Poem 835 – A Palm Sunday Sonnet

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The red kite wheeled observing us below;
a skillful twitch of tail, a turn, a dive
to keep us in its view. We gathered so
that we might not forget just how you strived.
Your fight? To make your message plain that you
were not the coming saviour that we reckoned
on. From feeding multitudes with food
to handling ‘blind’ religious leaders’ heckling,
you laid out in deeds your Father’s call on
your life to rule by sacrifice not might;
a monarch on a donkey not a stallion
demanding love by deeds instead of right.
The kite joins children crying out in hope
its mewling anthem joins their pericope.

Arriving at church for our Palm Sunday service this morning, I was quite taken by the magnificent red kite flying overhead. Not my best (still trying to get to grips with rhyme), but it will do.
(29.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Avel Chuklanov on Unsplash

Poem 834 – St. Paul Songs

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Voices awaken London’s chilly streets,
A rousing swell of sound announcing life.
Their notes disperse upon the swirling wind
each one a seed of joy. They scatter through
the city stirring statues from their sleep.
Their vigil ceased they stretch and smile with us.

It was wonderful to watch our daughter’s choir, Bristol Show Choir, performing outside St. Paul’s today.
(28.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 833 – In Contrast

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Apprentices flogging rubbish
Squeezing out every penny
Hype and exaggeration

Evening celebrations
Thanking foodbank leaders
For humbly serving for free

Watching TV after saying thank you to our two magnificent foodbank leaders who have given everything for fifteen years. What a contrast.
(27.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 832 – A Lesson in Self Control

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To stick or not to stick that is the question.
The head says to but deep inside this urgent
urge declares it’s fine; just one more card,
that’s all, just one, what harm can one more do?

And so you nod. The dealer starts to turn
and as they do the world contracts and centres
on his hovering hand. Sound stops. He flips
and as he does your flitting heart does too.

Shock waves. The slow-mo thud resounds across
the table as the heavy card descends.
To stick or not to stick that is the question;
it seems I learnt too little much too late.

Fun social evening at church tonight playing, and losing, Flip7.
(26.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Sergi Viladesau on Unsplash

Poem 831 – A Seasonal Sonnet

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Cherry blossom blooms, confetti showers,
dancing in tearful hope of dawning light:
rejoice in this annual ritual uniting flowers
of winter and spring in matrimony bright!
The promise of good times ahead now dark
days fade. The stretching daylight joyfully cheers
the heady bride and groom as they embark
into their life as hopeful pioneers.
But on the street the rumours start to grow
of infidelity, illicit heat.
As temperatures rise and passions flow, the oath
once tightly held becomes a forgotten conceit.
The underlying cause of this concern?
Our tendency to mine, exploit and burn.

I was struck this morning by the beautiful blossom that currently lines our streets and then later by a storm of hailstones.
(25.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by dadalan real on Unsplash

Poem 829 – Right Date, Wrong Month

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The look on your face was wonderful
when I came through the door. I’m sure
you weren’t expecting me at all.
You were flummoxed, but that was before

I realised to my great shame
it was my fault. A misplaced diary
entry I’d made was to blame.
Embarrassed? Undeniably…

I turned up to a meeting today that I’d been to on the same date a month before. That should have rung alarm bells.
(23.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Poem 828 – Stolen

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Stolen. I didn’t know at the time
that this was our last conversation.
I turned my back and our words were gone.
I don’t remember what they were.

Now scattered, loose change upon the floor,
I desperately long to gather them up,
investigate every corner and search
the dark places until all are found.

Mutely, you stare at me. I’m sure,
inside, there’s much that you would say but,
vocabulary snatched, expression stilled,
that chance has gone and I am dumb.

As a child, before my speech was born,
I used to bang my head upon
the wall in frustration. I fear that you
now feel the pain that I felt then.

What would I have said if I had known?
Something profound? A nervous joke?
It’s strange. Your silence breeds more silence
and without reply my words dry up.

Mother and son, we search each other’s
eyes hoping that we might find those
missing coins. I leave uncertain,
praying you heard the words unsaid.

Written after a recent visit.
(22.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Napendra Singh on Unsplash

Poem 827 – Pandemic

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Alas, tonight we failed
to save the world. We tried
but sometimes trying’s not
enough. Sometimes hope
requires a lucky hand.

An early epidemic meant we were up against it from the start.
(21.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 826 – For the Innocent of Iran

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The days are light and spring is here.
Winter now seems a distant coup
and so I was confused when you
proclaimed with joy, Happy New Year.

Nowruz Mobarak, ‘happy new day!’
On hearing playful birds’ fresh tunes
and admiring the new born blooms,
the penny dropped, it’s more sense this way.

And so I wish you hope this instant.
Whichever start you mark, I pray
that amongst the shelling you may stay
faithful, and find there hope persistent.

It’s the Iranian New Year today, or so I learnt from my new Iranian friend at our Conversation Cafe. My prayers are with his family and the ordinary people of Iran, those caught up in a war inflicted upon them by those in power.
(20.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Chris Linnett on Unsplash