begin this life in a wordy
but wordly habit, daily,
father-gifted, though different,
in form and language selected,
‘tis the one and ‘tis the same

tally, a counting combination
of all that has been done, for both
better & worse, blessing/curse,
the key: revamp review reset
this day upcoming and welcome
all the major tasks, minor miracles,
that one can effect,  select, elect!
by choice, a freedom so great it
tenderly rips joy thoroughly into
and from my cells, and my body
is enlightened, uplifted in this,
now a preposition, a conjugation, a

state of composition,

for the tasks given, the granted,
those that must be taken, those most
difficult, when knowing their choice,
entails pain, untempered, and
requires establishing a two edged
position of composure…

this is a hard and an easy
new proposition I create,
hard for I write on a tiny
phone screen, in letters so
small. it keeps me humbled,
a reminder of having
lived a span well
beyond belief,
for one took\gave body a
careless comfort,
giving little
of the differring
kind of nutrition in order
to live life, well and purposed

hard too, for my body has wept,
a steady stream of silent tears.
unceasing as I scribe,
making vision difficult, the
insight salty but clear and the
words contained within them,
flood for easy laying-down

for this AM workout of counting,
lists up and down, so many items,
of differring nature, even now
noticing for the very fitting first time,
the subtle hint within
differring,
for it possesses a doubling
of the enormity, the division
of what has been already
accumulated and what yet,
needs accomplishing, the tally
needy for resolving looking past,
for seeing with yet more tears
fast-as-you-can-forward

the tally never ends, paused only
for a quick question/happy deletion
of, and a resolute immediate, moving on:

Where do I stand,
what is my position?

keep on keeping on,
tallying has no finale,
no sunning/summing up,
for another day
will yet follow,
for you, and
your own
tallying must
goes on, on
and
not even,
nor even,
odd,
when mine,
mine no long,
and the
and yets,
no longer
commence

When God wrote me, she didn't write a cog —
as I was knit together in the womb —
a brass serrated wheel, escarpment tooth,
or part of the machine that moves the wealth,
of poor exploited people to the rich.

She did not see a lever in the church
a fulcrum in doctrinal power play:
preside at Masses - tick; play nicely- tock;
and lead the parish council meetings- clunk;
then grow the paying congregation – thunk.

She painted me a seed, organic, whole,
to grow in a lush forest, green and tall,
a tree to crack the strong foundation stone:
I'll smash the rock and sow a Kingdom’s germ.

A light cold rain began to fall, I could see my
breath like smoke in the air, our brief Fall had
become our early Winter, I chill quivered in
response, and zipped up my jacket. Also, my
aging legs required a brief respite, I had not
intended to walk so far.

Taking shelter under a river birch tree, I huddled
and shivered beneath the hood of my rain parka.
The creek less than five feet away flowed briskly
past, swollen with three days of rain, all around
me falling like confetti, golden leaves slowly
fluttered down upon the surface of the creek,
glimmering on the dark water like so many tiny
glowing Japanese lanterns, quickly swept away
downstream.

Within minutes, those leaves that made it that far
would float, or flow into the Willamette River,
and by nightfall some would find their way into
the mighty Columbia River, forty miles distant.
Just maybe, perhaps by tomorrow a few might
actually, find their way West to reach and mix
into the salty Pacific Sea.

What a nearly wonderous journey to behold and
contemplate, one tiny footnote in the many chapters
and story within the pages of nature's earthly playbook.
All things in balance, all with a purpose.

stalked always
a mind universe

Aliens dressed as Human
trying to buy you a drink

smiles beaming unnatural
white teeth about to crumble

a band playing acid tunes
dancers on their knees

someone offers a smoke
but you gave it up long ago

the mind of a creature
not too sure of its reality.

we the invisible

we, who learned from a young age
impossibility is accepted
verity, your mutability
every aspect of you is subject to change
my girl, my girl
empty eyes that look but don’t see
you
oh, how your tongue should bleed
under the crash of your silence
rip the blanket, they said
though you were only taught to sew
i paint myself to hide
razor cuts and scars
everything i’ve made for you, till death
do us part

Sixty years of
Blood
Sweat
Ink

Perhaps today
Something good

I long for
the sunburnt days,
freckled dreams and
scabbed up knees.
Ahh
to be a boy in
summer again.
My baseball and  
**** dog close at
hand.
Fishing pole and
lily pad ponds.
I caught frogs and
tortoises.
The budding poet in
me saw sunsets on
the underside of
the shells.

The daylight, and
evening seemed to
last forever.
And when I finally
went to bed,
The buzz of the
cicadas, and the
symphony of the
crickets were my
soundtrack to youth.
I dreamed in green.

I took my broken pain and

laid it in a cradle.


I hid it from the world

deep in the corners of my secluded dwelling -


Caressed it tenderly, and fed it

bite sized pieces of anger and

contempt.. until it

blossomed the most beautiful hatred

I had ever known


It stretched forth vines..

gnarled and twisted.. with

barbed thorns that

clung to my every limb..


enshrouding me in a deep and

comfortable nirvana .


How I hate how I love my hatred..


The only genuine gift

I can give freely.

© Nathan A. Brock

Gallery after gallery
in the cool conditioned air
sketches and traces and objects of his art
capture the heart.
His songs played in low tune
fills the atmosphere with an unworldliness.
Here you are immune to the outside
where a hot sun scalds hungry dogs
a man carries ten times his weight
people haggle for little bargain.

The museum hides the pain
and the poet's dreamy world matters little.
But you forget and delve deeper.

The dog struggles to learn
the art of living
for a day.