At security
Bring patted down, of course
Clearly suspicious
It’s always me…
(04.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 689 – Dead on Time
Deadlines demand
A dedicated drive
A do or die
To get them done
Today I’ve driven
My head ducked down
And I’ve not died
I think they’re done
Lots to get done today before the day was out.
(03.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
Poem 688 – The River
Breathing slowly,
A flowing glass,
This deep dark tide,
A pulsing vein,
Captivates us
With its presence,
Hypnotizes
With its weight,
Its gravity,
Dense dignity,
That dwells within
These river banks.
The River Lee has an amazing heavy glassy quality right now that feels alive.
(02.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 687 – Summer’s Passing
The river mourns, bedraggled willows weep,
their tousled hair drenched in its silent tears.
Its darkened waters meet the dreary mood,
the sun withholds its glow in sympathy.
Otters frolic no more and stay indoors,
above autumnal leaves begin to fall.
The rushes twitch, and coots peer out, as below
their doors the heavy cortege wearily flows.
Perched on his lonely post, dressed in funereal
black, the cormorant bows, pays his respects.
A lowly swan takes flight and passing honks,
‘Alas our green and pleasant land is dead!’
By the end of our walk the sun had come out, but much of our morning stroll had a very different character.
(01.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 686 – The Vigil
Suspended, still and silent,
the spider hung all evening,
a single silken thread
secured him to the spot.
Patiently he waited, watching
with alien eyes, all eight,
hopefully focused upon us,
wondering when to leap.
But as the evening ended
the arachnid remained alert,
where, we retired praying,
he would remain all night.
I’ve spent the second night ironing, aware that all evening, someone hung behind me.
(31.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 685 – Ironing Shirts
The satisfaction
Of crisp creases,
Neat lines aligning
The sides of sleeves.
Gliding along
The front and back,
A perfect piece
Of art in action.
A pile of ironing awaits. I’m putting it off although I always find shirts perversely satisfying.
(30.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ryoji Hayasaka on Unsplash
Poem 684 – Unaware
Stepping out from safety’s bounds towards
The unfamiliar, outside the manicured lawns,
The Father carries the Son within his arms.
The stillness strange, all sounds ring out unreal,
An eerie feel pervades the morning air.
A squirrel seems surreal, a beast at large.
But from his seat he has no cares, the child
Has eyes only for his Father’s face, the two
Absorbed in conversation’s gleeful flow.
One points, the other laughs, they pass my bedroom
Window, both unaware that they have roused
My soul and stirred my weary heart with hope.
Walking in the last morning of Conference today I was more than weary; as always it has been demanding. The passing sight from my window picked me up, however, a glimpse of the love The Father has for all his children.
(29.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 683 – It Is Finished
The deed is done,
the audience won, I hope,
the words delivered
without a stumble,
(well just a little one
when I became distracted).
And now I’ll sleep with thoughts
of friends and family in Him.
It wasn’t good enough,
it never is, and nor am I,
but He is all we need.
For the second year running I ended up stepping into the gap when a speaker couldn’t make it to our annual Conference. A late night scrawling turned into a poetry gig with a message – a first public ‘reading’ of my poetry.
(28.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 682 – I’m a Poet
I’m a poet and I know it,
There’s 700 poems to show it,
And I’m not going to blow it
By missing out tonight.
But today I’ve given all.
And I’m running out of juice.
I’ve nothing left to offer
Only the stubborn wall
That I’ve run into,
That says I’m done,
It’s time for bed.
My head is blank
And yet there’s more to do.
I’m a poet and I know it,
And that will have to do.
I’m at our denomination’s annual conference which I help run. I love it and enjoy throwing myself into it, but there’s little capacity for anything else when I’m here… (If you’re wondering why I say 700 poems when this is number 416, that’s because of a numbering error that means I’ve gone back to full in a gap!)
(27.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Tim De Pauw on Unsplash
Poem 681 – Look At These Stones!
Look at these stones!
They stand so proud, so strong, so powerful.
How could they ever fall or fail, these stones?
These men of steel, they’re always men it seems,
with dreams of empire celebrated by
their self-erected statues to their honour.
Look at these stones!
These city walls that reach up to the heavens!
These tall towers built on stocks and shares
that tear the timid down to clamber high.
Exchanging life for digits gleaned, they rise
demanding that we bow before them.
Look at these stones!
These AI gods we’ve built in silicon,
their algorithms fashioned in our image,
our blindness coded deep within their souls,
lurking unseen, unknown, because
we do not even know it in ourselves.
Look at these stones!
But even stones don’t last forevermore,
these brittle bones that break will fall away.
One day the oblivious wind will blow them down,
their monuments will fade, decay to dust,
and as the sun descends they’ll dissipate.
Look at these stones!
They are but sand and every one will pass.
This morning we reflected on Mark 13 in our service, in which Jesus responds to the disciples awestruck comments on seeing the Temple, surprising them by predicting its fall. It made me wonder what our stones are today.
(26.10.25)
Ode for the Day 