Taunted by a cold
I am playing hide and seek
Trying to escape
Taking it easy tonight ahead on a rare evening off right now.
(03.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash
Journey’s End
They say that life’s a journey, a pilgrimage
traversing the twists and turns fate throws at us.
Along the way our paths cross those of others,
and for a while we stroll in company.
These correspondences may be a time
of idle pleasure beneath the sun, strolling
along green ways and happy days of laughter,
with packs that are light and limbs both free and easy.
But other times the road inclines and rocks
and scree make traveling hard and insecure.
These days perhaps the laughter stops and talk
dies down, but still you stumble on together.
But when at last you find the chance to pause
and look back down the way you walked, maybe
you’ll realise the stories made, not told
(like Chaucer), are the journey’s point and treasure.
I spent tonight with friends who worked on the Winter Night Shelter project here, and it’s evolved continued support for homeless folk. An enjoyable evening reminiscing and remembering what we achieved together.
(02.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Toomas Tartes on Unsplash
Wipers Required
Today I shared a miserable, cold, grey day
with a family that I’d not met before.
I drove, to see them, heavy teardrops descending
across the screen, obscuring my field of view.
No doubt there had been other rivulettes
running across their faces, but as we talked
forgotten memories were dusted down
and family jokes revived from photographs.
These led us to a place of hopeful joy
where streams were stilled and hopes restored, and as
the Sun began to rise, I said farewell,
leaving hopeful that they were lightened too.
Today two worlds I occupy collided as I visited a friend from my gaming circles who’d asked if I could take the funeral for his dad.
(01.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Clay LeConey on Unsplash
The Heavenly Flock
First Sunday of Advent, a late afternoon walk.
After a month of stillness, the air is thick,
filled with the raucous call of avian chatter.
The reason for their talk, the cause of all this conversation? Could it be that the birds
also anticipate the birth of Christ, God’s Son?
We walk on by, hearts lifted by their song.
The bird song this evening was noticeably louder.
(29.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash
Lost and Found
Three biros, two with lids,
A tarnished 50 pence
Two 2ps and a 1 gone dull,
A plastic gun now bent.
An sticky old sweet wrapper,
A broken lolly stick,
Token from a forgotten game,
A dusty paperclip.
A tired toothless comb,
Illegible receipt,
A Panini football sticker,
Now ripped without its feet.
A family history and
Memories of the past,
A record of their years,
Found down old sofa arms.
I spent the morning dismantling our old sofas too take them to the ‘dump’. The amount that came out from inside them was astonishing!
(29.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Naomi Hébert on Unsplash
Stumpf Fiddles & 78’s
The Duke takes to the stage,
Two suits and greying dreadlocks,
In hobo-chic and whimsy.
He owns it, we are his.
Beside him Chip, sidekick
In gramophone adventures,
An ever growing assembly
Of percussive curios.
Stumpf fiddles & 78’s,
Together weaving dreams,
They lead us through forgotten
And delicate shades of rhythm.
And as the applause begins
To fade, we find ourselves
Returned enriched, released,
We find, by a poet’s vision.
Thursday night we spent the evening in the company of the wonderful Duke Special and ‘Temperance Society’ Chip Bailey in an intimate gig in Colours, Hoxton. What a night.
(28.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Thursday Morning, Late November
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)
Grant Writing
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
One Month to Go (A Minister’s Predicament)
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
Making Sense of Lfe
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
Ode for the Day 