most mundane of all:
calculating how to use up fourteen unused
Passover eggs before the nearing expiration date!
Each triumph,
no matter the size,
brings joyful satisfaction and calm.
Something like watching a magnolia blossom awaken
in the just right, noon day light.

Lynn Benjamin
April 13, 2021

All Poems, Emotions, Food, Holidays, Hope, Humor, Loss, Miracles, Passover, Prose/memoir, Stories

Miracles Do Happen

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Miracles do happen.
One happened just yesterday.
After searching  in vain for my Passover recipe books, folders.
Two consecutive April holidays rolling by after our move.
Without  my tried, trusted catalogue of dishes.
The absence forcing me to resurrect
old faithfuls from memos, scraps.
To add contemporary cakes, kugels to the menu.
I made do. It’s true.
But, a little melancholy set in each March.
Buying matzo meal and kosher chocolate.
By the second calendar cycle,
I resigned myself to the loss.
Just before relocation to our new house,
I insisted on having a last celebration in the old.
Against realtor’s advice.
So, I had my handwritten instructions and my books.
But, then, poof, they vanished.
Had they been thrown away?
Were they hidden somewhere in a pile?
Had someone eyed and pilfered them?
Or most outlandishly, had a ghost, a suggestion by a neighbor,
snatched them away?
I lamented, groaned, wished for my papers to appear.
But nothing.
Not a sign.
Not a clue.
Until yesterday.
When, crash, bang, the sound of shattering glass.
What wreckage had visited our basement storage room?
But there, in full view, was the box with my reservoir of information as though delivered from on high.
It mattered not that the box was concealed beyond reach.
That all the shelves toppled from outside vibrations of a power washer.
That liqueurs, wines, vinegars fell, smashed.
That the shelving unit severed.
That the room smelled of anise and Malbec.
That guests were arriving soon for dinner amid the disarray.
What mattered were my recipes, and those my mother gave me, surrendered with a thunderous racket.
Becoming applause, ovations to my ears.
A love letter from the universe.
A message.
Never give up hope.

Lynn Benjamin
October 21, 2021

 

Adolescence, All Poems, Change, Emotions, Family, Grandchildren, Holidays, Loss, Pandemic, Passover, Seasons

Out of Hibernation

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Out of Hibernation

On a bright day in March,
when the temperature couldn’t make up its mind,
snowbells bowed their bonnets,
and parachutes of hope wafted through the air.
My grandson rolled out of hibernation.
He listened to the voices round him,
heard noises about the arrival of Pesach.
A year, he mourned, a year of my life lost.

Was it a year ago that we abandoned plans
to recline with our Haggadahs?
That we read on Zoom of ancient plagues
and Jews fleeing Egypt?
That we ate matzah alone?
That we agonized about a virus,
invisible, terrible, unknown?
That we hung on words of scientists,
studied enough virology to earn advanced degrees?
That we gave up travel, school, shopping?
That we ordered everything on Amazon?
Worse, that we watched friends and loved ones fall
ill, sometimes die.

And now vaccines, elixirs,
to revive battered, beleaguered souls.
What will my boy sustain as he wakes from trance?
It’s hard to gauge the toll of isolation.

But my wish for him is to become the Spring:
To burst into blossom before the bulbs.
To sing alongside bluebirds, robins.
To run with rabbits, chipmunks.
To rotate, whirl, spin the wind.

To jump into his body,
to break the spell,
to see, to hear,
to taste, to smell.

Lynn Benjamin
March 3, 2021