Poems by Jay Rose Ana
A small little hedgehog lived under a log,Timid and quiet, alone in the fog.She muttered at beetles who danced on her trail,And fled at the flap of a butterfly’s sail. She bristled at squirrels with too much flair,And side-eyed the fox with debonair air.She’d grumble at toads for croaking offbeat—Then wobbled away in a bashful…
Clue blew through the blue.Knew who knew who knew.Bean made a scene.Leaned on the green.Slipped past the sprout,Tiptoed through, crept out. Snail gave a stare.Tracks led nowhere.Truth lay betweenthe leaves of a bean.Tripped on a trap.Case closed. Quick nap.
It crept in by the cuttings shed,though I’m fairly sure I never saidit could.Last week I trimmed it back —today it brought a packof friends, and one’s alreadyflirting with the rosemary. It’s got a way of staying put,like Maureen from poetry —who only meant to drop something offbut stayed for crumble, soft and hot,and two…
(not read aloud, just written down once) I saw a dandelion clock on the verge,half-blown already —its face a bit lopsided,like it had been thinking too hard. I didn’t mean to stop,but I did. It reminded me of the field behind the schoolwhere we used to racewith fists full of them,counting puffslike they meant something….
The kettle whistled its usual tune,A bit sharp for a Monday morning in June.she yawned a big yawn then reached for her mug—A spider waved from the windowsill rug. “I’ve been here since Wednesday,” it boldly began,“Dodging the broom like a clever wee man.Your tiles are cold, the teapot’s warm—This corner here’s my bachelor dorm.”…
There’s a certain sort of dress that softly says, “I’m here to read poems,” without shouting about it. I don’t own one. The last time I stood up at the community hall, I wore my “garden trousers” by accident. They’re deceptively comfortable but have a tendency to shed soil when I move, like a nervous…
I donned my hat — the one for bravery —and ventured forth past the potted ferns.The trolleys clanked like tribal drums,the hanging baskets whispered warnings. The path to perennials was thick with threat:leaves brushed my knees,a begonia grabbed my sleeve.Two gnomes stared. I nodded back. Somewhere beyond the rhododendronswas the prize — elusive, sleek,a green…
They tutted at me this morning,trowels in hand and purpose proud— “You’re not supposed to be here,“they said, and muttered right out loud. I nodded, as weeds are known to do,with leaves all wrong and roots too plain.I’ve never asked for compliments— just sun, and wind, and maybe rain. I don’t stand tall like tulips…
You bloom where nothing dares to try— a blush of colour in the grey,a single stem that splits the rockthen sways against the wind all day. No hands have cupped your fragile face,no sign was hung to mark your worth.And yet, you’ve made a gentle lifein one small crack of mountain earth. Some call you…
I like the places no one plans,Where daisies press through pavement cracks,Where foxglove leans with gentle backsAgainst the rusted garden cans. I take my tea near nettle beds,Let buttercups crowd round my feet.They don’t compete. They don’t retreat.They nod like they have kindly heads. Some call it overgrown, a mess—But I have found it full…