Maine

All Poems, Environment/Mother Earth, Gardens, Maine, Natural Beauty, Trips and Places

Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens

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Everyone would benefit from the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens.

Not only because it has multiple themed displays.

Mosses, ferns, weeping firs.

Meditation gardens.

Waterfront, woodland trails.

Butterfly, bee exhibits.

Ponds, waterfalls.

Amazing flowers of all kinds, all colors.

Areas for children, the five senses, native plants.

Thomas Dambo’s recycled wood trolls.

Hidden for discovery.

Representing parts of a tree.

But, because it stirs up wonder.

In people of all ages.

About the interdependence of the ecosystem.

It provokes thought.

What would the world be like without trees, plants?

Could humans survive?

Or, do flora sustain us?

Offering food, medicine, shelter, beauty?

What can mankind do to nourish plants?

Safeguard animals?

How can we be stewards of our kingdom on earth?

How do we measure what our planet’s worth?

Head over to Boothbay Gardens.

Sit and meditate a while.

Guaranteed you’ll reconsider

your choices, your lifestyle.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 15, 2023

                     

 

 

Aging, All Poems, Language, Maine, Trips and Places

Out of the Woods

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Are we out of the woods yet? I asked Bob.

As we trekked in Camden Hills State Park.

Not a trail we were supposed to be on.

Because we were planning to drive to the top of the hill.

To see the view of Penobscot Bay and the Harbor.

From the renowned Mount Battie.

But, the road was closed.

For construction.

Paving that would end nine days from now.

When we were no longer here.

The only permitted path to the top was a trail.

Wet with mud, puddles from yesterday’s rain.

I couldn’t stop myself from posing a question.

Didn’t Napoleon lose at Waterloo because of mud after a storm?

Bob nodded in assent.

Both of us having been to Waterloo not long ago.

The hike felt like it might be a losing battle.

Against marshy ravines.

Slippery rocks.

Underbrush, roots, stones.

Both of us ready to be free of the slog.

Struck by the true meaning of out of the woods.

For we were not out of the woods yet.

We had an hour to go.

The prize, Mount Battie tower.

View of the bay.

Neither wearing boots.

Only sneakers, tripping, sliding.

But for the leki sticks, we would be defeated.

Persevering, though, despite older age.

Like we used to.

Getting through school.

Starting careers.

Rearing children.

All goals to fulfill.

Like this trudge.

Ending in scenic views.

Which we reached whole, intact.

But opting out of woods

for the banned zone going back.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 14, 2023

 

 

 

Adult Children, All Poems, Change, Family, Maine, Trips and Places

City Slicker

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It’s not easy for a city slicker to vacation in the country.

For a woman from Manhattan to sleep by a chicken farm.

Listening to crows and clucks from roosters, hens.

Be surrounded by woods, meadows.

Ponds with frogs.

A swimming hole.

Flowers, trees she doesn’t know names of.

Unable to pop out, walk to a store.

All hours, day or night.

For in the boondocks, you have to drive to town.

Buy from small independent shopkeepers.

Who often limit hours, even days.

Usually closing at five.

Except restaurants, closing at nine.

It’s different in the country.

Being dependent on whims of merchants.

Who may or may not want to open up.

Living is not as convenient.

But, the air is clear.

Nature shares smells, sounds.

Dry your clothes on a branch outside.

Notice how space abounds.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 13, 2023

All Poems, Maine, People Traits, Trips and Places

Honesty at Hannaford Market

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I pride myself on my honesty, said the checker.

To the bagger.

And to anyone else within earshot.

As we put purchases on her belt.

At Hannaford Market.

The first supermarket we shopped at in Maine.

On a very rainy, cool day.

When we decided to prepare dinner.

At the house on Bristol Dam Loop.

Rather than go out.

I was glad to hear the checker honor honesty.

After telling the bagger he was doing a good job.

And he questioned her truthfulness.

I wish more people would prioritize honesty.

For then, disinformation would fade away.

Politics reflect true fact.

You and I could trust each other.

Integrity, our contract.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 13, 2023

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

Frogs on Benner Road

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On a morning meander, I pass a pond on Benner Road.

Ringed with cattails, daylilies, Queen Anne’s lace.

Purple loosestrifes, other tall grasses.

A cozy habitat for frogs.

But their voices, different.

From the frogs where I live.

Wallowing in a more manicured pond.

Bellowing from deep in the throat.

Moaning, croaking.

These frogs in Damariscotta sound like guitar strings.

Out of tune.

Playing a cacophonous melody.

Are they chasing away predators?

Hawks that might swoop down?

Or, is that discord their morning song?

Communication with peers?

Hard to guess.

But the plucks certainly attract me

to the lily padded pond.

Wishing I had like vocal cords

to join in and respond.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 13, 2023

All Poems, Food, For Children, Maine, Trips and Places

Wild Blueberries

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Maine’s state fruit is the wild blueberry.

Not the kind my family cultivated for years.

In the backyard.

Large, plump tart ones.

Full of juice.

Rather, small sweet ones.

Growing on bushes low to the ground.

For hundreds of years.

Generation after generation

Sold at stands by farmers.

Luscious little bursts of flavor.

To put into pies, tarts, crisps.

Muffins, cakes, Danish.

Jams, jellies, syrups.

Even wines, ales.

My favorite, ice cream.

The color of the berry.

Hiding frozen pops of fruity ice.

Inside each scoop.

To suck, savor, swallow.

Reviving body, spirit.

On a warm Maine day.

Picks you up, gets you moving.

Sends you on your way.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 12, 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, Animals/Insects, For Children, Humor, Maine, Trips and Places

Bees, Butterflies, Birds

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If I were a bee, butterfly, or bird, I’d pack my bags.

Move to Maine.

Where forests are dense.

Wildflowers abound.

Primroses, impatiens, Queen Anne’s Lace.

Black-eyed Susans, goldenrods, white asters.

Soap worts, purple loosestrife, hairy vetch.

All along the roads.

In the meadows.

Perfect settlements for winged families.

To find sustenance.

Beauty, tolerance.

Waterways and islands.

By the thousands.

To explore.

Seek seals and puffins.

Wild blueberry farms.

Lakes, ponds, mountains.

City and rural charms.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 10, 2023

 

Adult Children, All Poems, Environment/Mother Earth, Family, Maine, Trips and Places

Airport Escapades

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It was early morning.

Bob and I sailed through security.

Having TSA precheck.

Roseanne, without it, entered a separate queue.

In a distant hall.

Where we went to meet her as she emerged.

A government agent by her side.

Offering her a choice.

Either toss out the flatware packet found in the backpack.

Or check it.

She was caught, exposed.

Having forgotten it nestled inside.

Her commitment to the environment.

Rejecting disposable plastic ware.

For her own portable tableware.

Which she washed at home, reused.

She decided now to remove the laptop.

Check the bag with the knife, fork, spoon ensemble.

Escorted by airport police to tag it with the other suitcases.

Her father worried for the time it would take

to recheck, snake through a line.

In that moment, he was unaware

our flight pushed to night at nine.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 10, 2023

 

All Poems, Hope, Maine, Trips and Places

Hope

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I hope the suitcases come today, said Roseanne.

As we drove away for breakfast.

I’d feel so much better if I had my things, she added.

All day, one or the other of us said, I hope the suitcases come.

Till mid-afternoon.

When the driver for the airline called.

Said he hoped to drop them off by four.

They had gone to Bangor, on a flight we didn’t take.

Each of us relieved after his message.

Then hoping for other things.

I hope the person who left a bag on the picnic table comes back for it.

I hope the dog wandering in the middle of the road is okay.

I hope the teary clerk in the shop feels better.

What is this thing called hope?

A wish for something to happen?

A sense of optimism that it will?

An expectation?

Define hope as you would like.

It dwelled in our hearts all day.

Keeping us buoyant, confident.

Shooing our doubts away.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 8, 2023