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

Poem 286 – Last Night I Did Not Sleep

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Last night the skies were ripped to shreds,
Torn open again and again and again,
Revealing unveiled fires ablaze.

Last night the skies were violently battered,
As if they were doors in a surprise dawn raid,
Full of warning shouts that shocked and deafened.

Last night the skies were permeated,
Hydrated with a thousand tears.
Overcome, they let them go.

This morning?
All is still…

Last night we were treated to an elemental display of power.
(08.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 285 – Haunted London

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Squint and you’ll see them loiter.
Walk these streets and listen.
Stop. Do not rush on by.

Amongst the tower blocks
the shades of London past
live on. Their ghosts haunt us.

Observe attentively
As first a wall appears,
And then facades and plaques.

Street names, spectres, pointing
To past possession, occupations
And entertainment of old.

Hidden beneath the pavement
The ancient rivers meander,
Living memories.

They whisper stories, as
They wash on by, depositing
Time’s flotsam in their wake.

Scavenging mudlarks scour
The Thames, whilst Wren
Designs the city skyline.

Queen Liz sits on the throne,
As Dickens walks the slums,
And Shakespeare stalks the Globe.

Today these shade still walk
Amidst harried commuters
And trigger happy tourists.

Walking home from a show at The Globe today I was struck once more at the many layers of our capital.
(07.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 284 – Tied Up In Knots

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Today I’m trying to write a villanelle,
A poetic form with many tortured lines.
The truth of the matter? It’s not going well.

The rhyming pattern’s also one hard sell,
So don’t go picking words with limited rhymes.
Today I’m trying to write a villanelle.

There’s also certain lines you must retell,
A complicated web you must combine.
The truth of the matter? It’s not going well.

I suppose it’s a form of poets’ show and tell,
‘Look at me, my verse you’ll find’s sublime!’
Today I’m trying to write a villanelle.

The mental strain is making me unwell,
Such grappling with a devious design.
The truth of the matter? It’s not going well

So if you can these challenges dispel,
Perhaps for you it could be worth your time.
Today I’m trying to write a villanelle,
The truth of the matter? It’s not going well…

Watching TV this evening Dylan Thomas’ ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’. Remembering it is a villanelle, I had to have another go at writing one.
(06.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash

Poem 283 – Rituals

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Reaching for you first thing
and putting on the kettle second.
Wash, then brush my hair and teeth,
then choose my clothes for the day.
A prayerful pause, a stillness,
as I boot the computer.
Reverently playing my vinyl
when I’m home and working alone.
Grinding the evening’s coffee
and offering up its aroma.
A chapter in bed before sleep
then turning to find you again.
The day is full of rituals
and every one a prayer.

Turning an LP this afternoon whilst boiling the kettle got me thinking about my daily rituals.
(05.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Yohan Marion on Unsplash

Poem 282 – A Poem

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A metaphor,
a playing with words,
or perhaps a simile,
a play upon words.
An idea beyond
prose definition.
A reaching for
elusive description.
A window pane
or mirrored glass.
A way to express
that which is past.
A captured dream
or aspiration.
An act of resistance,
freedom exclamation.
The deepest pool
or giggling brook.
Sublime or silly,
an alternative look.
A joyful craft or
frustrating art.
Both easily learnt
and always hard.

Thinking about what to write, today I found myself pondering the nature of a poem and its craft.
(04.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 281 – Transition

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The heat naively tarries, believing it
can linger beyond its allotted time,
but despite its valiant efforts
the cold commences its creep.
Gradually sleeping longer, the light
withdraws into the welcoming darkness,
whilst up above the colours start
to drain, gently dribbling downwards.
And so we slide into summer’s slumber
as autumn awakes and starts to ascend.

Suddenly there’s a sense of transition in the air, even though I’m still in shorts. Autumns on its way.
(03.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Poem 280 – The Guvnor

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Out of the corner of my eye
I see him scurry across the fence;
a bully who has artfully eased
his predecessors off the patch.

His movement’s confident and cocky,
the urban swagger of one who knows
he’s reached the top of his ‘profession’.
He is the top cat, guvnor, kingpin.

Over his shoulder hangs no weapon
but a bushy tail, his bling,
or status symbol signifying
that he is not too be messed with.

One moment he’s there and then he’s not.
I turn to look but he has vanished,
disarmingly slipped out of my sight.
I scan my surroundings nervously.

It’s not just him that’s disappeared,
it is his stash, ill-gotten gains,
the product of extortion, never
to be seen again till next year.

Somewhere he’s counting out his nuts
stacking then in their ordered piles,
a display intended to underline
that he’s in charge and no one else.

I was sitting this evening wondering what to write about today when I spotted our neighborhood squirrel on the fence…
(02.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Lucia Sorrentino on Unsplash