Slam for a Rose
We are not born only once.
We are the meeting of a spark,
and the world’s wish
to feel whole.
And again,
we are born each day
through what we create.
Sample of the poem Slam for a Rose by Sophie Roumeas
Photo credit ©Tirza van Dijk
Healing Series
The poem is called Slam for a Rose (and for my cells).
You can hear it as a poem about resilience.
But you can also hear it as a conversation... with a cell.
A cell that might be in pain — and another that brings light.
One that doubts — and one that still believes.
It’s for Pink October (breast cancer awareness month).
But it’s also for anyone who, in silence,
is trying to be reborn.
Even if it’s just — with a single breath.
Slam for a Rose
(and for my cells)
by Sophie Rouméas
Dear flower,
you don’t know me.
Neither do I,
to be honest.
You stand, alive—
stem in the wind,
petals in the sun,
heart open to what is.
Me?
I am the shadow,
I lost my light.
Cracked.
Frozen.
An actress reciting lines
from a script that no longer fits.
I no longer belong to myself.
You ask:
To whom, then?
To the storm.
To the tides.
To the crowd—
and the ghosts.
To those
I love, loathe,
and those
who look through me.
I forgot my name.
Erased.
Renamed by others.
My reflection—smudged,
a mirror betrayed
by too many faces.
My body aches.
My mind has lost the map.
I’m a soul
searching for the emergency exit
in a world
with no evacuation plan.
I got stuck
in autumn—
—forgetting
that seasons move on.
And then—
you.
Sister.
You speak.
Or is it me?
Or creation itself?
I can’t tell.
But I hear:
My stem in the wind,
my petals in the sun,
my heart open to what is,
my path made of love.
You ask again:
What are you?
A wanderer or rooted?
A flower thirsting for rain
or a sun waiting to shine?
Do you want
the silence of night
or the music of morning?
The wind that slaps
or the breeze that cradles?
Solitude…
or the warmth of a friend?
Must we always choose?
Forever?
For good?
What if—
this time—
we just
be here?
Now.
Imperfect.
But whole.
Not frozen—alive.
Not finished—becoming.
Dear sister,
I see you.
You’re not pretty.
You’re alive.
Not decorative.
Creative.
You live,
even when no one is looking.
You breathe,
even when no one listens.
Like me,
you exist with the flow of time,
sky, and seasons.
What you live now
is not yesterday.
It won’t be tomorrow.
It is now.
And you—you who are listening.
“Yes. You.”
Soul.
Yes, I dare.
I call you soul.
Because what is a soul,
if not a flower in color?
A living thing
born of its own nature,
present—
not caring
if their colors are seen,
their scent noticed.
They live.
They create.
They give.
To hummingbirds,
to bees,
to your home,
to the infinite.
And you, soul,
you know.
We are not born only once.
We are the meeting of a spark,
and the world’s wish
to feel whole.
And again,
we are born each day
through what we create.
With each breath.
Each movement.
Each word we dare speak,
or write,
or paint,
or dance,
or dream.
So create.
Even a breath.
Your presence.
It is enough
to live in love.
And what you create
can change everything.