Poems by Jay Rose Ana
I heard you and I wish I’d said ditto.So often, hopeless leaves fell from your tree.Your rustling heart paved Autumn, ditto.I held your outstretched branches far from me. To the night sky, to the starlight, ditto.And to the breeze, to the wind, and the rain.Whispers in silence cry loudest, ditto.Longing to hear your sweet voice…
Written for Worcester Refugee Week as the new Worcestershire Poet Laureate 2026-2027 Two Plastic Bagsby Jay Rose Ana I live in St Johns, in Worcester, not far from here,I have a neighbour from another land,escaped from one form of fear,whom I sometimes see, and greet, and hear. To hear and see, to know their courage…
Hands Held Through the Turning Year Let us lift our hearts where the frost has lain,And whisper to the hours that have passed,For even the lonely have a lantern flame,And even cold streets hold shadows cast. Let us bend toward the small and the dear,The cup of tea, the soft sound of rain,The hand that…
Mildred’s Window It is all softer now,down Mildred Carter’s lane.Not quiet, no, never quiet,just worn thin with endless rain.Her kettle ticks like an old dog’s heart,steady, stubborn, slow.And Mildred sits by the window ledgewatching a world she used to know. She’s lived here since girlhood,when the ginnels were full of shouts,and Mrs Finch from number…
I see it traced in garden beds—wilted stems and tender shoots,moss that settles over stone,soil remembering boots. Roses brown as petals fall,yet roots hold steady in rain;a hedge once clipped too eagerlynow grows more gentle in frame. Winds have carved their quiet linesthrough willow leaves and wooden gates,while slugs leave silver shining trails,small stories time…
I tried to sleep — I really did — I fluffed the quilt just so,Turned off the lamp, ignored the clock, and breathed in nice and slow.But somewhere in the garden hedge, a mouse began to squeak,And something rustled in the bin — it’s happened twice this week. The wind tapped gently at the pane,…
In gardens tucked beside wild winding village lanes,Kind hands have traded seeds with silent, steady grace.Our world, a quilt of cups and colanders and canes,Is stitched by those who smile, then give you back your place. Like foxgloves blooming where ground gravel meets brick wall,Each voice may seem quite small, but sings a needed part.We…
I took a stroll one breezy day,To see what blooms had come to play.The daisies danced in neatish rows—Respectable sorts, I do suppose. The poppies came all bold and red,Not one of them had brushed their head.Bluebells huddled, shy and small,Gossiping softly behind a wall. The foxglove stood a little too proud,Whispered her stories far…
Woke with a plan.Tea in the can.Wrote my to-do list while solving a case.Hat on the stand.Shoes close at hand.Paused at the door in a dressing-gown chase. One robin stared.Nothing was aired.Paused part three again — it’s always the face.Clouds formed a queue.Biscuits were few.The day slipped past with impeccable grace.
I used to rush and never sit,Now I pause — and knit a bit.Heels were worn for nights out then,These days I like a shoe with bend. My hair’s gone soft with streaks of frost,(They say “distinguished,” I say “lost.”)My face remembers every grin,With creases filed neatly within. My knees now click to morning cues,But…