Poem 494 – Fifty Two Years

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On April the twenty third I feel I ought,
To write a sonnet honouring the Bard.
In Fifteen Sixty Four our Will was born,
Living ’til Sixteen Sixteen when he died.
Between these only fifty two short years,
In which to write his dazzling magnus opus,
His folio of world renowned great verse,
Still uttered by the Thames in his wooden O.
Creator of so many memorable lines,
And author of now oft used turns of phrase,
The master of the magical use of rhyme,
With which he artfully captured our human ways.
So why’s today named after some brave knight
And not this bright composer of such delight!

A sonnet on St. George’s Day.
(23.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 492 – Munchausen’s Chimney

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A maze of scattered debris
lies around the base of
our unused fireplace.

Did a bird, nesting
upon its stack, dislodge
dry branches from last year?

Or Father Christmas have
an Easter practice run
to keep his ancient hands in?

Or did a howling ghost
whirl down the stack
to find the room was bare?

Or did some passing giant
chuck it down the chute
when on an early stroll?

Or is the flue a portal
down which this ash could tumble
from a parallel dimension?

Or maybe Krakatoa
blew its top once more
and scored this hole in one!

We found a load of wreckage around our fireplace this morning. How it got there I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions…
(21.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Image of Baron Munchausen by August von Wille, Public Domain

Poem 490 – A Royal Welcome

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Today we walk as royalty on our way,
Illuminated by the chestnuts’ light.
Above, a buzzard monitors the crowd
Of rapeseed, waving yellow flags in joy.
A chiffchaff serenades us with a song and
Summer’s first swift performs its daring flypast.

Our daughter’s home for the weekend, so we thought we’d repeat the first leg of the Hertfordshire Chain Walk with her.
(19.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 489 – The End?

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Time’s up
Run out
Lost cause
No doubt
Bitter end
No hope
Flat battery
End of the rope
Last orders
A closing chapter
Dying words
Killed in anger
The final nail
Struck in the rod
It is finished
The Son of God
The curtain ripped
The sky turned black
But have no fear
He will be back

A poem for Good Friday. John 19:30 meets Arnie Schwarzenegger…
(18.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Poem 488 – Missing Mary

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When I arrived you’d shout my name, ‘Ben’,
and beckon me over with an insistent wave.
A kiss on the cheek, and an enquiry as to where
I live. ‘Near to your daughter’ I’d reply.

You gave everybody your attention,
knew all your neighbours names and how they were,
although you’d talk about them too loudly, and asked after us and our families, one after the other.

At some point in the service you’d break
into a rendition of, ‘Oh When the Saints!’ –
it didn’t seem to matter when or why.
Eventually, I’d find the key and play along.

We’d swap stories of Scotland, holidays,
and churches we’d attended in our times.
Marching above with your beloved saints
Are you still heckling beyond the pearly gates?

I learnt today that a friend at the local nursing home where I take services died recently. Goodbye Mary, and thank you.
(17.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Duc Van on Unsplash

Poem 487 – Old Eyes

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A thousand faces stacked upon the desk.
Rewinding back in time, their faces flux,
the layers peel, year after year, devolving
to disclose the child back at the start.

Upon the floor I see myself, only,
at first I do not recognize this stranger.
The face looking up at me there is not
the face I wear today, its features shod.

But it’s always the eyes that give the game away
as eye to eye we size each other up,
mirrors of the soul reflecting upon
each other in perpetual recognition.

Whilst I’ve been working, my wife has been sorting through old photos next to me. Quite a trip down memory lane.
(16.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 485 – First Up

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A book, a cup of tea,
Bird song for company,
And the breathing silence
Of a sleeping house.
The silence is alive.

Listening, I take stock,
Take note of vital signs:
The rhythm of its clock,
The creaking of its ribs,
Airflow through passages.

Slowly she starts to stir;
Occasional murmurs grow
In frequency and strength
Until a final stretch
And up, at last, it gets.

I was up first today, and had my breakfast on my own. This poem started then, both as a reflection on the quietness, but also a chance to play around a little with rhyme.
(14.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Liana S on Unsplash