Distracted today
Out of imagination
Maybe tomorrow
(03.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Annie Spratton Unsplash
Poem 749 – Under January Skies
The winter’s sky, the bitter pale,
Bites our faces and bleaches soil,
Its cutting sun burns scars in our sight,
With crispness of air and blinding light.
The iron ground and crinkling step,
That crunches under frozen foot,
Is joined above by a piercing breeze,
Whipping shivering birds and naked trees.
And we, caressed by dying sun,
In melancholy are undone,
And looking forward count the cost,
Mourning the things that aren’t yet lost.
Inspired by a chilly walk and a line I read today.
(02.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Polina Kuzovkova on Unsplash
Poem 748 – Canvas
There’s something in those eyes,
a passing thought or feeling
that briefly wakes and flickers.
It’s hard to read its meaning,
though, and I’m left uncertain
of what transpires within.
Just as with a painting on
display, I’m forced to make
my own interpretation,
and in an act of violence,
superimpose my own
emotion on your frame.
This leaves me feeling anxious,
have I not understood
your silent art at all?
(01.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Olivia Anne Snyderon Unsplash
Poem 747 – A Year In Verse
A year ago I set myself a challenge:
a poem a day across the coming year.
Today I write the last, the deed is done:
a daily haiku, sonnet or sestina,
three hundred and sixty five of them, each down
before the final chime of midnight’s rung.
Except for Christmas Eve, cause then I tarried
until the Holy Day had peeked above
the dawn’s divide, the final candle lit,
and Merry Christmas bid to one and all.
And now I sign off twenty twenty-five
with this my final rhyme ’til twenty-six!
I did it! Some serious, some fun, some hasty, some long, but regardless of that 365 complete (if numbered wrong…)
(31.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Elisha Terada on Unsplash
Poem 746 – The Three Sisters
Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks.
The youngest pouts, disgusted by her lot,
her hair a spiky scrunch, too short for bunches.
The jersey thrust on her causes her to hunch.
Is it a disguise for a mess that lies beneath?
Inside an anger brews, beware of its release…
The middle stands with shoulders back, chest out,
a face that boasts I’m beautiful and proud.
You can tell she’s used to getting her own way,
there’s a quizzical look in her eyes as if to say,
I wonder what it’s like to live like you,
a life where others tell you what to do…
The last child bends, she knows the weight that comes
from the expectation laid on the oldest one.
To rub it in the middle is the belle –
she wouldn’t say it but the oldest knows it well –
instead, with pencil clenched she etches out
her sister’s eyes when no-one else is about.
Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks,
this sepia picture puts them in the dock,
and there we’ve stared at them and weighed their deeds,
a judgement forged from imaginary feats.
Extrapolating from this snapshot caught in time,
where would you stand within this awkward line?
This photo was unearthed as part of my wife’s family tree research. What a wonderfully expressive trio of faces demanding to be interpreted. I didn’t mean for this one to rhyme, but it just came out that way – does it work or just make it twee? I’m not sure, perhaps reading it again in the morning will answer that one!
(30.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 745 – Interrupted
Escape room antics
Stopped me writing mid-poem.
Escaped. Tomorrow?
Working on a photo inspired poem today, but a family escape room game to me away from it for now…
(29.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 744 – December Walk
The Lee is grey, reflecting the winter sky.
The piercing wind penetrates my coat,
and sharply flutters around my ears and collar.
The heat drains from my fingers. I start to shiver.
Along the bank the swans stick out no more;
today their feathers blend with the monochrome. We stop to feed them. Guzzling eagerly,
they have their fill, stretching their necks for more.
We walk on by the boats, bouyed on by hope,
as Christmas lights break through the gathered gloom.
A winter walk along the River Lee with the family.
(28.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 743 – Text Them to Say We’ll Be Late
Seasonal traffic
A family Christmas visit
Six hours on the road
Off to see the other half of the family today. Not as straightforward a journey as predicted.
(27.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Rūdolfs Paipa on Unsplash
Poem 742 – Boxing Day
Boxes, a family joke at Christmas:
an unwrapped box may not contain
the items on the cover, so don’t
be fooled or disappointed by them.
A WiFi router may in fact be
a cafetiere, a bulb some undies,
a clock a disguised set of tools.
So set your face against surprise
and open cautiously with imagination!
Boxing day and we’re surrounded by the wreckage of unwrapping from the day before…
(26.12.25)
Poem 741 – Christmas ’25
The dying chords of our final carol ring,
A pilgrimage around the busy motorway,
Percussive rattle of the brown concrete surface,
No star to follow for us this Christmas Day.
The King speaks on journeys as a nation eats,
The rustle of our golden paper crowns,
Alcohol doused, to cheers the pudding burns,
Now Santa Claus has finally come to town.
Shirt sleeves rolled up and dirty dishes stacked,
Hot water bubbles as cooking pans are scoured,
Cautiously, old vegetable water is drained away,
No doubt the brussel sprouts will linger for hours.
With belts let out we sit, the mood relaxes,
Our daily lives for now are put aside,
And as our sleepy senses fade we hear,
The ancient echoes of Mary’s baby cry.
It’s been a lovely Christmas Day, full of sights, sounds and senses. Merry Christmas all!
(25.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 