Month: Aug 2025

Poem 625 – The Roses

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At the flicks, to watch hot picks,
the battle of the sexes.
Tonight’s rom-com, love come undone,
relationships neglected.

Bunny blended, love has ended
Who will end on top?
Benedict or Olivia,
one will get the chop!

Before too long, I knew I’d got it wrong,
the rabbit evades capture,
as long as it has got the wit,
to avoid Fatal Attraction…

Went to the local Odeon tonight to watch The Roses, the remake of the War of the Roses. It turns out, I’d got my films muddled up, the bunny scene was of course in Fatal Attraction, meaning a hasty rewrite…
(31.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Poem 624 – The Loft

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A day of archaeology in the loft
Peeling back the layers through the years
Past Christmas trees and bags of decorations
Old cardboard boxes kept in case of need

The children’s toys kept for the grandchildren
Memories of precious moments housed in tins
Cards, photos, school books and a wedding dress
Reminders of those now no longer here.

A random iron in a grimy box
A bag of gifts given in Sierra Leone
A stash of trash in need of sorting through
Or treasure trove of objects that we own?

A day spent doing a bit of ‘spring’ cleaning.
(30.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Trnava University on Unsplash

Poem 623 – Trapped

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The sound invades the street, a bitter echo.
Its chants catch in my clothes and tangle
in my hair, the hatred harries me
along the street. I feel defiled and lost.
Dislocated, this isn’t the home I knew.
I want to wash my hands of it with tears,
to wash away the anger and the fear,
but Pilate comes to mind disowning Christ.
Like him I long to act, to turn the tide
to shout a better case, scrub it away,
adorn the posts with love and streets with welcome,
but what to do that will not make it worse?
Walking past, am I guilty of collusion?
Like him I’m helpless, caught in indecision.

Tonight we walked past the growing protests outside a local hotel used to house asylum seekers. I long to get across that this isn’t how everyone feels, how I feel, but how to do this constructively?
(29.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sean Horsburgh on Unsplash

Poem 622 – Carpe Diem

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A moment of opportunity
presents itself, an open door,
a chance for frontier exploration.
A skuttle and leap, the gecko ascends,
quickly seizing it’s golden moment.
A flick of searching tongue reveals
a sensory map of smell and texture,
an alien landscape full of mystery.
It pauses, drinking it in before
refuge is sought within a sleeve.

Pascal, our new crested gecko, took the chance to explore our sitting room for the first time this evening.
(28.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 621 – St. George

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I’ve been away for several days.
Returning, I found our roundabout
adorned in red, the cross of St. George.
What joy to find this Turkish knight
beloved and buried in Palestine,
defender of the vulnerable,
venerated around the world,
witness to the compassion of Christ,
admired by Cross and Crescent alike,
adored in this my neighbourhood.

Our neighbourhood has become adorned by red crosses. I’m not convinced they stand for the same things as St. George…
(27.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 620 – Flat Pack Politics

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A week or two has passed
and all is as we left it.
The TV hasn’t fallen,
or damp stains reappeared,
or furniture collapsed.
My DIY has lasted
longer than Liz Truss.
I can announce I have
a strong and stable cabinet!

Much to my relief, returning after Greenbelt, the DIY is as I left it.
(26.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 619 – After the Field

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Back home, unpacked,
clothes in the wash,
me in the wash,
kit stowed away,
crashed out upon the sofa.
After five days
outside beneath
the big blue sky,
inside feels strange,
confined, cut off, unnatural.
And yet I know
I’ll soon adjust,
quickly revert,
freedom exchanged
for familiar shackles.

Back from Greenbelt, it’s lovely to be with family again, but being inside feels odd.
(25.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 617 – Such As These*

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A simple slip of tongue produced
A gem of wisdom, profound adage,
After the laughter let it sink in,
‘It takes a child to raise a village’.

It takes a child to raise a village,
A simple soul to teach the wise,
The joy of life to lift the spirits,
An open heart to make us nice.

The awestruck face that greeted me
Striped back the pretensions that I relied on,
When walking along the roadside verge,
We stopped to admire a dandelion,

Eyes wide with wonder woke the weary,
My cynicism drained away,
I saw again as I used to see,
I wish this innocence would stay.

Instantly, children come together,
From strangers quickly friendships form;
Covenants of grace are forged in fun,
And from the games new life is born.

It doesn’t matter who they are,
Their colour, creed or place of birth,
Collisions occur, but are quickly
Forgotten and replaced with mirth.

We’ve long believed the well trod lie,
That wisdom comes with age, until
Much to our surprise we found the truth,
It takes a child to raise a village.

I listened to the excellent Adjoa Andoh at Greenbelt today. A slip of the tongue inspired this poem, married to an encounter with a three year old friend on a walk over day. (*Matthew 19:14)
(23.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jochen van Wylick on Unsplash