Author: BenDQ

Poem 703 – Childish Things?

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Eight men, eight grown-up men at that, all sat
Around a table playing games. It seems,
A little childish perhaps, a desperate clutching
Onto passing days, of memories
Of living wild and young and fearlessly.
But here we’re free to put aside, for now,
Responsibility and simply be
Ourselves. To set aside the expectations
Put upon us by ourselves and others.
Right now the world reduces to the choices
Made, the turns we take, and all that matters
Is the fun we find, investing in each other.
We end rejuvenated, ready as
the table and the world expand again.

Today I travelled back from a weekend playing boardgames with friends. A wonderful time, thanks all!
(17.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 702 – Anticipating

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We roll the dice
and all lean in,
our breath is held,
as pulses rise,
a gasp, a cry,
a ‘Yes!’ a ‘No!’
‘I hate this game!’
‘I told you so.’

The cards slide in
as turns are made,
collective groans,
delighted cheers,
as points are counted,
totals summed,
impatient waiting
to find who’s won.

A weekend away boardgaming, with the’evil’ 6 Nimmt card game being a highlight, with all its highs and delightful lows.
(16.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by 2H Media on Unsplash

Poem 701 – Coastal Alarm

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Today I wake to seagull song.
Their urgent, tumbling cries pierce through
sleep’s bleary mist with urgency.
‘Alack, alack, alack’, they wail,
‘it is the morn, be up, be up!’
And so I stumble from my bed,
to capture on the page their call,
and show I’ve heard and heed them well.
With that they’re satisfied and still.

No need for an alarm clock today.
(15.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Peter F. Wolf on Unsplash

Poem 700 – Light Rain Predicted

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It says light rain, and so it is,
but can a rain that does not stop,
that pours relentlessly, a grey
insipid, haze of wet that soaks
through coats, and trouser pockets where
they drain, be ever truly light?
It is so fine it makes its way
through every pour and crevice that
present themselves, from seams to button
holes, and zips to ears and noses.
It says light rain, but I’m weighed down
my clothes and spirits drenched and heavy.

It looks like a long weekend of rain ahead… (For transparency’s sake, thankfully I’ve been in the inside looking out at the rain, imagining, so don’t feel sorry for me!)
(14.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 699 – Non-Poetry Day

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Today doesn’t feel like a poetry day,
It feels disjointed, somehow dredged
With all creativity drained away.
Where is the meter in doing admin?
The rhyme in writing rapid emails?
The tempo in ticking off the tasks?
Somewhere along the way the stanzas
Blurred into an endless verse,
A universe of drizzly grey.
It’s not been bad, in fact it’s been
Productive, but efficiency
Has never inspired great poetry.

It’s been another day of ploughing through the tasks (although there have been some meaningful human encounters on the way).
(13.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash

Poem 698 – Stop Thief!

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Last week I lost three hours.
This was careless I know,
But at some point along
The way, they were stolen,
Snatched from under my nose.

Whoever took them must
Have had a fit of remorse,
For yesterday, they sneaked
Them back, leaving my body
Confused and out of sorts…

My body’s more than a little discombobulated today (what a great word that is!)
(12.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Caleb Toranzo on Unsplash

Poem 697 – Marmaris Blue

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Back home the water’s never blue but here,
here it shines with an elusive tone that conjures
up memories of childhood colouring in.
Its iridescent casual lapping stands
in stark relief to the hillside that tears upwards,
ripping apart the sky with bauxite rust.
The sea’s alive, its gentle breathing teaming
with interweaving shoals of rolling fish
that dance in perfectly synchronized waves of life.
We sit absorbed by what we see, reluctant
to say farewell, but knowing that we must,
our mood tinged with farewell blue.

Inevitably the holiday has to end. I’m sad to say goodbye to its beautiful backdrop and hope to return another day.
(11.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 696 – The Little Things

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A look of recognition,
A smile across the room,
A name remembered, used
In conversation’s flow.

An asking after mamma,
A joke about the wine,
Then checking in to see
That everybody’s fine.

The little things add up
To greater than their parts,
A trick for all to learn,
This is the waiter’s art.

We’ve been treated by Serkan and his colleagues at the restaurant here in Marmaris. They have given a real masterclass in how much difference small touches make. Thanks gents!
(10.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 695 – Necropolis

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Behind stone doors the dead sleep on,
two thousand years and more of slumber.
They’re waiting for the trumpet call,
but what’s another year to them?

Their clothes now hang long out of fashion,
the colours faded out of sight,
their tongue has fallen still, their names
forgotten to the mists of time.

Imagine if they woke today to
this world they wouldn’t recognise,
where billionaires fly out to space
and knowledge lives in webs online.

Where hearts aren’t weighed at judgement time
but swapped if ailing to save the living,
and gold’s exchanged for virtual digits
that dwell in plastic cards of credit.

But then they’d take another look
and smile that boney smile again,
as those that have still rule the roost,
humanity has barely changed.

On our Dalyan boat trip on the 7th, we passed the Necropolis. The ‘residents’ were buried some two and a half millennia ago. Life now is surely very different and yet, somehow the same…
(09.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 694 – Parallel Lives

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Finally the sun pokes past the pines.
Rising above green branches it smiles,
gracing white English limbs with warmth
as they seek refuge from winter’s reach.

Meanwhile the nuthatch nimbly flits,
descending boughs in search of food,
and hooded crows call out in squabbling
song, oblivious to our play.

Distant peaks abruptly rise, their
sharpness standing in stark relief
to the serene and tender blue that idles,
gently washing their stoney feet.

A lazy morning today sat by the pool after yesterday’s enjoyable exertions.
(08.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025