Hope

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Change, Friendship, Hope, Natural Beauty, Pleasure, Seasons, Stories

A Mild Day in February

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Have you ever had a day when disparate events snapped together?
Fit like a jigsaw?
Each segment, its own shape?
Color?
Design?
I did.
On a mild day in February.
Starting with a drum roll.
A woodpecker marking time.
Announcing the morning.
The sun.
Tiniest hint of Spring to come.
Then a squirrel.
Poking from its burrow.
Scampering, romping.
Soon, four crows.
Pecking at soft ground.
Starlings.
Gabbing from atop bare branches.
Then, I.
Walking.
In lighter jacket.
Glove free.
Giving in to desires of the feet.
To move.
Until dusk descended.
Home I turned.
To prepare.
For footsteps in the atrium.
Old friends.
To pass the evening.
Light candles.
Break bread.
Tell stories.
Laugh.
Reminisce.
Like former times.
Pre-pandemic.
No masks.
Maybe risky.
But necessary.
To consummate the picture.
The spirit.
Make it whole.
Soothe the soul.

Lynn Benjamin
February 12, 2022

All Poems, Health/Illness, Hope, Pandemic, Prose/memoir, Stories

A New Year’s Tale

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2022 rang in last night.
While viruses everywhere claimed many.
Friends, strangers, loved ones.
Some sick, some dying.
How vulnerable we are!
Wishes, seedpods in the wind.
Who knows where they’ll land?
If they’ll germinate?
Maybe, no matter where we live,
what we have,
we’re all just earthworms.
Strewn about a parking lot during a storm.
Waiting for fate.
Not knowing if we’ll be crushed.
Or, if we have the strength, wherewithal,
to ambulate again to soil.
To find safe haven.
Familiar territory.
Or, to even hope that a kind other
will gently lift us to safety.
Like I witnessed when my daughter ran a worm rescue.
Touching each stranded crawler.
Cooing, C’mon buddy.
Hoisting with forefinger, thumb, thin stick.
Replacing it to the soil.
To reorient.
Aerate.
Thrive.
A ray of hope.
Generosity.
Goodness.
Compassion.
Exactly what we need.

Lynn Benjamin
January 1, 2022

Aging, All Poems, Change, Hope, Loss, Stories, Wisdom

A Teeny Tiny Drizzle

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A teeny, tiny drizzle teases  drying trees and me.
As I walk under flaming canopies, deep red, orange.
A prediction of rainy times to come?
Or just a subtle message?
I think the latter.
For arriving home,
a mirror image of the drizzle issues from the ceiling.
I place buckets beneath the drips.
Considering the family who bought our fifty-eight-year-old house.
Saying it would  be their forever home.
I wondered where that expression came from.
Are houses permanent?
Are people?
Pipes break.
Roofs leak.
Appliances wear.
Bodies decline.
Even the earth, so vast, erodes.
Time to take a breath.
Call the plumber.
Manage what I can.
Swing outside again.
The drizzle’s done,
replaced by sun.
Glint of optimism.
Quietude hard-won.

Lynn Benjamin
October 22, 2021

All Poems, Emotions, Hope, Loss, Pain, Stories, Thank-You, Wisdom

Brokenness

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Yesterday at breakfast
on a normal sort of day,
a molar in my upper jaw
decided to give way.

First, I felt sadness.
It ceded to despair.
But images of things that break
challenged me, a dare.

Teacups, glasses, saucers.
Freezers, toilets, too.
Pages slide from books.
Nested eggs crack in two.

Legs and arms and fingers.
Ankles, hips and knees.
Volcanoes, earthquakes, mudslides.
Branches fall from trees.

All ruptures cause distress.
But maybe worse, I think
are broken hearts and spirits,
emotions on the brink.

So, when I saw my broken tooth
arrayed upon the plate,
I recalled my list of broken things.
My rumblings to abate.

The sun is out. The day is clear.
November leaves drift down.
I’m sure I’ll see the dentist.
Likely need a crown.

My heart, it beats within my chest.
My soulmate sits beside me.
I dispatch my lamentations
to those lonely, lost, not free.

I route my healing wishes
to mortals whose need is great.
I honor all the pain around.
Never invalidate.

Brokenness, I thank you.
You circle me, forgive.
Remind me to embrace the now.
Take a breath and live.

Lynn Benjamin
November 9, 2021

 

Aging, All Poems, Children, Emotions, Growth, Hope, Parent Love, People Traits, Prose/memoir, Time, Worry

Can Children and Parents Ever Really Know Each Other?

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Can children ever really know their parents?
Parents their children?
Two haunting questions.
Nagging.
Gnawing.
My children,  grown.
Still bringing up letdowns from years past.
Or, asserting they know me well.
Grandchildren.
Sweet fruits.
What will they lament later?
Is it possible to really know another being?
Even when it lives inside you nine months?
When you dwell together decades?
For parents, offspring’s timelines are clear.
But is that knowing?
And though attracted to sunny dispositions,
what about when children cry?
Whine?
Push you away?
Stamp feet?
Hit a sibling?
Do we truly grasp suffering?
The parts that children hide?
Or expose so frequently, we tune out?
And what do children really know of us?
Our pasts?
Struggles?
Needs?
What do we reveal to them?
Conceal?
Each parent-child pair.
Unique.
Complex.
Inimitable.
Playing through days, years, stages, iterations.
Ponderous process.
All while children race to complete milestones.
Compete with themselves.
Siblings.
Charts.
As adults lumber forward, too!
Wend winding paths.
Avoid obstacles.
Climb ladders.
Sometimes, fall.
Earn livings.
Start careers.
End them.
Age.
What happens when voices falter?
When grown children tend to their own?
Sing new songs?
Have aha moments?
Time beats on.
Bit by bit, roles reverse.
Is there a quid pro quo?
If parents harmonized well enough along the way,
will now graying, aging children stay, not turn away?
From infirmities.
Woes.
Worries.
It’s a very simple truth.
We all traverse the same course.
Toward the same end.
But, maybe if we fine tune ears,
dusty songs might be revived.
Remembered.
Re-sung.
At times, child, parent duos
fall off pitch, off key.
Till each again attunes its ears.
Recalibration! Harmony!

Lynn Benjamin
February 4, 2022

All Poems, Children, Family, Grandchildren, Health/Illness, Hope, Love, Memories, Seasons, Time

Celebrate Awakening

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Banish chaos; order bring!
Seasons turn; welcome Spring!

Time stopped, or so it seemed, in the winter of 2020.
Invisible viral invaders chased humankind indoors.
Chaos ensued.
But despite it,
geese flew south and trumpeted joy;
robins built nests;
honeysuckle, lilacs, magnolias
infused the air with fragrance;
daffodils, hyacinths, tulips poked through.
Pregnant mothers pushed infants toward light
to lock eyes with mother-father love;
toddlers sorted, organized,
learned to string syllables into words;
school age children worked diligently on Zoom;
teens slept late, pressed boundaries at every turn.
All a nod to order, the natural progression of life.

Banish chaos; welcome Spring!
Seasons turn. Let May sing!

While on patient pause,
earth, too, breathed.
Once again, lakes pristine;
wildlife protected; forests green;
development slowed;
air fresh, planet preserved.

Banish chaos; order ring!
Seasons turn; welcome Spring!

Celebrate awakening:
newborns, new parents,
kittens, pups,
ducklings, chicks,
tadpoles, bunnies,
fruit blossoms, bees,
blue birds, worms,
raspberries, peas.

Summer, fall, winter, spring;
Banish chaos; order bring!

Whether quarantined or free,
distanced or close,
on line or in person:
dance, sing, be merry.
Birth impels us to tell stories,
reminisce, make memories;
it also tugs us to recall
meaning, value, beauty.

Banish chaos; order bring!
Seasons turn; welcome Spring!

Lynn Benjamin
May 7, 2020

(Inspired by Arthur’s birth, Ezra’s development, and all the grandchildren I adore)

All Poems, Hope, People Traits, Politics, Time, Worry

Champion Waiter

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I am a champion waiter.
Not a server, but a lady who waits:
a lady-in-waiting.

A baby, I waited to be fed, changed, bathed.
I waited to be hugged, cuddled, sung to.
I waited for a walk in the coach.

A child, I waited my turn in tag.
I waited for the dolls I desired.
I waited endless long school days to leave my class.
Pick up my brother from kindergarten before the bell.

A teen, I waited to be asked to the prom.
I waited for teachers to return papers, projects, tests.
I waited for holidays.

An adult, I waited for buses, trains, planes.
I waited for my children to appear for dinner.
I waited for my husband to sort his mail.
I waited for my parents to visit.
I waited for a pelvis to mend, a shoulder to heal.
I waited with a mitt to catch the needs of those around me.

I knew how to wait.
I was socialized to wait.
I followed the rules of waiting.

I waited for the election on November 3rd.
I cheered the winners.

I continued to wait.
For the incumbent’s departure.
But, he tantrumed, refused to leave, turning tricks
to overthrow election and democracy itself;
Pardoned criminals loyal to him;
Threatened self-pardon;
Ignored a bill to help citizens survive;
Vetoed one to fund the military;
Made light of the pandemic;
Flew off to Florida for vacation.

I am a champion waiter.
I wait for justice.
I wait for vaccinations
I wait for economic recovery.
I wait for political sanity.
I wait for kindness.
I wait for healing.

I am a champion waiter,
But 2021 cannot come fast enough.
Nor can the inauguration.

By Lynn Benjamin
December 25, 2020