Creation

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Creation, For Children, Humor, Natural Beauty, Stories

The Doe

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The doe surprised me.

Holding her own on the forest floor.

Munching plants, then peering up at me.

As if to ask what I was doing there.

Upon the deck above.

Laying out flatware, glasses.

Readying a table for two.

An hour before the sun due to set.

After all, she had more claim to the space than I.

A newcomer, of only four years.

What did I have to offer?

Certainly, not shade in sweltering heat.

Like empress and linden trees.

Not aromas to match honeysuckle blooms.

Wasn’t I a disturbance to the robin’s nest?

In the leafy brush atop the fence?

I think the doe’s points, good.

Though one thing she did not know.

I, with camera, pen in hand,

could record the lush tableau.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 4, 2024

All Poems, Creation, Growth, Humor, Natural Beauty, Pleasure, Seasons

Season for Pollen

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May is the season for pollen.

But, have you ever seen it billow by?

Yellow mist emanating from pine trees?

On gentle spring breezes?

Some finding targets.

Inside female hidden parts.

To fertilize, make seeds.

The rest gilding lawns, streets.

Chairs, tables.

Doors, windows.

Wafting into unsuspecting eyes, noses.

Showers of golden powder.

Leaving telltale patinas everywhere.

But, given the sheer quantity,

some will find a mate.

Shimmy into seductive cones.

Surely propagate.

Standing inside the cloudburst,

bathing in the dust,

arouses amorous excitement

with each puffy gust.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 22, 2024

All Poems, Creation, Family, Grandchildren, Homages, Mexico, Playa del Carmen, Spirituality, Spouses, Trips and Places

Chichén Itzá

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How many years has it been?

Since I Iearned about Mayans?

Inhabiting Chichén Itzá?

Finally, coming face to face with the pyramid?

Smaller temples?

Ballfields?

Caracól?

How fortunate to do it with Bob?

Partner in Hispanic studies.

With two grandchildren?

Old enough to comprehend.

All of us admiring the nested civilization.

Evolving sixteen hundred years ago.

From religious farming people.

To warriors, eleven hundred years ago.

Calculating time exactly.

Knowing when to plant, when to harvest.

Lining up seasons with sun, constellations.

Celebrating birds, snakes, jaguars.

Worshipping It Sam Na, deity of creation.

Valuing water.

Necessary to live.

Flourish, thrive.

A sacred site older than Tulum.

In a clearing in the jungle.

Where four of us paid homage,

feeling small and humble.

 

Lynn Benjamin

February 26, 2024

All Poems, Babies, Change, Creation, Emotions, Mother Love, Parent Love, Pleasure

Nativity

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The excitement in your voice rushed, a current.

Swirling, vibrating in tiny circles.

Full of energy, passion.

Recounting nativity on Christmas Eve.

Your first granddaughter.

Invitation to dip a hand, toe.

Feel the motion.

Connect with it.

It pulled me back.

To the birth of my first grandchild.

The sense of awe.

A tiny newborn.

From the loins of my child

Evolution of seed and egg.

Sliding into light.

Before my eyes.

Witness to a new generation.

Unfolding at its own pace.

Overlapping chronologies.

As I paddle to the finish line.

The infant bathing by the shore.

High spirits exhilarate.

Cascade to and fro in time.

Blur boundaries between beginnings.

Rippling, they intertwine.

 

Lynn Benjamin

December 31, 2023

 

 

All Poems, Art/Arts, Creation, For Children

Hands

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Do you ever think about your hands?

Study them?

Notice how miraculous they are?

All the tasks they do?

All the sensations they feel?

Grasping, lifting.

Pulling, pushing.

Touching, holding.

Do you ever think of hands when you view a painting?

A mosaic?

A sculpture?

Do you think of the hands that made it?

Like I did yesterday.

Meeting for the first time the sculpture.

That the artist next door brought into the world.

From two hundred pounds of clay.

The time it took to rub it.

Massage it.

Mold it.

Bake it.

Make it unique.

Affix it to a stand.

The next time you see a work of art,

admire the inspiration.

But, imagine hands bringing it forth,

delivering the creation.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 26, 2023

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

Aging, All Poems, Birth, Change, Commemorations, Creation, Environment/Mother Earth, Natural Beauty, People Traits, Pleasure

To Zev on Retreat in Vermont, An Aha Moment

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Splotches of yellow, lavender, white pop up everywhere
Reminding us of the reliability of spring, her grace, her generosity.
On solitary walks through flowering gardens,
I think of you, Zev, on your silent, solo retreat in Vermont’s great woods.
I wiggle into your skin to smell the pines,
catch the nippy northern breeze,
hear an unexpected Hermit Thrush recital,
glimpse a bear, swallow the quietude,
be near you on your journey.
And then, flash! aha!
Comprehension.
Your remote retreat: a womb to await awakening.
Midwives all, birds, trees, squirrels.
What exquisite joy to gestate in Mother Nature’s nest!

Though my skin rough, the bark of fir,
I recall you parting from my loins,
hesitant to leave, then energized by soothing whirlpool waves,
determined to grasp the world.
And now, this opportunity to once again see light
amid the glories of Earth’s gifts.
Another beginning, a fresh take on sensuous synchronicity,
pleasure, pain, regeneration, loss.
Perchance to choose what you cherish,
to meet your newest self.

Lynn Benjamin
March 23, 2021

 

All Poems, Birth, Change, Creation, Death

So Many Births

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So many births in a lifetime.
Always the original
from a mother’s loins.
Then her children carried to term.
Next regular rebirths as each chooses
numerous regenerative journeys.
As long as feet traverse the earth,
humans remake aspects of their selves.

Every quiet walk I take,
every dough I knead,
every voice I hear,
a gestation from which I emerge anew
with another’s eyes, mouth, ears.
Even with my pen,
I give birth and I am birthed.
Creating and reawakening,
both so sweet,
but simultaneously sad.
For once complete,
the cycle longs to repeat
until the breath rests, eternal sleep.

Lynn Benjamin
March 23, 2021

Aging, All Poems, Babies, Birthdays, Change, Creation, Death, Environment/Mother Earth, Memories, Pleasure, Seasons, Wisdom

Midsummer

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Midsummer swells with acorns, pine cones, whirly wigs.
Decorative grasses, ground covers, ferns.
Willows, maples, pines.
Hydrangeas, crape myrtles, roses.
Begonias, thick with bees.
Finches humming, trilling, chirping.
Cicadas, in their final competitions, wooing mates.
Pop up toadstools poking through soil.
Leatherleaf viburnum bursting with berries.
And the distant memory of me, once bursting with baby,
at this very time of hibiscus disks, daisies, lilies.
What a blessing to give birth amid July’s bounty.
Though the memory old, the image, clear, distinct.
I was a dahlia.
Ribbons flew from my hair.
Sun shadows teased.
Rain showers refreshed.
I learned, then, to trust my body, its timing, rhythm.
A good lesson to lean on as seasons changed.
For bodies, like flowers, plants, trees, tire.
Perhaps trust is even more important in the winter.

For whether you, I, or a firefly
doesn’t last till next Spring’s dew,
Earth will rally, hold us dear,
start life’s cycle anew.
Even if silenced by dark, by cold,
creatures shed some seeds.
Tales galore sprout, fill out,
fly, monarchs to milkweeds.

Lynn Benjamin
July 28, 2021

Aging, All Poems, Art/Arts, Babies, Career, Change, Creation, Love, Regret, Time, Wisdom

I Have Always Wished

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I have always wished I could be an artist,
paint noble canvasses like Van Gogh, Renoir.
Political satires like Goya.
Tromp l’oeils like Velazquez.
But that dream was never to be fulfilled
as neither talent nor studio had I.
So, my desire transformed to rain
leaking into corners, crevices, potholes, rivulets.
It became words strung together,
verbal slivers, sketches on napkins, scraps.
Then breads, manual sculptures
of yeast and dough.
Long thin baguettes, slashed on top,
or braided round challahs.
Structures with aroma, a shelf life!
Next, babies four, each a miracle.
Delivered without instructions,
but with dazzling palettes of creative possibilities.
Over time, several callings.
Expressive all.
Molded, shaped by me
to traverse the worlds of others
in ways different than in a portrait framed.
Finally, the pièce de resistance:
the love nest for two,
built together amid clematis,
lilies, magnolias, peas, eggplants in pots.
A place to appreciate the masters,
reminisce, cook with herbs, vegetables, fruits.
Still lifes Cézanne would have longed to arrange.
A place to be grateful for eyes,
ears, nose, hands, feet.
For pastry brushes to egg wash loaves.
It is just enough and not too much.

Lynn Benjamin
June 11, 2021