Month: Mar 2025

Poem 460 – Let Me Paint You a Picture

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The other night we gathered.
Not around a fire like
our predecessors but
around the table with
the plan of telling tales.

We started with the story
of our days. We shared frustrations
our triumphs, hopes and dreams;
wielding brushes to paint
the scene we wanted seen.

And then our make-believe.
A painting of a haunted house
investigated by
our alter-egos, bravely
searching for the truth.

Its strange, but when I hang
these portraits side by side,
there’s no denying that
the brushstrokes are the same.
Two different worlds connected.

Today the news, more stories.
A splash of colour here
a daub of darkness there,
all vying for opinion,
surreal, unreal or real?

Stories within stories.
Landscapes created by
our conflict. Colours clash
and mix, until we find
some truth emerging from them.

What is truth? I suspect that’s the question of our age. I’m increasingly aware of how we reveal and hide the truth within the stories that we tell.
(20.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ahmed Raza Kz on Unsplash

Poem 457 – Armed with Art

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My weapon is a melody,
My sharp sword is a verse,
My prayer a faithful missile fired
Across the universe.
Imagination changes lives,
And poems are armed with dreams,
Guthrie’s guitar killed fascists, yes
The truth will set us free.

The opening line came from today’s prayer meeting, which sparked off thoughts of Guthrie and The Notting Hillbillies version of The Weapon of Prayer.
(17.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Image: Al Aumuller/New York World-Telegram and the Sun (uploaded by User:Urban), Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Woody_Guthrie_2.jpg

Poem 454 – Look Out For The Flowers

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Our lawn has been infested
by violets, a swarming purple.
Next will come white daisies
and bohemian dandelions.

A lone daffodil has
somehow found its way,
but now the sun is out
they’ll start to come en masse.

Bluebells ring amidst a
daze of forget-me-nots.
Wild cyclamen appear
even a stray red strawberry.

These immigrants attract
bees and other insects,
troublemakers buzzing
in tongues I cannot speak.

Be sure it won’t stop there.
No, before you know it
they’ll flock, the birds and bats
and butterflies and crickets.

Every sound and language
under the sun will surround us;
a multitudinous riot
of culture, colour and song.

I fear for my children, they
will never know the past:
our English gardens’ green
and monocultural grass.

The more I talk to those of other countries living here, the more I see the beauty around me.
(14.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by virginia lackinger on Unsplash

Poem 453 – O+

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‘Your blood is precious’
But can I give?

A sharp quick prick on
my outstretched finger.

One bead of blood,
red, thick with life.

All hesitate,
will it descend?

The droplet falls,
a nod is given.

I donated blood today. My haemoglobin test is always borderline, I often fail, and so it’s always a trend moment when I’m tested.
(13.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by LuAnn Hunt on Unsplash

Poem 452 – Man vs. Garden

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Today I’ve been pruning a bush.
That is an understatement.

I’ve been chopping up remains
of vast swathes of branches culled
from overgrown hedges and bushes
and dumping them in our bin.

It’s been a battle, one man
with secateurs versus
Mother Nature gone wild.
Mother Nature is winning.

Eventually, Mother Nature
always finds a way,
but meanwhile, here I am,
trying to tame her excess.

Each piece recalls the past,
each snip a season gone,
and as the wheelie bin is
filled with trimmings, time flies.

Today I’ve been being pruned,
my sense of self stripped back,
perspective re-established,
the brambles will be back.

With winter gradually receding, I’ve been trying in vain to maintain garden order…
(12.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025