Suspended, still and silent,
the spider hung all evening,
a single silken thread
secured him to the spot.
Patiently he waited, watching
with alien eyes, all eight,
hopefully focused upon us,
wondering when to leap.
But as the evening ended
the arachnid remained alert,
where, we retired praying,
he would remain all night.
I’ve spent the second night ironing, aware that all evening, someone hung behind me.
(31.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The satisfaction
Of crisp creases,
Neat lines aligning
The sides of sleeves.
Gliding along
The front and back,
A perfect piece
Of art in action.
A pile of ironing awaits. I’m putting it off although I always find shirts perversely satisfying.
(30.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ryoji Hayasaka on Unsplash
Stepping out from safety’s bounds towards
The unfamiliar, outside the manicured lawns,
The Father carries the Son within his arms.
The stillness strange, all sounds ring out unreal,
An eerie feel pervades the morning air.
A squirrel seems surreal, a beast at large.
But from his seat he has no cares, the child
Has eyes only for his Father’s face, the two
Absorbed in conversation’s gleeful flow.
One points, the other laughs, they pass my bedroom
Window, both unaware that they have roused
My soul and stirred my weary heart with hope.
Walking in the last morning of Conference today I was more than weary; as always it has been demanding. The passing sight from my window picked me up, however, a glimpse of the love The Father has for all his children.
(29.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The deed is done,
the audience won, I hope,
the words delivered
without a stumble,
(well just a little one
when I became distracted).
And now I’ll sleep with thoughts
of friends and family in Him.
It wasn’t good enough,
it never is, and nor am I,
but He is all we need.
For the second year running I ended up stepping into the gap when a speaker couldn’t make it to our annual Conference. A late night scrawling turned into a poetry gig with a message – a first public ‘reading’ of my poetry.
(28.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I’m a poet and I know it,
There’s 700 poems to show it,
And I’m not going to blow it
By missing out tonight.
But today I’ve given all.
And I’m running out of juice.
I’ve nothing left to offer
Only the stubborn wall
That I’ve run into,
That says I’m done,
It’s time for bed.
My head is blank
And yet there’s more to do.
I’m a poet and I know it,
And that will have to do.
I’m at our denomination’s annual conference which I help run. I love it and enjoy throwing myself into it, but there’s little capacity for anything else when I’m here… (If you’re wondering why I say 700 poems when this is number 416, that’s because of a numbering error that means I’ve gone back to full in a gap!)
(27.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Tim De Pauw on Unsplash
Look at these stones!
They stand so proud, so strong, so powerful.
How could they ever fall or fail, these stones?
These men of steel, they’re always men it seems,
with dreams of empire celebrated by
their self-erected statues to their honour.
Look at these stones!
These city walls that reach up to the heavens!
These tall towers built on stocks and shares
that tear the timid down to clamber high.
Exchanging life for digits gleaned, they rise
demanding that we bow before them.
Look at these stones!
These AI gods we’ve built in silicon,
their algorithms fashioned in our image,
our blindness coded deep within their souls,
lurking unseen, unknown, because
we do not even know it in ourselves.
Look at these stones!
But even stones don’t last forevermore,
these brittle bones that break will fall away.
One day the oblivious wind will blow them down,
their monuments will fade, decay to dust,
and as the sun descends they’ll dissipate.
Look at these stones!
They are but sand and every one will pass.
This morning we reflected on Mark 13 in our service, in which Jesus responds to the disciples awestruck comments on seeing the Temple, surprising them by predicting its fall. It made me wonder what our stones are today.
(26.10.25)
The crest of winter creeps across the land.
Soon will come the crenellations of white
that edge the fringes of the frozen fields
andd lace the country lanes with a glistening sheen.
We walk. Fingers unused to the cold welcoming
the warmth afforded by coat pockets when thrust
into their hidden depths. Despite the carpet
of autumnal leaves, the light’s subdued, dialled down.
Our conversation hushed, we huddle close
contemplating the coming chill. Even
the birds are so, as summer songs are silenced.
The world draws in and waits for winter’s veil.
We shared an enjoyable walk this morning. The sun is out today, but the signs are there that the seasons are turning.
(25.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sue Winston on Unsplash
When cares collide, sometimes I cram them in
a tin. Tapping the lid down tightly, I hope
to keep them contained, concealed and under control
until I have the time to take them out
and dust them down to deal with them. Sometimes
the tin begins to tremble, threatening
to pop its top and pour its contents upon
the floor, a flood of feelings exploding violently,
crashing indiscriminately without a care.
Beware of what might happen if you wander
nearby when noticing this introvert
begin to blow!
Don’t worry, I’m ok, just messing around with alliteration!
(24.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Toby Elliott on Unsplash
Tonight we finished Mark,
A tale of breathless action,
Inspired non-violent protest and
Vivid imagination.
That reaches across our barriers,
Draws in outcast and lost,
Embraces the rejected,
Values the poor and last.
The story that is Jesus,
The man from Galilee
Who stood against the Temple,
The powers and hypocrisy.
Was crowned upon a cross,
This sentence makes no sense,
Thus overturned the tables
And died a traitor’s death.
That builds to its crescendo,
Its resurrection scene,
And then abruptly ends.
I’ve been running a group exploring Mark’s Gospel, made up of church goers and non-church goers. It’s been a really intriguing and insightful journey.
(23.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash
Making contact when conversation
doesn’t work, when words are sounds
that don’t come back, a look remains
ambiguous, devoid of meaning.
The simple joy of nursery rhymes
sung in a circle, face to face,
that bridge the gap, enliven souls,
provoke a smile and joining in.
The thrill of holding toddlers in the
palm of your hands, provoking laughter,
and drawing those who played apart
together into unison.
One of the joys of my week is doing time at Toddlers. It’s a magic moment when we caught up together as one.
(22.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 