Increasing tension,
As the deadline approaches,
Demands attention.
Talks and events are coming thick and fast!
(15.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash
Spirituality
Poem 484 – But On A Donkey?
A rolling writhing
Sea of sound
Hope and hands rising
The roar of the crowd
A swelling number
Rebellious mood
Their chanting thunders
Their branches strewed
Crying hosanna
A country wronged
Occupied land whose
People long
Testimonies weighed
And signs observed
Their verdict made
Announcing him lord
A quick poem at the end of an enjoyable Palm Sunday.
(13.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash
Poem 479 – Home to Roost
Each dusk they fly in flocks
Across the inky sky
A gathering murmuration
And as the starlings gather
Bats begin to flit
And weave their frantic patterns
This transit brings to mind
Another distant view
The passing of the sun
We gathered in your garden
Equipped with tinted glasses
To watch the solar eclipse
Back then, as now, the birds
Flew across the horizon
Going home to roost
But soon it’s time for you
To take to wing and pass
Go heading home to roost
Fly safely, my old friend,
Through this liminal place
And soon the sun will shine
The starlings are massing as night falls.
(08.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jan Haerer on Unsplash
Poem 475 – Friday
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
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
Poem 457 – Armed with Art
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 456 – Last Post
Outside the light began to fade,
as inside I was making tea.
Filling the kettle, I was arrested,
by the melodious sound of a lone
blackbird saying its prayers before
its bed. I stood in awe, enraptured,
moved to add my own amen.
A beautiful moment at dusk tonight.
(16.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Benjamin Balázs on Unsplash
Poem 452 – Man vs. Garden
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 443 – Spiritual Explorers
Setting out,
with trusted friends,
for mutual support.
Delving into,
the hidden motives,
for our deeds.
Taking risks,
with honesty,
a worthwhile cost
Travelling inwards,
our adventure,
of the day.
Today I met with colleagues to discuss our practice of ministry to learn and support each other. A stimulating and helpful exploration.
(03.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nina Luong on Unsplash
Poem 442 – Life Cycles
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)
