Hope, the belief that things can change,
that just as night turns into day
these troubled paths can be rearranged.
Hope, the belief in a better way
than we experienced yesterday.
Hope, the belief that despite the past,
there’s more to life than fickle chance.
I wasn’t sure what to write tonight and so picked out a form I hadn’t tried before, a Chaucerian Stanza, which uses an ABABBCC rhyming pattern.
(18.01.26)
Three gentlemen stood perched along the bank:
the heron, egret and the cormorant.
The first, an aged fellow, grey and boney,
so motionless he seemed already dead.
His beard hung limp along a saggy throat,
contrasting with those penetrating eyes,
alert and constantly alive to us.
Beside, a smaller man not grey but white,
the translucent white that only comes with time,
serene and wise. Two unexpected river-
bedfellows. But is this stillness just
their cover? Up above their carer pearched,
high upon an ivy clad lookout.
Wry grin upon his long, compassionate beak,
he watched wondering what mischief lay ahead.
Walking along the New River today, we spotted the unexpected sight of a great heron, little egret and cormorant next to each other. Surprising and somewhat comical.
(17.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jessica Moss on Unsplash
To steal, or not to steal, that is the question:
Whether ’tis better to grasp immunity
And run the risk of being banished, or
To face the blows of traitors’ bows and arrows?
Which fearful fate is worse: to walk or sleep;
The paranoia of the table or
The letter on the chair that passive slays?
Whichever choice is made, the chance is real:
‘Cos other’s hands the dagger doth employ,
Considering options that perchance destroy.
Loving The Traitors again this year, what gripping TV.
(16.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Albert Stoynov on Unsplash
Having passed the rock
A hard place fills my vision
Not sure what to do…
Juggling with tricky decisions
(15.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jonathan Simcoe on Unsplash
The circling critics mass with clicking keys,
headlines angrily declaring that,
the multicultural culinary dish is dead.
They clearly haven’t tried our bubble and squeak.
Today a Brit, a Turk and a Kuwaiti worked
together, serving food to English neighbours.
Their dishes? Cuisine cooked from diverse cultures,
a blend of ingredients derived from different nations.
And as they did they shared from a common pot
of love and conversation. Send them home?
If we did, we’d find we’re left with silence, vacant
plates and empty hearts; a menu of empty lines.
I had a lovely afternoon today working at our foodbank with two volunteers both of whom have come from our Conversation Cafe for those who speak English and a second language.
(14.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
A tall gentleman pacing around in circuits,
A woman being wheeled past, who smiles and waves,
A book of Dad jokes, sometimes inappropriate,
A carer noticing the unnoticed,
The groaning of a ghost in an upstairs corridor,
A visitor, uncertain of where to go,
Loved ones, and those who can see beyond their years,
A manager who makes this home a home.
A snapshot from today.
(13.01.26)
No headspace, heart space, creativity,
My debt has been called in. Today I’m done.
The bills have all been paid, I’m overdrawn,
But interest is paid in by the rising sun.
Today’s one of those days when life takes up all my capacity.
(12.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Museums Victoria on Unsplash
The conductor lifts his baton
The audience falls silent
.
.
.
.
.
A stifled cough
.
.
.
.
.
Rapturous applause!
My head is full of other matters today, and empty when it came to writing. Got me thinking about a poetic version of John Cage’s silent orchestral piece.
(11.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash
Some days we do amazing things:
mend broken hearts, help those in need,
and make the world a better place.
Some days I reach that perfect note,
and find a satisfying rhyme or
fly faster or further on my bike.
Today is not that day.
Today I tarried in my bed,
then read a book and tidied up,
and finally did some shopping.
Enjoyed a mundane day today when nothing exceptional happened. Sometimes that is perfect.
(10.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Blaz Photo on Unsplash
Amidst the chaos there lies a line.
It weaves a way, a golden thread
of grace, not chalk or string, through life’s
varied and unpredictable maze.
A fragile thing, at first it seems
too fine, invisible and prone,
and yet, persistent, it somehow snakes
through life’s ragged ups and downs.
A golden thread that is not precious,
that rolls up its well worn sleeves,
knows life in all its care and messiness,
that dares to tread the dangerous street.
It does not force, or bend, or break,
it simply finds a way for feet to trace
when eyes are dark, imagination
spent. This path is known as love.
It’s been a week of trying to find a way through some tricky pastoral situations.
(09.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vasilica Ciocan on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 