Sounds

All Poems, Animals/Insects, For Children, Hope, Natural Beauty, Pennypack Park, Plants, Sounds

Noises

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Where do you go?

When noises overwhelm?

Leaf blowers roar?

Wood-chippers whir?

Asphalt pavers rumble?

Newscasters argue?

Well, not far away is a quiet walkway.

Along Pennypack Creek.

Path with emerald canopy.

Tempting floral surprises.

Irises, fleabanes, buttercup figs, violet dames.

Riotous bouquets adorning each side.

Roses, empress blooms, honeysuckles.

Fragrance diffusers.

Geese idly sitting, watching passersby.

Gray catbirds flitting about.

Caterpillars inching along.

Here’s a place you can move.

March legs, swing arms.

Listen to the pat pad of your footfalls.

Watch blossoms whirl down.

Bathe in nature’s perfumes,

cleanse your lungs, your soul.

Breath sweetened by breezes.

Renewed, intact, whole.

Lynn Benjamin

May 16, 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, Pain, Sounds, Trauma, Violence

Neighborhood

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The neighborhood is quiet.

A peaceful place.

Where bees buzz.

Robins sing.

People wave, converse.

Sometimes listen to audiobooks.

Except this morning.

Everything booms.

Helicopters roar.

Trains rattle by.

Amazon trucks thunder.

Then, Fed Ex.

The wind.

Huffs, puffs.

Into ears.

Blows off hats, scarves.

Knocks walkers off paths.

Perhaps noisiest of all,

thoughts inside my head.

Explosions in the Middle East.

Mayhem and bloodshed.

Could it be discordant sounds

outside and in the brain,

remind us that all around

lay suffering and pain?

Whatever we can do

so others’ spirits rise,

will surely calm the clamor.

Mend ears, revitalize.

 

Lynn Benjamin

October 24, 2023

 

 

 

All Poems, Animals/Insects, For Children, Humor, Maine, Sounds, Trips and Places

Farm Next Door

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The farm next door is full of poultry.

Sorority of hens.

Taupe, dark brown, white, black, speckled gray.

Clucking, squawking.

Running this way, that.

In constant motion.

Pecking, poking.

Chittering, chattering, gossiping.

Jabbering, babbling, gabbling.

Talking as though conversation could go on without end.

Whatever about?

Laying an egg for the day?

When the farmer will bring dinner?

The weather?

Likely, I’ll never know.

I wish I could get inside the fence.

Open my ears so wide.

Ask to learn a few avian words.

Be satisfied, I tried.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 11, 2023

 

All Poems, Beaches, Family, Grandchildren, Love, Memories, Pleasure, Sounds, Spring Lake 2021, Stories, Trips and Places

Watching Trains in Spring Lake

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Spring Lake is full of mansions, manicured lawns.
Broad sandy beaches, glistening waters.
A park and lake for which it’s named.
A small town of four or five blocks.
Shops, eateries, real estate agencies.
And trains rattling day and night.
From Manhattan toward Bay Head, back again.
Deep throated whoo whoo whoos,, announcing arrivals.
Two sounds you can count on:
rhythmic crashing of waves, thundering trains.
Many years ago, I sat cross legged on grass
with my first grandson.
Waiting for those cars to pass by,create winds, blow horns.
On rails snaking through residential streets, lawns.
When he heard the faintest whistle far away,
he brightened.
As it neared, vibrations on the ground animated
arms, legs.
He’d stand, jump, wave at passengers rumbling past.
Let’s wait for another, he’d beg.
So, we’d sit.
Wait.
Let the ocean call.
Let swings in the park pump up, pump down.
Let shopkeepers hawk their toys, cookies.
For Asher, watching trains was wondrous.
For me, the wonder, watching him.

Lynn Benjamin
July 19, 2021

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Beaches, Disappointment, Environment/Mother Earth, Loss, Memories, Natural Beauty, Pandemic, Pleasure, Sounds, Wellfleet

Wellfleet

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We missed Wellfleet last year for lockdown.
Now here, despite the threat of hurricane.
A miracle, it missed the Cape.
Save for winds, dusters cleaning air, beach.
Maybe even Covid germs, blown to sea.
A perfect time to listen.
Lapping buoys at the sides of docked boats.
Ringing as cables holding sils
clang against hollow masts.
Singing like Tibetan bowls that regulate, calm.
Buzzing, chirping cicadas, crickets in tall
grasses along dunes.
Tapping, drumming fiddler crabs.
Racing in, out of sandy holes.
Peck peck pecking pigeons.
Wha wha wha whaing crows.
Licking, tickling tiny waves against stones, shells.
On the bayside shore.
Crashing, thundering surf on the ocean coast.
Amid auditory splendor, mourning.
For Delta Covid, its victims, its imprint.
For erosion.
For climate unpredictability.
For misplaced trust in those claiming to govern.
For misty, magical memories.
Virus free.
Risk free.
Mask free.
Carefree.
Free. Free. Free. Free.
Equanimity.
Serenity.
Sensuality.
Wellfleet and the sea.
Shell fishery.
Tidal rhythmicity.
Profound felicity.

Lynn Benjamin
August 25, 2021

All Poems, Fear, For Children, Sounds, Time

Time

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Time ticks, tocks,
steps, hops.

A predictable parade
of sequential seasons.
Temperature shifts.
Floral floats.
Alternating aromas.
Tossed wind chimes.
Videographic precision.
Replete with volume.

The procession perfect.
Smiles audible.
Visuals vibrant.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Full and alive.
There go the minutes.
There the days.
Watch for the weeks.
Months, years.

Around the bend,
they’re hard to see.
Hip, hip for cameras,
and technology!

What delight!
What surprise!
The crowd’s a quiver,
thousands of eyes.

The flanks flow forward.
The past slips rear.
The spectacle’s stirring.
The masses cheer.

When suddenly, terribly,
without warning or plan,
the lens is shrouded
by a shadowy hand.

The joy is snuffed
by a blow so strong
that breathing is labored,
raspy and wrong.

The procession continues.
The music is loud.
It ignores the presence
of a hovering cloud.

Angst, anxiety,
misery, ache.
Half asleep,
half awake.

Exploited, beaten
and robbed of mirth.
Left to puzzle
the purpose of birth.

And how in the midst
of delectable delight,
could the finger of fate
inject such fright?

Time ticks, tocks.
It never stops.

Though you be stilled
by quake, fire, twister,
pneumonia, influenza,
cancer or blister.

Surgery, depression,
trauma, abuse,
appliances broken,
screws lost or loose.

Or a president’s orders.
A call to war.
Angel of death
lurks by the door.

Addiction to alcohol,
gambling, drugs.
Rotting in prison,
hobnobbing with thugs.

Family in shambles,
divorce, disarray.
Credit card debt
and no way to pay.

The claw of disaster,
dark and dreary,
plucks each reveler,
tired and weary

to suffer stress,
duress, and pain.
While Time tick tocks
its taunting refrain.

Lynn Benjamin
January 2, 2004

All Poems, For Children, Sounds

Rhythms

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Everything has a rhythm, a beat, a pulse.

Storms trespass with vengeance.
Dropping their loads.
Rarely silent.
Roaring deafening incantations.
Or howling wolflike ballads.

Summer sand days are slow and long.
Snakes on alert for a bite of breeze.
Or a quick sun shower.

Cities have energy bursts.
The kind you get after you eat a piece of chocolate.
Wild swells morning, midday, evening, night.
Punctuated by sugar lows.
Cravings for a crowd.

Houses have their own surges:
pots, pans, latch locks,
sizzles, boils, ticks, tocks,
clinks, chinks, clanks, creaks,
whispers, swooshes, swishes, sweeps,
wallops, whooshes, wakes, sleeps.

Even people pulsate.
Some buzz industriously, multitasking.
While others creep sluggishly.
Forgetting time’s an endangered species.

No matter. No worry.
The point. It’s clear.
Hear the knock.
Unplug the ear.

Vibrations, oscillations,
pulse, thump, rap.
Whistle, hum, bang,
strike, click, tap.

The world, it seems,
is a tune a minute.
Violin, trombone,
cello, spinet.

Invite the senses
to inhale the beat.
Flick the fingers,
flap the feet!

Lynn Benjamin
December 6, 2003

All Poems, Natural Beauty, Pleasure, Seasons, Sounds

September’s Cicada Chorus

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There’s something about September and cicadas
whose voices swell in chorus.
By day, they hum a march for workers on their daily route.
Or school children scrubbed and waiting for the bus.
By night, they murmur lullabies
to soothe the weary, escort them to soft comforts.
Perhaps the shrill staccato notes
are urgent love songs to each other.
Crooned and amplified in echoes among the trees.
Or hymns to Mother Nature.
On the cusp of shifting to autumnal splendor.

The repetitive vibrations set my ears in motion.
Discerning the chirp chirp of cardinals.
Caw caw of crows.
Whoosh whoosh of the wind.
Bubbling burble of the brook.
A bath in sound waves on a fading summer day.
A divine dividend.
No tickets needed to attend this concert.
A spontaneous serenade.
Bleats and whistles day and night.
The rehearsal is the show!

This musical mystical piece sends me sailing.
Into silent temples in my mind.
Where simplicity is sacred.
There in the quietude, it’s possible to unfetter senses.
Transcend them.
Inhale joy in its purest state.

Lynn Benjamin

September 13, 2003

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Babies, Change, Environment/Mother Earth, Family, Grandchildren, Natural Beauty, Sounds, Stories, Stowe 2021, Time

Sounds in Stowe

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Sounds in Stowe are gentler than where I come from.
It’s quiet, almost silent, among tall pines, oaks, maples.
Except for flutters of swallowtails,
buzzes of bees, bellows of bullfrogs,
chattering of blue jays, cardinals.
It’s still, save for breezes that stir,
unfurl leaves like fans.
You can practically hear ferns,
buttercups, daisies grow.
Even children who breathe healthful air
begin to sprout like milkweed, sway,
attract monarchs.
Who, graceful, flap their wings.
Soft lullabies soothe toddlers to dreams
of ponds, waterlilies, tadpoles.
Sometimes, chicks, cows, goats,
grazers on hillside farms.
Soft imprints, impressions.
Calm, comfortable, hushed.
Settled into sleep sacks now.
Silk sheets in just a blink!

Lynn Benjamin
June 28, 2021