Poem 296 – Conflicted Speech

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Conflicted.
A time to speak and a time to be silent,
a saying that says two ears, one mouth
demands twice as much listening as talk.

My grandad joked the secret of
a happy marriage lay in two words
not three. They were ‘yes, dear’. We laughed.

This compliant child tends to silence.
Perhaps a cuckoo supplanted virtue
with the instinctive desire for an easy life.

To speak too fast can barricade,
prevent the chance of conversation,
asserting mine is the only view.

But staying silent’s a game of hide
and seek, denying the other from seeing
within and closing the door on their face.

More seriously some words are weapons
a battering ram to be raised in protest
against words designed to divide us.

So how can I tell when is it best to take
my stand or hold my hand across
my mouth to keep these thoughts within?
Conflicted.

Someone asked me today if I found it hard to share my opinions because of my job. Perhaps, but there’s also a dash of simply being quiet with an aversion for conflict.
(18.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Abhinav Anand on Unsplash

Poem 294 – I’ve Never Known Your Voice

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The view across the lake,
from the crest of Cader Idris.
The eyes of my life’s love as
she glances in my direction.

Feeling B.B. King’s vibrato
and Gary Moore’s sustain.
The emotional release of
an encore’s delighted applause.

The rich aroma released
from freshly ground coffee beans.
The taste of blue cheese. It shouldn’t
work but somehow it does.

Snuggling up on the sofa
and finding another’s world.
Talking to a gathered crowd
and holding them in your hands.

Discovering flamingo
mouths are upside down
so they can eat with their heads
between their distant feet.

Black and white images
formed within the womb.
The sight of freshborn signets
their feathers still damp with shell.

I’ve never known your voice,
not heard you talk out loud,
and yet, it strikes me that,
you’ve never really stopped.

Someone mentioned to me the other day that they’d heard God speak, and this got me thinking. I’ve never had that privilege, and yet…
(16.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo NotFromUtrecht, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 293 – Bigger on the Inside

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A wall of circles trace eternity.
In contrast, a wooden hat-stand speaks of home.
This is a strange yet familiar place whose walls
encompass everyone who dares to enter.
Somehow, in here, there’s room for all regardless
of where or when they come from, what their tribe –
it’s bigger on the inside than the out.
Nearby, a central pillar oscillates
in hopeful motion, gently rising and sinking.
We wait, prepared for imminent transportation.
At last lights dim, our childhood theme begins,
and years begin to peel… dee dum de dum,
dee dum de dum, dee dum de dum, ooh wee ooh….

Tonight I experienced the delight of attending the live reading/recording of Big Finish’s ‘The Stuff of Legend’ in celebration of their 25th anniversary. What a treat it was! If you’ve not heard a dalek doing a sound-check, you haven’t lived!

(15.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 292 – The Weekend

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There’s nothing so sweet
As the Saturday treat
Of lying in bed
Such a lazy head!

Off to church Sunday morning
No doubt I’m still yawning
Singing songs to our maker
There’s nothing much greater

But when Monday comes
And the alarm starts to drum
And pounds in my head
Oh how I long for my bed!

A rare treat of a lie-in this morning. Much appreciated.
(14.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash

Poem 291 – Transfigured

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The early morning sun rises at we do,
shivers then casts its rays upon our windows,
revealing in their panes the evidence
of life that has pressed itself against their glass.
These traces sparkle under its caress,
lit up in brilliant white to make us blush.
A delicate weave with downward threads outlined
like the curving paths of stars in timelapse captured.
A smear from Reynard’s tail when jumping the fence.
Paw marks made by a mad squirrel seeing
a rival in his face reflected there.
The outline of a feathered angel captured
transfigured in a momentary pose.
These illuminated memories shine
but briefly; all too soon the spell has passed.

I should be embarrassed by state of our windows, but when the autumn sun shines on them, something beautiful is revealed. (UPDATE: A few have asked me who the Reynard is that appears in a few of my poems. He’s a trickster fox from stories starting in mediaeval times. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reynard_the_Fox)
(13.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Richie Bettencourt on Unsplash

Poem 290 – First Bite

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Freshly plucked, I wipe the apple
upon my jumper (it’s first outing
this year). It’s sharpness suits the air.

Chomping upon its core (I always
eat apples whole), I find myself
wondering about Snow White and witches.

A single bite is all it took
to curse our heroine with death-
like sleep that lasts ’til Charming comes.

Should I worry that like Adam
I’ve brought upon us Autumn’s sleep,
a sleep that lasts ’til Spring’s first kiss?

After taking assembly today, a local head offered me an apple from a tree growing on their grounds. It was green and tart but lovely!
(12.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Poem 289 – Cats

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It’s not enough to take our jobs,
And skulk upon our streets in mobs
Be housed in what were once our flats,
Apparently they’re eating cats

They come here for an easy ride
An onslaught that’s a rising tide
And swarming like a cloud of gnats
Apparently they’re eating cats

Their aim is to corrupt our children
Destroy all our fathers built us
And now we find on top of that
Apparently they’re eating cats

This is the heart of Donald’s moaning
To tell the truth it’s all baloney
Like much he says it’s made up, phoney,
So laugh with Kamala when Trump claims that
The immigrants are all eating cats

Trump’s absurd one-liner in last night’s presidential debate just had to be turned into rhyme…
(11.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Lloyd Henneman on Unsplash

Poem 288 – Colour Coded

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Do you remember the days when cowboys
wore colour coded hats?
It made life simple when the good guys wore white and the bad guys all wore black.

Back then you knew who to cheer for and
just who you were supposed to boo at,
so when Star Wars came out it messed with our heads,
despite dressing Darth Vader in black.

He was the baddie, so this made sense,
but what about his sidekicks,
All dressed in white from head to toe –
just what were we supposed to think?

And now there is Batman, a hero in black,
haunted by demons and grim,
and what about the Hulk, who’s green and fueled
by a rage that lies deep within.

The binary was burst, the black and white blended,
our heroes, their creators, reflect,
’cause inside we’re the same, you and I, and the rest,
a colourful, motive-mixed, mess.

At our weekly drop-in lunch at church today, I found myself reflecting on the dress code in old black and white westerns. This poem followed.
(10.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Bailey Alexander on Unsplash