Author Chris Brady's Blog

An Old Man in Italy

When I am an old man

I want to sit in Italy

On a bench in the sun,

With a view behind me

And the town before,

The reverse of my life.

I will watch it all:

The birds and the buses

And the old Bitties,

And of course the weather.

I’ll wonder why I began

In a cold northern town

When places like this existed

And took a lifetime to find.

I’ll think about time

And how much I once had

And wonder how much

Might still remain.

But I won’t worry

And I won’t hurry

And I will never serve again

A To Do list or a goal

And will no more

Monuments make.

I’ll wonder why

(You know I will),

I never really did it

What I was built to,

And dabbled instead

At the edges of it all

Like a child scared of a pool.

But I won’t regret it,

No, not for a bit,

Because I’ll be old -

So crotchety old -

In Italy, no less,

Where every old man

Should get to sit.

 

Sincerely,

Chris Brady

The Eclipse

Okay, I couldn't help it.

While traveling the other day as a family in our jumbo SUV, in which many noises and distractions abound, my ten year-old daughter piped up from the back wanting to read me something she had written. This, just so you know, is a common occurrence. It is also common to be shown art, comic books, dresses, doll's clothes, paper constructs, and many other products resulting from her abundant creativity. She is, quite frankly, the most prolifically creative person I have ever known. So I may be forgiven a little, perhaps, for not tuning in immediately to the quality of this particular composition. But as she attempted to read her poem above the Brady din, I gradually awakened to the realization that it was remarkable. 

I had to - just HAD to - share it with you! I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. (And, in the interest of full disclosure, I am beginning to realize that I am the worst writer in our family!)

So here it is (without any parental editing, I might add):

The Eclipse

 

The sun had set,

The day they met

The sun, the moon, and stars,

They would never get

Just one more bet

So they all met, even Mars.

 

They sang a song

Of love and truth

Of right and even wrong,

They sang a song

Of sad farewells

And parting times too long.

 

And no one saw this

'Cept but I 

The little tiny miss,

And no one knew this

'Cept but I 

Who saw the two friends kiss! 

 

So now I mourn

That the sun and moon

Can never meet again

And now I cry

That the sun and moon

Are more than simple friends! 

 

The sun was high

And I would cry

For the sun, the moon, and stars,

I wonder why 

And then I sigh

For the sun, the moon, and mars.

 

They sang a song

Of love and grief

Of right and even wrong

They sang a song

Of nice hellos

And parting times too long!

 

And no one knew this

'Cept but I,

The little tiny miss,

And no one mourned this

'Cept but I,

Who knew of the great abyss!

 

So now I mourn 

That the sun and moon 

Can never meet again

And now I cry

That the sun and moon

Are more than simple friends. 

 

The birds now tweet

The song oh, so sweet,

Of the sun, the moon, and stars,

They say they will meet

Again in a week

But I say that that time is far. 

 

The End

 

(Poem, amazingness, and cuteness provided entirely by Christine Brady, age 10)

 

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An Audience of One

Rascal Manifesto

Stephen Palmer of the Center for Social Leadership concepted the idea for a poster for the Rascal Manifesto. His gang also recently produced this video to promote it. Enjoy.

Sincerely,

Chris Brady

 

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 [email protected] 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