The Roses that grew from concrete.

You might be wondering,

What does a little white

Canadian girl, have in common

with a black man, inner city rap extraordinaire,

pumping beats out of the west?

I’d explain, but I guess our wise man says it best:

“Did you hear about the rose that grew

from a crack in the concrete?

Proving natures law wrong it

learned to walk with out feet”

I guess today,

I can finally explain.

Roses are our theme,

and I happen to be just that,

through and through.

Prim and proper, and English, too,

with a British passion for tea.

So I guess Pac was right when

he said even a rose could grow in the rockiest roads,

that even a flower, could rise up and be free.

RIP TUPAC SHAKUR
June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996

Ostara

Into the springs refreshed winds

I send my skin, shed anew;

A liberating experience,

creating myself,

a bloom, expanding in the sun

like the new flowers poking fragile heads

out from beneath the earthy mantle

they tuck themselves into.

Year long, the wait, primitive and patient

waiting for the right moment,

right mixture of warmth and water,

and sheer luck, too.

Like the flowers, I wait.

Waiting for just the right moment

of warmth and luck

that brings me to these very moments

of blossom, of unfurling,

of something new.

Is this a gift?

Somewhere out there,

there is a pair of scissors

large and sharp

and of all the right proportions to cut me down

from the marionetter’s cross you have seen so fit to crucify me on.

Strung so carelessly about, I am

limbs tied to the most unexpected obstacles

finer than those you have built before.

The fishing line is digging in,

red lines criss crossing from where the weight of this

digs in, sharp and thin, like your voice

when you’re pulling the tightest.

My face is glued to the looking glass,

shiny and new, fading so fast,

I’m trying so hard to not jump right in;

Maybe it's your leash keeping me from drowning myself,

but never would I have walked to the water

without your guiding hand.