Better late than never,
My daily attempt at rhyme,
This stab at wordsmith rhythm only
Squeezes in on time.
A jazzy slate of syllables,
Alliteration rock,
It finally makes its debut on
The last seconds of the clock.
The metronome helps meter
Iambic beats combine
And with a crash of consonants
We make the end bar line.
Home alone, I got distracted playing my guitar, and almost forgot my daily poem…
(24.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kobby Mendez on Unsplash
Thrashing its shiny tail from side to side
in raging rancour the rising dragon roared;
a cry that caused the cavern walls’ collapse
and, harrowed, our heroes’ hearts to pause.
With a weighty stamp the beast made wave
the floor most furiously, causing them to fall,
but rallying they raised their righteous spirits;
emboldened by belief in their beautiful call.
The pious paladin picked his spot with prayer,
and grasping his glaive he struck a grevious blow;
but such its size, the serpent barely felt,
the piercéd pupil pricked from down below.
With furious vapours it fought to seize control,
enfolding its foe in flames from gaping doors
formed by its mighty jaws made red and wide,
that reached from rising roof to hardened floor.
Aiming at the arrogance he’d heard
may leave a learing lizard lying prone,
a doughty sea-dog sought to deal him doubt
and at his hardened heart his words did home.
And did the dreadful dragon hesitate,
distracted or entranced by tricky terms?
It must be so because, somehow,
the flame-licked fighter fought despite the burns.
These alliterative verses emerged from the tremendous evening’s party that formed the first half of the finale to a highly enjoyable role-playing game campaign. More may follow…
(23.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by raquel raclette on Unsplash
Winding in the lead on a Henry vacuum cleaner;
its silky movement reminiscent of
a whipping snake or spiralling whirlpool.
The satisfying pleasure of plunging the plunger
on a cafetiere, believing that this triggers
a dramatic chimney stack collapse.
The mutual suspense and thrill when casting a handful
of dice upon the table with a group
of friends and waiting for the outcome.
Cooking porridge in the microwave
and, like the bear in the fairy story, getting
the delicious texture ‘just right’.
A line of verse falling on the page
and landing poised and perfectly rhymed from birth.
It rarely happens but when it does…
So often childlike eyes, like Narnia’s wardrobe,
can unlock the doors to a world that otherwise hides
hidden behind our hanging coats.
Vacuuming after foodbank today, we discovered the shared joy of winding in the vacuum cleaner lead. I was challenged to write a poem about it… This one’s for you Jasmine!
(22.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Pete from Liverpool, UK – Project 365 #170: 190613 A New Arrival, Public Domain, Link
In my attempt to
Write a poem everyday
I will not write haikus
When writing a poem a day, it is tempting to turn to the haiku with its short format. It’s a great chat for a busy day. I will try and resist.
(21.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
The changing of the guard
From old to over-ripe,
From male to male again,
From white to sort of white.
The pointing of the finger
At all ‘wrongs’ but your own.
The boasting in the playground,
The constant need to moan
A snatching of desires,
A bedeviling of the other,
A building up of walls,
An acceptance of the liar
It makes you wonder when
A proper change may come,
With hope for all the people,
To let us dream as one.
Today is Trump’s inauguration. Like many I am uneasy about the political implications. I can’t help but feel that rather than become great again, American has got stuck in some nightmare rut of alpha testosterone. (Today is also Main Luther King Day in America.)
(20.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash
Mud in my eyes
Mud in my fingernails
Mud in the tongue
Mud in the insoles
Mud in the eyelets
Mud in the treads
Mud in the laces
Mud in the stitching
Mud in the cracks
Mud in the crevices
Mud in the cloth
Mud in the plughole
I wonder how
There’s any left lingering
In yesterday’s
Most muddy fields
Today’s task? Cleaning the muddy boots from yesterday’s mucky walk (see Poem 408).
(19.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Martin Martz on Unsplash
The opaque skies we walk beneath are white.
Today the Sun is banished, time obscured.
It’s hard to know what era we stand in,
let alone the time of day or year.
Made boggy under horses’ hooves, the clay
is claggy and grows like tumours on our boots.
With every squelching step we feel it’s suction
and fear we might be stranded in its mouth.
Woodpecker heavy metal is joined by sparrow
chatter and the squawk of startled pheasants.
A robin burbles from within the wood,
and Great Tits tweet their welcome as we pass.
Occasionally another world butts in:
manicured golf club lawns, expensive carparks;
the droning rumble of distant motorway traffic;
and show-off houses striving to be on top.
Finally the circle’s closed as we reach the start.
The happy feeling of release as boots are peeled
from tired feet and exchanged for comfortable cousins.
We take our seats both satisfied and weary.
We decided this year we’d set ourselves the target of doing the Hertfordshire Chain Walk; a series of circular walks that turn a chain from south to North Hertfordshire. Today was the first, an 8 mile loop around Whitewebs Park, Crews Hill, and the surrounding countryside. A good if mucky and chilly start.
(18.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Your call is important to us
So we’re placing you in a queue
And playing some lovely music
For you to listen to
Your call is important to us
So we’re recording every word
We’ll listen back to it often
To learn from what we’ve heard
Your call is important to us
Along with the other ninety-nine
We’re looking forward to speaking to you
When we finally have the time
Your call is important to us
We’ll hang onto every jot
We’re sorry to leave you waiting
But abruptly this call must
I’ve had the joy of feeling with a few call centres recently. Occasionally one comes along that is great (thank you Indra), but often it’s a nightmare.
(17.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by LumenSoft Technologies on Unsplash
Leon, like, I literally love,
But loopy Linda what a laugh!
Lisa left her liturgy, whilst
Shameful Charlotte shifts her tongue.
Manipulating Minah makes her move
But fearful Freddie finds the answer.
Francesca chooses to chew things over
But artfully, Alex avoids attention.
As Alexander articulates
Leanne angrily argues back.
Jubilantly Jake announces, ‘I knew it!’
but Anna never knows it’s coming…
Will feuding faithfuls find the faithless
or treacherous traitors survive in triumph?
The opening admiration of Leon was uttered by one of the contestants on The Traitors last night (15.01.25). It’s alliteration immediately caught my attention, I knew it had to become a poem…
(16.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo David Kratz, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
To speak of peace seems premature.
Don’t get me wrong, let’s celebrate
that shots might cease in Palestine
and missiles end and aid come in.
Let’s leap for joy at hostages’
release. However, that’s not new.
This land has known such ‘peace’ before.
True peace, shalom, salam is not
a lack of war, but no suspicion;
it isn’t tribulation’s end
instead its resolution.
News has been growing today of the long longed for ceasefire between Israel and Hamas.
(15.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Dylan Shaw on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
