Author Chris Brady's Leadership Blog

Holding Loosely the Wheel

In the dead moments of space
Between the thick and the thin
A flicker of a glimpse
The door that won't let us in

No, but you weren't there to see
The crests and jagged ridges 
For elves with pointed hats
Furry trolls under bridges

I've walked the empty beaches
Looked for you under linens
Traded dimes for nickels
Riding on greaseless pinions

To Chianti's green-rowed vineyards
If I could only take you
You'd taste the nectar sweet
And just might believe it's true

Or feel the warm rays on skin
That light the fire of your core
Your hair a wisp in wind
Tears in my eyes wanting more.

Oh let me sail you over
To where the dipper and cross
Upside down and beside
Give the starry sky it's gloss.

Say yes to my soft request
To have you riding beside
Through thousands of sunsets
and every wash of the tide

There is not a lone minute
I don't want to spend with you
Holding loosely the wheel
Steering for the scenic view.

 

@Copyright Chris Brady 2011

Rush Straight In

You don’t have a thousand years  

To become who you’re meant to be

You have only a moment in time

An unknown fleeting quantity.

Drink deeply from the cup

Of life you’ve been handed

Taste all that’s sweet

And endure what’s bitter

Remembering the purpose

For which you’ve been born.

Squander not your days

Nor your gifts

Instead, arm them and

Send them into battle

To bring to life

Those quiet, hidden, but

True desires of your heart.

Never pull back from the flames

As cowards who conspire

But rush straight in

To your heart’s desire.

A Sentinel in the Mist

 They swallow indoctrination

As though it were truth,

And respond with dunces,

Eloquent spokesmen

With no thoughts of their own.

Students by the thousand

Babble their creed

Of worshipping the creation

While disavowing its author.

Perched atop ignorant assumptions

And piling more on top of these

Until the edifice reaches absurdly upward

A monument to the urge of man

To create for himself nonsensical theories

Masquerading as facts.

Of those who continually stand firm

And point to ever receding absolutes,

They hurl names and epithets

Certain that their crazy idolatries

Require only passionate adherence 

As proof of validity.

But lonely and steadfast

Like a stone sentinel in the mist,

Truth remains.

That Sparkling Mistress

 Ah, art, that sparkling mistress

She winks at me through brick arches

Marble columns and stone pediments,

Frescoes, sculptures, colors and forms,

Painstakingly extracted from genius,

Sinews straining against complacency

Languidly tempted to delay or do nothing.

What inertia must have been conquered

That you could have life.

What loving care must have been mustered

That you could long survive

To feel my gaze in an age that little notes

Nor barely understands what you represent.

The weight of the years past

A span of time beyond our easy comprehension

Is pierced by the remains of those heroes

Brave enough to unleash their talents

For at least a season of victory

Over their frail human nature

Driven to delay or squander

The impulse to give form to talent.

So much conceived and never begun

How much more initiated and yet still-born,

But oh, of what survived!

Of what made it through the dangerous passage

Between conception and completion

Surpassing all odds against fulfillment

Slipping past the weakness of the artisan

Into the sunny radiance

Of our latter-day appreciation.

A chilling reminder to us all

Of all that may still remain

Like Buonarroti's figure inside

Waiting for release from the block of marble.

And they ask me why I travel to Italy.

 

Chris Brady@Copyright 2010

 

Cul-de-Sac

How many times has it happened,

Arranging and scurrying around,

Seeking the arrival

That seems more illusive than justice?

Full speed ahead,

Don't they say fortune favors the bold?

But halting abruptly

As we must if we are to keep our sanity

Finding ourselves in another Cul-de-Sac.

The sprocket kicks off the chain

As our feet slip from the pedals

Thank God for the asphalt

Because at least we can put our foot down to restart.

I wonder about the running tally

Of turnabouts in my life

Shifting into reverse

And rolling over the refuse of costly mistakes,

Investments in nothing more than passing fancy

Now handed off at one third the price.

But they had so captured me at the time

Flashes of shine catching my eye

Deviation from the magnetic pull

Weak though it is

Toward my scripted route.

Veer here and veer over there,

Zig-zagging my way through days

Always confidently pursuing

The next memory to be found only in pictures,

Captured digitally and flickered on a screen.

There's no program for rewind

A subroutine never compiled

So all we can capture from each Cul-de-Sac

Is the lesson expensively bought,

But soon forgotten by eyes too weak to focus

On anything but vapor.

Destiny knows better, though,

Than our vanity and flimsy whims

The ticking of the clock as we sleep

Reminding us of how much we have spent

And how little we have to show for it,

But then again, so much,

Somehow crafted from mistakes,

A life complete and filled.

We run right by what we really need,

Into the next Cul-de-Sac,

Chasing what we want,

And getting what we were supposed to

All along.

Copyright @ Chris Brady 2010

You Told Me Otherwise

I thought her a beauty

And took to her smile,

But you told me otherwise

Suspecting her guile.

I liked his stories

And thought them a laugh,

But you told me otherwise

Said don't believe half.

Their group took me in

And made me feel part,

But you told me otherwise

And picked them apart.

  

I wonder how life

Feels walked in your shoes,

Where nobody's good enough

And none you'll approve.

It's good that you're there

To show other's flaws,

I'd probably think them fine

If you caused no pause.

  

But you make me think

How sad it must be,

To see mere scary water

When watching the sea.

You told me of you

And wanted my praise,

But you told me otherwise

In living these ways.

Chris Brady @Copyright 2010 

List to the Lee

No rewind on life

Our grasp has no grip

There's not a thing we can do

To slow down this trip.

   

Open your eyes wide

See all that you see

Gales blow to the rocky shore

We list to the lee.

   

We kick against goads

Blame struggle for pain

Totally blind to the point

That hurt reveals gain.

   

For how could we know

That all that we want

Elusive and misleading

In this lifetime jaunt?

   

For if we caught it

Our tail in our teeth

Would we stop and just wonder

Our time slipped the sheath?

   

Our empty pursuits

Our grubby hand-holds

Will only fail to secure

All that's dear we hold.

   

A deeper yearning

Tugs soft at our sleeves

We hide under a bushel

Ignore what it means.

   

But it's there for good

For our greatest gain

And sometimes we find it most

When in the most pain.

    

It's our true calling

Our life's one purpose

That carries us home again

Safe harbor's purchase.

    

The hound of heaven

Viciously runs down

Many strivers and dreamers

When they've hit the ground.

    

Keep your eyes upward

Use your strength to chase

Eternal not temporal

Or your life you'll waste.

  

   

@Copyright 2010  Chris Brady

Teach Me What to Think

Teach me what to think,

For I don’t even suspect that I have a mind.

Fill me with information

And call it education.

Program me with your doctrines,

And call it enlightenment.

Show me whom to hate,

For since I can’t think for myself,

I will be as warm steel moldable and for good use.

Take as I will the magnificence of others,

Calling it my own and defacing it for bloated purposes.

Consume as I wish propaganda ideally suited,

To making me mimic thoughts spun by others.

Beat my chest, I will, with zest and conviction,

As though I thought of the revolution myself.

It is us against them, who think they are beautiful.

How dare they? Is our rally cry!

How dare they place themselves above us, or any of our kind?

How dare they think formative thought and maturity of mind

Are substitutes for platitudes and posters.

Names are what we will call them, should they be onto us,

That’ll do it!

For it is they who scare us the most:

The ones who see right through us.

It’s as if they have a faculty we’ve missed,

Though we’d best rush to deny it to ourselves.

How dare they not bow to our immediate wishes;

How dare they not quickly cave to our frenzied demands,

Why, it proves their insolence, the very fact,

Their free thought, their singular stand, their resistance,

It shows their elitism for what it is,

So call them names, lest we stop,

And hear the whispers our selves,

That the masterpieces we today trample,

Could never have been created by any but them.

Off with their heads!

Now what’s that you say?

It’s broken and won’t run?

The clocks don’t work, the planes won’t fly,

The building fall down out of the sky?

Find someone, find someone, find someone quick,

Who knows, who has knowledge, who creates, who builds,

Find someone to fix, to repair, and prop up,

The hour is late, the crumbling severe,

This isn’t much fun anymore, bring one of them here.

How dare they, how dare they, leave us like this!

Did they know this would happen?

It’s their fault.

It always was.

 

 @Copyright Chris Brady 2010

 

 

 

Is There No One?

Is there no one to read

These words that I write

Though I wrench each from thought, and

Arrange with all my might?

*

Is there no one to hear

This song that I sing

Though I tug at each note, and

Harmonize voice with string?

*

Is there no one to see

This canvass I paint

Though I mix the colors, and

Compromise hue and taint?

*

Is there no one to watch

This movie I make

Though I direct each scene, tell

The story take by take?

*

Is there no one to tour

This building I raise

Though I construct each space, and

Blend height and light and praise?

*

It is ours to create

From vapor to real

The art that's within us, is

Our gift from God revealed.

*

Nobody works in vain

Who dares leave the horde

There's always One who sees it

When we work for the Lord.

*

Copyright 2010 Chris Brady

But God . . .

 

Days begin, bright and clean,

Little is known, most just shown.

We don't remember, maybe none can,

When we first realize something is wrong.

But God . . . 

A confine from which memory cannot serve.

But all of us know it now, though some deny, 

The crack, the void, the dark, the wound,

The thorn in the flesh, the plank in the eye.

But God . . .

Its presence grows, its power expands,

Splitting foundations of rock to sand.

Time assists in its creeping way,

The shadowy hand on our loss of days.

But God . . .

We mourn too, for our earlier selves,

All the while losing cheer to the truth.

Mirth dies on its edge, bleeding a helpless dirge,

A blight on light, hope, and love.

But God . . .

The core is black, the pit is deep,

Haunting even children in sleep.

What was beautiful takes a tarnish,

As all things human bear its stamp.

But God . . .

A cursed people, a fallen race,

From Adam's apple to dust in a grave,

Pinned to the ground, and stapled down,

Held back, restrained, kept in pain.

But God . . .

The trap is shut, the pincers close,

The prey fights in futile struggle.

But God.

Copyright Chris Brady 2009