Spirituality

Poem 475 – Friday

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At the end of the walk
look back at the route,
Retrace your paths
and steps, recall
the twists and turns,
the detours taken.
Remember the views,
and picture the scenes
that stopped your breath
and brought you life.
Recount steep paths,
successfully navigated;
gain strength for those
ongoing climbs.
Rest tired limbs;
the satisfying ache
of journey’s end –
at least for now.
Give thanks for those
who’ve walked with you,
and those you have
accompanied.

Tomorrow will bring more hours and challenges, but for now it’s Friday evening, and time to stop, take stop, and give thanks.
(04.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 467 – Enforced Intermission

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For one afternoon
we had no internet.
The world didn’t end,
at least, not in real life.

No doubt the fires raged
on social media as
celebrities were cancelled,
politicians vilified,
and wild views justified.

Football pundits were stilled,
pop-up adverts burst,
and the only cookies crunched
had chocolate chips – no trolls
were fed today, just me.

Maybe Artificial
Intelligence took my place,
an algorithm wore
my face. I’d like to think
you’d spot the difference.

Our telephone
is still not working.
The silence lingers.
Oh what bliss…

Today we swapped broadband providers, and for one wonderful afternoon we were cut off.
(27.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

Hear me read today’s poem

Poem 457 – Armed with Art

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My weapon is a melody,
My sharp sword is a verse,
My prayer a faithful missile fired
Across the universe.
Imagination changes lives,
And poems are armed with dreams,
Guthrie’s guitar killed fascists, yes
The truth will set us free.

The opening line came from today’s prayer meeting, which sparked off thoughts of Guthrie and The Notting Hillbillies version of The Weapon of Prayer.
(17.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Image: Al Aumuller/New York World-Telegram and the Sun (uploaded by User:Urban), Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Woody_Guthrie_2.jpg

Poem 452 – Man vs. Garden

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Today I’ve been pruning a bush.
That is an understatement.

I’ve been chopping up remains
of vast swathes of branches culled
from overgrown hedges and bushes
and dumping them in our bin.

It’s been a battle, one man
with secateurs versus
Mother Nature gone wild.
Mother Nature is winning.

Eventually, Mother Nature
always finds a way,
but meanwhile, here I am,
trying to tame her excess.

Each piece recalls the past,
each snip a season gone,
and as the wheelie bin is
filled with trimmings, time flies.

Today I’ve been being pruned,
my sense of self stripped back,
perspective re-established,
the brambles will be back.

With winter gradually receding, I’ve been trying in vain to maintain garden order…
(12.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 442 – Life Cycles

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Past.
The tree drank deeply of the earth’s dark soil,
its roots absorbing water from secret distant pools.
Stretching its wooden limbs it reached out branches,
all striving for the shining sun’s bright rays.
From sapling to its full grown majesty
it slowly grew, unfurling limbs then leaves.

Present.
This table’s dead; no sap or life flow here.
Its extendable leaves now lie in twisted pieces;
they’re warped by age and wear and wrenched by boots.
Redundant, I throw the separated branches
into the boot to drive it to the dump,
hurling them into the designated coffin.

Future.
The future is as yet uncarved, unknown.
Will it be pulped, transformed to card or paper?
Or maybe mulched, returning nutrients
back to the earth to nourish future roots?
Out of its greatness, greatness may return;
as earth to earth, from death comes life again.

From and afternoon spent taking old and broken furniture to the local ‘dump’ (recycling centre), sprang thoughts about the cycle of life.
(02.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

Poem 439 – A Poet’s Self Portrait

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The poet lifts his brush and, looking in
the mirror, examines himself with detailed care.

First stroke, a daub of colour describing appearance.
A skinny build, slim jeans, a preference for green.
Once full and dark, the hairline’s now receding
as eyebrows morph, becoming peppered white.
A patch of red upon the cheek that flares
and hazel eyes, that yellow when run-down.

The second stroke, lays down habitual hints.
Five calloused fingers from running down six strings.
Rubbing his back reveals the daily lifting,
or Sunday morning kit lugged from the car.
A tendency to slouch, a life of study.
Perhaps the knees should be more worn than this.

The third and final stroke stares deep within,
tracing beyond his stoic exterior.
A war of looming textures and clashing colours
explores the shades of grey, the constant tension
between the love of self and love of other,
that errs towards the one he knows it shouldn’t.

Laying down his brush, the poet ponders
just why it is we’re quick to catch the blemishes.

On a walk today I found myself wondering what a poetic self-portrait would look like. I suspect it would be more revealing than this, but I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet!
(27.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ahmed Raza Kz on Unsplash

Poem 418 – A Smile

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I’m not so sure she actually knew
Just why she smiled, but it didn’t matter.
Her smile said it was okay to continue,
Her smile revealed a connection,
Her smile said she was on my side.
I smiled back and carried on.

Afterwards we sat together over
A cup of tea and cake and talked
About large families and names.
She said she’s good with them, ‘I’m not’
I replied, ‘so tell me yours again.’
She laughed and smiled that smile once more.

Cups drained, ‘It’s time to go’, I said
She waved as she was wheeled away,
Smiling a farewell smile, ‘I’ve got
A large family you know’, she revealed.
It didn’t matter. The smile had told
Me all that I had needed to know.

I met K**** today at a service at our local nursing home. It was a chaotic affair as usual, with folk coming and going, and heckling or simply crying out. I don’t mind that too much, I’ve learnt to look for other clues that tell me that it’s worthwhile.
(06.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Lesly Juarez on Unsplash