The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
I was just trying to remember the past
trying to remember the good people
and the bad people,
that i came across on my way,
i want you to know
that you are among the good people
that left a good trace in my life,
once again i just want to say thank you
for passing through my life,
is so short but is wonderful
i want you here forever.
summer concerts- screaming crowds
warm beaches - California girls
sideburns long- shirts off
blue jeans - bare feet
swirling psychedelic colors- smoking magic mushrooms
the power of love- world message
entranced by the magical journey
musical bands- rock and roll hot
crowds screaming- English invasion
girls swooning- songs rockin'
--**--The Virtuous White Rose--**--
White rose is holy
Matrimony pureness of
Bond between lovers.
Blessing to Old Rome deceased’s
Chastity and innocence.
White Rose in myth and
Legend was tainted by blood,
Made blush from kiss, thus
Made it red and made it pink
Against its pride purity.
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears
A diminishing Rose Bush
With every pedal plucked, beauty is fading away
Losing its essence of greatness
As we proceed to deplete its history
Life flows away,
I remain standing above
Stems are bare and exposed
Vulnerable to the world and its nature
I give woes
I give worries
I give troubles
These are my possibilities
Then the death of a rose and destruction
Bare my green,
My DNA shows traces of the best soils
Traced back to my mother’s land
Surrounded by fellow planted gold
Some will never know
Doing well isn’t doing well
We can’t bloom unless we unfold
Reproduce the best again
Stop dying daily for less than a win
There’s nothing we can’t do
That we’ve done once again
The next season will bring new pedals
I will never grow pass go anymore
Next year, beauty will flourish
Next season remains to nourish
Each season we should cherished
In our best moments
Each year is the best one of your life.
In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so.
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction.
“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea.
I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want.
And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch.
But I would like to…
I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door.
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.
It was Sunday 'round noon when I walked,
Through the gardens upon my own.
Touched by the sadness of knowing,
I should not be walking alone.
I see a young girl pick a pansy.
Smile with the scent 'neath her nose.
Tears still fall for Rosemary's garden,
As the door comes ajar we can't close.
Rosemary's garden from tiny seed,
Covered the barest of earth,
Spawned in the warmth of our hands,
Creating new love with her birth.
Carefully tended, nurtured, caressed,
Growing stronger each day,
Spreading lore into her heart,
From our generational way.
Each flower became a thought.
Each bud a smile yet to bloom.
Early thinking she lived in our world,
We didn't see she needed more room.
We noticed the buds were not forming,
Flowers the gardens don’t bring.
Everything died in the autumn,
We're hoping a return in the spring.
Lost, sought and finally discovered,
Scattered wild over the meadow,
Each flower living free but alone,
Rosemary's we just didn't know.
Surviving without guiding care,
Love’s hidden and will not show,
In the wind swept field is torture,
Where Rosemary's garden does grow.
Seven long years we gathered,
Flowers from over the meadow,
Seeking the bloom of Rosemary,
Growing from the seed we did sow.
The scents and the colours are mingled,
Out of reach in forlorn garden beds
What we feared appeared in the meadow.
Many flowers had bowed their heads.
Rosemary is the alias I use,
For a child we may have all known,
Seen in their garden of beauty,
Thinking like us, they have grown.
We lose them in some tragic reason,
Asking why, but no answer we know,
Why Rosemary lives on in our minds,
As a flower growing wild in a meadow.
I do not know?
Ludwig & Vincent...
‘They said that you were mad, Vincent’, whispered Ludwig to a silent Vincent.
‘I still am, quite insane’, replied Vincent, ‘but you, dear Ludwig, you were deaf, and mad, I hear’.
‘I listened with my soul, Vincent, I heard it all without hearing a sound. Yes, mad and deaf indeed I too, still am’, Ludwig said, smiling at Vincent.
‘just look at them now’, Vincent replied, smiling with Ludwig, ‘look at them now, as they hawk sunflowers, blissfully oblivious of exquisite starry nights’.
‘yes’, smiled Ludwig, ‘look at them now, they crave joy, yet they cannot hear an ode, dear Vincent, they cannot hear it! They do not care enough to hear’.
‘Yes, dear Ludwig’, Vincent sighed, ‘they do not care enough to hear’.
Ludwig and Vincent smiled, each tugging an ear.