Gardens

All Poems, Animals/Insects, For Children, Gardens, Seasons, Stories, Time

Heat Hangs in the Air

Posted on

Heat hangs in the air.

A sticky bog to slog, move forward.

Dampening shirts, drying mouths.

But, animals go about their business.

Nary a complaint.

Robins, wrens chirp as though in competition.

Ducks, geese gather by the pond.

A fawn gazes up at me from a bush.

As though sorry I’m wading through goo.

A few Poplar seedpods float by.

Inviting me to make a wish or two.

A pink and gray butterfly hovers atop a coneflower.

The beebalm planted last summer, sings triumphant.

Stretching out and up in glorious profusion.

Red, pink, lavender mops.

Tall rag dolls, hair unkempt, in strings.

Covering eyes, noses, mouths.

Mysterious, exotic.

Waving honey bees in to drink.

Sweet nectar quenching thirst.

Could they spread the word to hummingbirds

before summer days dispersed?

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 27, 2024

Aging, All Poems, Change, Cousins, Emotions, Family, Gardens, Health/Illness, Loss, Regret, Stories

Sitting with Libby

Posted on

I’m glad we went to see Libby today, said Bob.

Bustling around the kitchen.

Reflecting on the afternoon.

I’m glad we visited, too.

A chance to sit outside with her.

Under Japanese lilacs.

Perfuming breezes.

Sneaking through open doors to sweeten corridors.

In the residence where she now resided.

It was peaceful.

Not a word about politics.

Conviction of Trump.

Just being together in the garden.

Three of us, alone.

Talking about her soon-to-be ninety-first birthday.

Her new great grandson.

Mention of him filling her eyes with tears.

Scrolling photos on her phone.

Stopping at azaleas outside her former home.

Pictures, she requested from her son.

Still living there.

Blooming bushes, a place, a season she misses.

Trading them for needed care.

Knowing the choice, right.

But wistful for what she left behind.

We sat in shade.

Just present with each other.

I, commenting on her pink nails, short haircut.

Simple, unhurried conversation.

Plying her about my maternal grandparents.

Her aunt and uncle.

Whom she knew growing up.

But who didn’t survive past my second year.

She, the last link in the family to remember them.

My turn to feel melancholy.

Not getting to know them.

I wish my parents told me more.

Or maybe I hadn’t heard.

Tenuous my history.

Who’s left to pass on the word?

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 1, 2024

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Disappointment, Food, For Children, Gardens, Humor, Seasons, Stories

What Happened to the Peas?

Posted on

What happened to the peas? asked Bob.

Seeing them pushed over, flattened.

After climbing lush, green, tall.

Was it the rain the night before?

Battering them down?

Leveling them?

It couldn’t be deer.

For all the deterrents laid.

Maybe bunnies.

Nibbling to nubs.

Leaving nothing for groundhogs.

Insects, birds.

Nothing for us, this season.

Last year’s pods, prolific.

Sitting on the deck flowering, fruiting.

Away from reach of rabbits.

Moved downstairs to the back yard.

Where hungry creatures forage.

Making more space above.

Surely, these rabbits trampling peas

have a fine gourmet palate.

I hope they reject cucumber leaves

for their next May time salad.

Our sacrifice, contribution

to well-being of cottontails.

We owe them hearty ovation

for attention to green details.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 24, 2024

All Poems, Gardens, Humor, Pleasure

Gardeners Among Us

Posted on

May brings out gardeners among us.

The ones wanting to beautify the neighborhood.

Adding flowers to tiny patches in front of houses.

Petunias, impatiens, geraniums.

Daisies, Persian buttercups, begonias.

May also brings out oglers.

Circulating, admiring the handiwork.

Organization, placement, arrangement.

Mixing, matching, coordinating colors.

Your garden is lovely.

It’s so attractive.

It’s sure to draw bees, birds.

Compliments fly.

Like wrens, sparrows.

Darting back and forth.

I approach a neighbor.

Praising her labors.

She, in turn, points to my garden.

The one my husband, Bob, plants, tends.

Often starting it earlier in the season.

Well, I say, they’re different.

Hers, tidy, orderly in rows.

Ours, abundant, lush, wild.

Bee balm, cone flower stalks.

Towering over smaller blooms.

Every inch of soil covered.

Surrounded by pots of daisies, Peruvian lilies, herbs.

Climbing lavender clematis, about to burst.

A lemon tree now outside.

Having wintered in the garage.

I couldn’t stop myself.

Bringing Bob’s attention to other flower plots.

Disciplined, neat.

He didn’t flinch.

Unoffended, smiling.

Different styles, more variety.

Lots of ways to enchant.

Our garden has character.

Untamed, exuberant.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 23, 2024

All Poems, Environment/Mother Earth, For Children, Gardens, Hope, Natural Beauty

Something You Don’t Expect

Posted on

Do you ever stumble upon something you don’t expect?

Growing in a place you find strange?

From time to time, I do.

A single viola blooming between asphalt and curb.

A lone hosta in a bed of hydrangeas.

Hairy crabweed poking through sewer grates.

Broad-leaved helleborine smack in the middle of a lawn.

A cabbage stalk in a pot of basil.

Toadstools, all shapes, colors, popping up on hillsides, in gardens.

All little reminders of strength, resiliency.

Finding a place in a big world.

To settle, dream.

What would happen if vegetation could grow anywhere?

Mowing, manicuring, banished?

Like in the field in front of Morris Arboretum.

Where Rubus blackberries, comfrey, irises grow wild.

Tall, confident, unabashed.

Drawing all manner of birds, insects.

Spectators, oglers like me.

Stopping to stare, give praise.

Unsheared meadow, majesty.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 21, 2024

  

All Poems, Family, Gardens, People Traits, Plants, Spouses, Stories

Once a Farmer, Always a Farmer

Posted on

Once a farmer, always a farmer, said a friend.

Scanning all the pots.

Some on the deck.

Others below to the rear of the house.

Dill, basil, peas, eggplants, cucumbers.

Out front, a lemon tree.

In floral glory.

Flourishing inside a barrel on wheels.

Reigning over a flower garden.

A crush of bee balm, salvia, Echinacea, ajuga.

Gerber daisies, Peruvian lilies, potted on a ledge.

Clematis scaling two walls.

Lavender, thyme, oregano.

Bursting purple, white, pink.

Who’s this farmer? you wonder.

Bringing tiny spaces to life?

Like he used to do in more extensive terrain.

With raised beds.

Fruit trees, berry bushes, vegetables.

Enough to can, freeze, entertain.

Now limited, defined.

So, when he came home with six pepper plants, I asked,

Where will they fit?

His answer, alongside the eggplants. In the same pots.

The rationale, to hide them from deer.

Who eat pepper leaves, dislike eggplants.

Well, Farmer Bob, does it again,

makes teeny pockets thrive.

Tills hard, cold, dry earth,

cajoles it come alive.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 14, 2024

   

 

All Poems, Art/Arts, For Children, Gardens, Natural Beauty, Seasons

Irises

Posted on

May is the month for irises to parade.

Some call them flags, others, bearded flowers.

To me, neither.

Rather, flamboyant dancers.

Wearing skirts, hats.

Standing in chorus lines.

Ready to leap onto the stage.

Spinning, twirling, kicking feet.

In all their finery, feathers.

Blues, purples, pastels.

Often, multicolored.

Each sighting, new surprise for the eyes.

Voluptuous, sensuous.

Diffusing light perfume.

Luring bees and me.

Wishing I could touch their costumes.

Like I might a silk or brocade.

But, instead, I stand back.

Nature’s art, admire.

Like I would Van Gogh’s painting,

letting grace inspire.

Lynn Benjamin

May 12, 2024

All Poems, Change, Food, For Children, Gardens, Growth, Plants

What Does a Man Do?

Posted on

What does a man do?

Who fancies himself a farmer?

But no longer has a farm?

For downsizing.

He finds a way to plant.

Despite no land.

No tool shed.

No irrigation system.

How?

In pots.

Large blue ones.

Peas, dill, basil.

Eggplants, cucumbers, peppers.

He readies seedlings to absorb balmy sunshine.

Soak in showers.

Deliver fruits at various intervals.

The farmer works long afternoons.

Seated on a stool.

Trowel in hand.

Bags of soil, fertilizer.

Fashioning cages to keep out deer, groundhogs.

Hooking up blinking lights.

To shoo them away at night.

Laying down smells to repel.

All on a tiny scale.

Sowing harvest nonetheless.

May this year’s crop prevail!

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 6, 2024

Aging, All Poems, For Children, Gardens, Natural Beauty, Stories, Thank-You

Daily Constitutionals

Posted on

On daily constitutionals, we pass the house of Barbara.

Eighty-nine-year-old neighbor.

Living alone, tending an eye-catching garden.

Full of impatiens, zinnias, begonias.

She, the gardener, seated in a chair.

Bent over trowel, digging.

Organizing bushes, flowers to beautify the neighborhood.

Seeing her, we approached.

Listened to her describe her finished deck.

Six railing boxes, a palm tree, hibiscus plant.

But, then she moaned, I’m having trouble walking.

Whereupon, Bob noticed one of her begonias fallen awry.

Roots out of the soil.

Lying on its stem.

So, he offered to re-plant it.

Taking her trowel.

Righting it.

Covering the roots.

Her gratitude, enormous,

waves repeating in the sea.

There she sat upon her throne,

sowing visual poetry.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 4, 2024

 

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

Foray to Morris Arboretum

Posted on

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