Time is
Running
Out
Waiting
In a
Queue
For a
Parking
Space
At the
Hospital
Despite arriving in good time, we ended up cutting it fine for an appointment today. In the end, it was timed to perfection!
(28.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sara Kurfeß on Unsplash
Best laid plans and all…
I said I wouldn’t do this
But hey, queue one up
It’s been a full day today. Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.
(27.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by José Martín Ramírez Carrasco on Unsplash
Sometimes a simple name can conjure a sound,
produce a tone or mood, or evoke a colour.
Try John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock,
Cannonball Adderley, Wayne Shorter, Charlie Parker.
Say them out loud to enter a world now gone,
where bands chase the elusive rhythm of
adrenaline beating, coloured black and white,
and tinted blue.
Spent this afternoon working to a soundtrack of Blue Note Jazz.
(26.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo William P. Gottlieb, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Picked out in Eden’s perfect white, you strain,
with necks outstretched, and reach for heaven’s doors.
Caught in between two worlds, your life is laboured
but here, serene in flight, as in the water;
gliding through the blue, God’s arrow shot,
an elegance outlined by morning’s sun.
Oh, that I could grasp a feather and fly
within this sky-born halo, but alas,
I fear my earth-bound fingers would find no purchase,
but slip right through to mourn what we have lost.
This morning a perfect V-formation of swans flew past our window, washed brilliant white by the sun. I pointed this out to my wife who said she knew what today’s poem would be about…
(25.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mathijs de Koning on Unsplash
Better late than never,
My daily attempt at rhyme,
This stab at wordsmith rhythm only
Squeezes in on time.
A jazzy slate of syllables,
Alliteration rock,
It finally makes its debut on
The last seconds of the clock.
The metronome helps meter
Iambic beats combine
And with a crash of consonants
We make the end bar line.
Home alone, I got distracted playing my guitar, and almost forgot my daily poem…
(24.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kobby Mendez on Unsplash
Thrashing its shiny tail from side to side
in raging rancour the rising dragon roared;
a cry that caused the cavern walls’ collapse
and, harrowed, our heroes’ hearts to pause.
With a weighty stamp the beast made wave
the floor most furiously, causing them to fall,
but rallying they raised their righteous spirits;
emboldened by belief in their beautiful call.
The pious paladin picked his spot with prayer,
and grasping his glaive he struck a grevious blow;
but such its size, the serpent barely felt,
the piercéd pupil pricked from down below.
With furious vapours it fought to seize control,
enfolding its foe in flames from gaping doors
formed by its mighty jaws made red and wide,
that reached from rising roof to hardened floor.
Aiming at the arrogance he’d heard
may leave a learing lizard lying prone,
a doughty sea-dog sought to deal him doubt
and at his hardened heart his words did home.
And did the dreadful dragon hesitate,
distracted or entranced by tricky terms?
It must be so because, somehow,
the flame-licked fighter fought despite the burns.
These alliterative verses emerged from the tremendous evening’s party that formed the first half of the finale to a highly enjoyable role-playing game campaign. More may follow…
(23.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by raquel raclette on Unsplash
Winding in the lead on a Henry vacuum cleaner;
its silky movement reminiscent of
a whipping snake or spiralling whirlpool.
The satisfying pleasure of plunging the plunger
on a cafetiere, believing that this triggers
a dramatic chimney stack collapse.
The mutual suspense and thrill when casting a handful
of dice upon the table with a group
of friends and waiting for the outcome.
Cooking porridge in the microwave
and, like the bear in the fairy story, getting
the delicious texture ‘just right’.
A line of verse falling on the page
and landing poised and perfectly rhymed from birth.
It rarely happens but when it does…
So often childlike eyes, like Narnia’s wardrobe,
can unlock the doors to a world that otherwise hides
hidden behind our hanging coats.
Vacuuming after foodbank today, we discovered the shared joy of winding in the vacuum cleaner lead. I was challenged to write a poem about it… This one’s for you Jasmine!
(22.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Pete from Liverpool, UK – Project 365 #170: 190613 A New Arrival, Public Domain, Link
In my attempt to
Write a poem everyday
I will not write haikus
When writing a poem a day, it is tempting to turn to the haiku with its short format. It’s a great chat for a busy day. I will try and resist.
(21.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
The changing of the guard
From old to over-ripe,
From male to male again,
From white to sort of white.
The pointing of the finger
At all ‘wrongs’ but your own.
The boasting in the playground,
The constant need to moan
A snatching of desires,
A bedeviling of the other,
A building up of walls,
An acceptance of the liar
It makes you wonder when
A proper change may come,
With hope for all the people,
To let us dream as one.
Today is Trump’s inauguration. Like many I am uneasy about the political implications. I can’t help but feel that rather than become great again, American has got stuck in some nightmare rut of alpha testosterone. (Today is also Main Luther King Day in America.)
(20.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash
Mud in my eyes
Mud in my fingernails
Mud in the tongue
Mud in the insoles
Mud in the eyelets
Mud in the treads
Mud in the laces
Mud in the stitching
Mud in the cracks
Mud in the crevices
Mud in the cloth
Mud in the plughole
I wonder how
There’s any left lingering
In yesterday’s
Most muddy fields
Today’s task? Cleaning the muddy boots from yesterday’s mucky walk (see Poem 408).
(19.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Martin Martz on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
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