Thursday morning at eleven o’clock. The cars
all have their automatic headlights on
to lift the lethargy. It does not work.
A pensive mood infects the air and even
the sun is tentative. It seems afraid,
a fearful suitor, reluctant to commit.
Before too long the hopeful Christmas lights
will shine, and maybe that will lift our eyes,
but for now, like Simeon, we’re forced to wait
and wonder if the Son will ever rise.
Walking home this morning I was struck by the car lights…
(27.11.25)
Drafting grant applications,
I find I’m spewing word,
after word, after word, until
the screen is full of letters.
They blur into a splurge
of unattractive text,
a monolith of blackness.
I need to slash the text,
reduce the count and find
a way to make it more
succinct, engaging. I wonder,
should I try poetry
instead of prose? Or should
I go full Bob and simply
scrawl, ‘GIVE US YER MONEY!’
Following on from yesterday’s poem, on top of seasonal activity, I’m also writing grant applications for our church redevelopment project.
(26.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash
So many tasks and services,
completing them is a constant doubt,
I’m caught between an anguished shriek,
and a merry dance and joyful shout.
And yet I love this time of year,
I love the reason for its cheer,
the coming birth of Jesus Christ,
Immanuel, God’s Son with us.
His birth that night in Bethlehem,
to a teenage mum and carpenter dad,
accompanied by the angels and
glad shepherds who to the manger ran.
What is the reason for their rush?
That Christ had come for the likes of us,
no, not just kings but everyone,
Love lifting us to the Holy One.
I’ll take a breath and dive on in,
I’ll give my all to follow him,
what else is there for me to do,
for him who lived for me and you?
And so I lift my voice and sing,
One month to go! One month for Him!
Whilst working tonight on grant applications for our church redevelopment project and various Christmas preparations, I noticed the date. Perhaps the rhyme makes it a bit twee, but cut me some slack, with one month to go, there’s a lot on my plate!
(25.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Árni Svanur Daníelsson on Unsplash
Filling in the blnks,
Personalising the crwd,
Identfyng objects
Hgh in the gathering clouds.
Forevr seeking patterns,
Our brains instinctivly,
Fill in all the gaps, to mke
Snse of what they see.
This is our superpowr,
Our mnd’s great party trck,
Unless there’s no connecton,
And then we come unstck.
All that said, I’ve never been good at the missing vowels round in Only Connect…
(24.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash
‘I’m going to ABBA tomorrow’, he said
Fantastic, I replied. I’d heard
so many good things about the show,
and how the holograms seemed so real.
Not having seen the gig myself,
and wanting to add to the conversation,
I started to talk about a show
that I’d just seen the night before.
I saw a jolt upon his face,
a mental change of gear, but ever
composed and mindful of the other,
he quickly engaged with what I’d said.
Realising, perhaps, that I had moved
too quickly from his coming joy,
I returned the conversation to
our quartet of Seventies songsters.
His features creased a merry crease,
‘I must have miscommunicated,
I didn’t mean the sequinned Swedes,
but Aber as in Aberystwyth!
The moral of this mutual blunder?
The danger of assuming shared
perception, a common understanding,
obvious isn’t always so.
A comic conversation from this morning that makes a perfect illustration.
(23.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andrew Ebrahim on Unsplash
At the play tonight
Gandalf sat down behind me
And magic happened
Went to see the fantastic Nicola Walker tonight in The Unbelievers. Ian McKellen was also in the audience.
(22.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The preacher’s task is wrapped in mystery.
At first it seems straight forward, simple, but
On this familiarity there falls
A veil that covers what was clear before.
Then we are left to wrestle for the heart,
To twist and turn until we’re spinning, lost
Under the many layers of meaning,
And there we’re called to stay until we’re found.
Sometimes epiphany is hard to win.
We fight into the night and drag it out,
With courage bravely born of hope, refusing
To settle for another easy road.
At other times we turn to write but even
Before the pen is in our hands, the words
Become alive, a pulse that drives them fast,
A living stream that flows out of the book.
I’ve spent the decades preaching, and even now I find it an exciting yet elusive art.
(21.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Chris Chow on Unsplash
The apple tree stands bare, its leaves
lie on the floor as if it has
undressed and dropped them there. Naked,
it shivers with us all. It’s cold.
Strangely, its apples stay suspended,
red orbs up in this grey-scale air,
a natural orrery. But these
bright lights must also dim and die,
their failing orbits causing them
to fall and sleep till summer’s rise.
Our apple tree looks odd right now, caught in between two seasons.
(20.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The numbering of my poems is all wrong, and so I’m leaving them unnumbered until I get around to correcting them…
I’m losing all my numbers.
They’re falling off the page
and terminally descending,
cascading down the screen.
Perhaps it’s time to cross
them out, ignore them all
and do without? Or should
I take a dive myself
into the title depths
to number them afresh?
I’m not so sure I’m ready
to commit today,
and so I’m standing at
the edge and dipping in
my toe. Tomorrow? Perhaps…
Having filled in the gap previously identified, I’ve realised the numbers still don’t add up. It turns out there are still another 33 numbers missing or thereabouts, scattered amongst my poem titles. If only there was a way to quickly correct them all…
(19.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by lionel mermoz on Unsplash
Tonight we gathered:
Different faces on the screen,
From different places,
Different nationalities
And IT capabilities,
Different occupations,
Expectations, theologies.
Tonight we gathered,
United in our hope and faith
And prayed,
One family in Him.
Tonight The Connexion, the family of churches I belong to, gather online for prayer. It was wonderful to see the family again so soon after Conference.
(18.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 