Poem 401 – Dreaming with Martin Luther King Jr.

The changing of the guard
From old to over-ripe,
From male to male again,
From white to sort of white.

The pointing of the finger
At all ‘wrongs’ but your own.
The boasting in the playground,
The constant need to moan

A snatching of desires,
A bedeviling of the other,
A building up of walls,
An acceptance of the liar

It makes you wonder when
A proper change may come,
With hope for all the people,
To let us dream as one.

Today is Trump’s inauguration. Like many I am uneasy about the political implications. I can’t help but feel that rather than become great again, American has got stuck in some nightmare rut of alpha testosterone. (Today is also Main Luther King Day in America.)
(20.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash

Poem 400 – Mud

Mud in my eyes
Mud in my fingernails
Mud in the tongue
Mud in the insoles
Mud in the eyelets
Mud in the treads
Mud in the laces
Mud in the stitching
Mud in the cracks
Mud in the crevices
Mud in the cloth
Mud in the plughole
I wonder how
There’s any left lingering
In yesterday’s
Most muddy fields

Today’s task? Cleaning the muddy boots from yesterday’s mucky walk (see Poem 408).
(19.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Martin Martz on Unsplash

Poem 399 – Hertfordshire Chain Walk Pt.1

The opaque skies we walk beneath are white.
Today the Sun is banished, time obscured.
It’s hard to know what era we stand in,
let alone the time of day or year.

Made boggy under horses’ hooves, the clay
is claggy and grows like tumours on our boots.
With every squelching step we feel it’s suction
and fear we might be stranded in its mouth.

Woodpecker heavy metal is joined by sparrow
chatter and the squawk of startled pheasants.
A robin burbles from within the wood,
and Great Tits tweet their welcome as we pass.

Occasionally another world butts in:
manicured golf club lawns, expensive carparks;
the droning rumble of distant motorway traffic;
and show-off houses striving to be on top.

Finally the circle’s closed as we reach the start.
The happy feeling of release as boots are peeled
from tired feet and exchanged for comfortable cousins.
We take our seats both satisfied and weary.

We decided this year we’d set ourselves the target of doing the Hertfordshire Chain Walk; a series of circular walks that turn a chain from south to North Hertfordshire. Today was the first, an 8 mile loop around Whitewebs Park, Crews Hill, and the surrounding countryside. A good if mucky and chilly start.
(18.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 398 – Call Centre Blues

Your call is important to us
So we’re placing you in a queue
And playing some lovely music
For you to listen to

Your call is important to us
So we’re recording every word
We’ll listen back to it often
To learn from what we’ve heard

Your call is important to us
Along with the other ninety-nine
We’re looking forward to speaking to you
When we finally have the time

Your call is important to us
We’ll hang onto every jot
We’re sorry to leave you waiting
But abruptly this call must

I’ve had the joy of feeling with a few call centres recently. Occasionally one comes along that is great (thank you Indra), but often it’s a nightmare.
(17.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by LumenSoft Technologies on Unsplash

Poem 397 – Alliterative Allies, Tricky Traitors

Leon, like, I literally love,
But loopy Linda what a laugh!

Lisa left her liturgy, whilst
Shameful Charlotte shifts her tongue.

Manipulating Minah makes her move
But fearful Freddie finds the answer.

Francesca chooses to chew things over
But artfully, Alex avoids attention.

As Alexander articulates
Leanne angrily argues back.

Jubilantly Jake announces, ‘I knew it!’
but Anna never knows it’s coming…

Will feuding faithfuls find the faithless
or treacherous traitors survive in triumph?

The opening admiration of Leon was uttered by one of the contestants on The Traitors last night (15.01.25). It’s alliteration immediately caught my attention, I knew it had to become a poem…
(16.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo David Kratz, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 396 – A Time to Pray

To speak of peace seems premature.
Don’t get me wrong, let’s celebrate
that shots might cease in Palestine
and missiles end and aid come in.
Let’s leap for joy at hostages’
release. However, that’s not new.
This land has known such ‘peace’ before.
True peace, shalom, salam is not
a lack of war, but no suspicion;
it isn’t tribulation’s end
instead its resolution.

News has been growing today of the long longed for ceasefire between Israel and Hamas.
(15.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Dylan Shaw on Unsplash

Poem 395 – Installing Washing Machines

It always sounds straightforward
in the manual. Simply
remove the packaging,
undo the bolts and then
attach the pipe and hose.
Turn on the water. Pray
(it doesn’t say this but
I find I always do).

It always sounds straightforward
but bolts stick then they snap.
Attaching pipes requires
amazing acrobatic
acts behind the units.
Despite how tight you tighten,
the water always leaks.
I swear then pray some more.

This evening I installed a new washing machine. I think it’s sorted, but I won’t know until we use it. Of course to check all’s good, I’ll have to get behind it yet again to look for puddles…
(14.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Leif Christoph Gottwald on Unsplash

Poem 393 – Jack’s World

Yesterday, upon our wooden gatepost,
the frost created miniature white forests
of crystalline columns. How I longed to walk
beneath their delicate icy canopy,
and folic under its frozen leaves and branches.
What winter creatures made their habitat
amongst these glassy pillars and nested there?
Who crawled amongst its sugary undergrowth,
and hid within the dusting of white detritus?
Alas, so many mysteries remain unfound,
now dissipating beneath the rising sun.

Waiting for a lift yesterday morning, I spied a hidden world.
(12.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Yuri Antonenko on Unsplash