An hour of conversation,
That reaches around the globe,
Transcending barriers of language,
And animosity shown.
Taking time to listen,
And talk about our lives,
Comparing holiday plans,
And things that make us thrive
A mutual love of camping,
Shared music of the soul,
A common concern for family,
One humanity unfolds.
Another Friday, another Conversation Café, our informal group for those with English as a second language. Use one of the highlights of my work.
(13.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Looked on eBay
There heard temptation’s echo
Bought a saxophone….
After being tempted by a sax in Lincoln, a bit of research turned up a bargain. I succumed.
(12.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
We arranged our raffle tickets
Upon the table top
To such surprise we found
We’d almost won the lot!
A true story from tonight’s competition!
(11.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Alive!
Each step
Explodes
A swirling
Celebration
Of insects.
Having left the lawn to its own devices over May it’s full of grasshoppers and other insects.
(10.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A rotting ruin, the old pub stood abandoned,
the juke box quiet, regulars forgotten,
its skeleton a ghostly shell left stranded.
As weeds burst through clay tiles and chimney pots
it seemed as if this plot had no more planned
than this, but mother nature had allotted
her resources, and soon this dead corpse breathed
again with saplings, lake and thriving reeds.
The site of a former local pub is being transformed as nature has its way.
(09.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
We gathered just as he had told us to.
It was nine o’clock, although you wouldn’t
know it from the crowds outside our room.
Within, rising anticipation could
be felt. We kept ourselves apart ’til ‘BOOM!’
a violent storm exploded nationhood –
look, tongues of fire descending on our heads,
folk hearing in their tongues the words we said.
‘They’re drunk!’ they cried, responding to our joy;
a joy that bubbled up from deep inside,
erupting in this giggling, gushing, noise.
At once impulsive Peter stood inspired,
declaring that it was the Spirit, employed
by Jesus Christ against whom they conspired.
His message cut them to their very hearts,
sundering Babel’s legacy apart.
It’s Pentecost today, the day the church celebrates the events of Acts 2, the giving of the Spirit and the birth of the church. Thought I’d try doing another ottava rima (see 578). Need to keep working on rhyme, it still feels contrived, but I’ll get there…
(08.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Cullan Smith on Unsplash
My mower has not seen the light of day
since April, the last time that the grass was trimmed,
and in its absence life’s had chance to play.
One look, you might decide the scene is grim,
but keep an open mind, once more survey –
the land’s awake to nature’s joyful hymn:
goldfinches seeking seeds as crickets sing,
and dandies dance before the bats take wing.
I thought I’d try a poem with an ottava rima rhyming form today (abababcc), and having been in the garden beforehand, this tumbled out.
(07.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andrea Lightfoot on Unsplash
Trying to find the pitch,
I find myself stranded, caught
Between the cliff and the sea,
The heights and deep dark depths.
Straining, I struggle for breath.
I’ve been trying to learn a new song for Sunday’s service, but I just can’t find the right pitch for my voice.
(06.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Tiago Muraro on Unsplash
Remember Moses met God in a burning bush?
Today I moved two blueberry bushes in
the rain, not really the same, and yet within
the falling drops I heard his jovial patter.
His words were splashing colour everywhere,
flowing down my collar and into my socks,
a rhythmic splatter announcing, ‘LET THERE BE!’
Inspired by collecting blueberry bushes in the rain from a local allotment.
(05.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mario Mendez on Unsplash
She’s nearly two. Hiding behind her mother’s legs,
her eyes are like those magnetic links on wooden
trains, repelled when other eyes approach.
She risks a playful peak; it does not last.
Eventually she sees the toys surrounding her.
They call for her attention. She responds,
urgently dragging mum within her wake.
I see my chance and holding out a ball
I sit patiently, waiting for the catch.
She bites, I reel, and slowly draw her in.
Tentative fingers clasp the outstretched bait;
before she knows it’s happened we’re at play.
Toddler Group again today, and my regular quest to overcome their shyness.
(04.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Clark Young on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 