This blue police box
Appeared upon
My step
Where did it come from?
Who put it there?
I do not know
But whilst it seems
So small compared
To its surrounds
They say, don’t they,
It’s bigger on the inside
I wonder what
I’d find within
If only I
Could find a way
To open up
Its doors
It’s true, I opened up my fits to find the TARDIS on my doorstep. Quite surreal.
(28.06.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
It isn’t long until you tie the knot
Exchange your rings, say vows that bind you tightly
I hope you find them not constraining chains
But liberating promises, security
Like tape that holds a graft firmly together
Until the two infuse becoming one
Releasing you to look ahead not back
To check your knots have not become undone
In just a few week’s time I’m conducting a marriage. This is always a privilege, but even more so this time as it is my daughter’s! Not surprisingly, I’m mulling over the question of what to say and pass on.
(23.06.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Photo by Jeremy Wong
So No Mow May slipped into June
Kneehigh the grasses swayed
And under summer’s sun turned brown
Before I’d turned a blade
I’d hoped for some exotic meadow
An array of blooms
Instead a field of hay fever
And stinging nettles grew
So finally I grabbed the mower
To try and tame this beast
But left it growing at the back
And planted some wild seeds
I’ve always fancied a wild flower meadow and a garden that’s more attractive to wildlife. Alas, it turns out that laziness doesn’t create it…
(21.06.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Let’s all keep mum, keep schtum
‘Cause careless talk costs lives
So cross your heart and hope
To die, don’t let the cat
Out of its bag
Please keep it under wraps
Don’t tell a soul, just tap
Your nose with knowing look
A wink perhaps no more
I plea, than that
And if not wraps, perhaps
A hat will do the job
Along with poker face
To keep it in its place
Our secret, shhh….
Work has kept me occupied of late, diverting creative juices, but when my Dad announced the theme of his next poetry groups meeting, I couldn’t resist.
(16.06.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Photo by Kat Smith: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-placing-her-finger-between-her-lips-568025/
The needle drops, its solid clunk,
Precipitates familiar crackles,
Vinyl’s weakness? Perhaps, or character,
But compensating with more soul.
The sax begins, transporting us,
To smokey bars where bourbon’s poured,
In black and white, and couples sway,
And nodding men are lost in jazz.
The snare’s shuffle entrances as,
Crisp cymbal strikes entice and take,
Our arms to stroll with walking bass,
And trumpets dance their singing scales.
Too soon the groove reaches its climax,
The side completed but not ended,
Repeated coda, beating on,
Until the arm is lifted home.
A discussion on Twitter about jazz recommendations led to acquiring some new records, and in turn to this verse.
(09.06.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Ode for the Day 