Author: BenDQ

Poem 752 – Under the Dusty Moon

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The night is dark and cold, another world.
Inside, the dark house creaks, could it be haunted?
A creature crashes against the neighbour’s fence,
accompanied by the roar of a passing bike.

The dark house creaks, could it be haunted?
My wife breathes alongside me oblivious,
accompanied by the roar of a passing bike.
Somewhere a lover argues on his phone.

My wife breathes alongside me oblivious.
Meanwhile rubbish blows along the pavement
as a drunken lover argues on his phone;
two strangers drifting under the dusty moon.

As rubbish blows along the empty pavement,
a creature crashes against the neighbour’s fence;
two strangers adrift under the dusty moon.
The night is dark and cold, another world.

A pantoum in response to a post by Pádraig Ó Tuama.
(05.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Gary Fultz on Unsplash

Poem 751 – Psalm of Thanksgiving

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To the tune of Hark the Herald…

Father God we thank you for:
Family that comes from all over,
Children and grandchildren that bring us joy,
New friends, old friends, good friends getting older,
Dogs and goldfish, don’t forget the guinea pigs,
Health and healing, sunshine and the rain,
180 thousand raised so far
and lots of guests on our Alpha.
Father God we thank you for
Mercy and forgiveness that on us you pour!

Last Sunday, we drew up a list of things we were grateful for from the year that was just finishing. It was suggested that perhaps we could make a song out of them, so here they are, slightly adapted, as used in our service today to the tune of a well-known Christmas carol.
(04.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

Poem 749 – Under January Skies

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The winter’s sky, the bitter pale,
Bites our faces and bleaches soil,
Its cutting sun burns scars in our sight,
With crispness of air and blinding light.

The iron ground and crinkling step,
That crunches under frozen foot,
Is joined above by a piercing breeze,
Whipping shivering birds and naked trees.

And we, caressed by dying sun,
In melancholy are undone,
And looking forward count the cost,
Mourning the things that aren’t yet lost.

Inspired by a chilly walk and a line I read today.
(02.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Polina Kuzovkova on Unsplash

Poem 748 – Canvas

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There’s something in those eyes,
a passing thought or feeling
that briefly wakes and flickers.
It’s hard to read its meaning,
though, and I’m left uncertain
of what transpires within.
Just as with a painting on
display, I’m forced to make
my own interpretation,
and in an act of violence,
superimpose my own
emotion on your frame.
This leaves me feeling anxious,
have I not understood
your silent art at all?

(01.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Olivia Anne Snyderon Unsplash

Poem 747 – A Year In Verse

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A year ago I set myself a challenge:
a poem a day across the coming year.
Today I write the last, the deed is done:
a daily haiku, sonnet or sestina,
three hundred and sixty five of them, each down
before the final chime of midnight’s rung.
Except for Christmas Eve, cause then I tarried
until the Holy Day had peeked above
the dawn’s divide, the final candle lit,
and Merry Christmas bid to one and all.
And now I sign off twenty twenty-five
with this my final rhyme ’til twenty-six!

I did it! Some serious, some fun, some hasty, some long, but regardless of that 365 complete (if numbered wrong…)
(31.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Elisha Terada on Unsplash

Poem 746 – The Three Sisters

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Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks.
The youngest pouts, disgusted by her lot,
her hair a spiky scrunch, too short for bunches.
The jersey thrust on her causes her to hunch.
Is it a disguise for a mess that lies beneath?
Inside an anger brews, beware of its release…

The middle stands with shoulders back, chest out,
a face that boasts I’m beautiful and proud.
You can tell she’s used to getting her own way,
there’s a quizzical look in her eyes as if to say,
I wonder what it’s like to live like you,
a life where others tell you what to do…

The last child bends, she knows the weight that comes
from the expectation laid on the oldest one.
To rub it in the middle is the belle –
she wouldn’t say it but the oldest knows it well –
instead, with pencil clenched she etches out
her sister’s eyes when no-one else is about.

Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks,
this sepia picture puts them in the dock,
and there we’ve stared at them and weighed their deeds,
a judgement forged from imaginary feats.
Extrapolating from this snapshot caught in time,
where would you stand within this awkward line?

This photo was unearthed as part of my wife’s family tree research. What a wonderfully expressive trio of faces demanding to be interpreted. I didn’t mean for this one to rhyme, but it just came out that way – does it work or just make it twee? I’m not sure, perhaps reading it again in the morning will answer that one!
(30.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 744 – December Walk

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The Lee is grey, reflecting the winter sky.
The piercing wind penetrates my coat,
and sharply flutters around my ears and collar.
The heat drains from my fingers. I start to shiver.
Along the bank the swans stick out no more;
today their feathers blend with the monochrome. We stop to feed them. Guzzling eagerly,
they have their fill, stretching their necks for more.
We walk on by the boats, bouyed on by hope,
as Christmas lights break through the gathered gloom.

A winter walk along the River Lee with the family.
(28.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025