Let Your Light Shine
Waking up inside your words wrangled,
I notice light careening
from every angle
and that even the sparkles
have a dangle…
Color’s married, dressed in white
Liquid rainbows packed in tight
This world, says my gut
Was clearly by a princess cut
Clarity is looking at what isn’t there
Power of pressure, compressed air
Some people just want to wear it
But to me, knowing their maker is worth more than a carat
Dauntless. Adventure. Endurance.
Surprise. Carousel. Crescent.
Assurance. Orient. Success.
Diamond. Resistance. Flyer.
Penzance. Pandora. Bounty.
Treader. Nightingale. Valorous.
Resource. Speedwell. Lively.
Active. Anglesea. Rainbow.
Victory. Kinsale. Crown.
Magicenne…
When things don’t look great and fear stops for more than a “hey!” it’s time to take to lash and lay and bring that thought’s bow about.
Shouting a list of ship names is always sure to set your heart for sea.
At least, it works for ___.
P.S. try the list again, out loud – your guts will get tight and gird themselves up and fly into a courage so strong your footprints will sound like the clouds in the painting below. (You might think I’m making that up…)
“Someone already paid for you. Is that a Topo Chico necklace?”
Me holding two dripping bottles in my hand.
“Really. Huh. Like…”
Spreading smile.
“Wow. That g… uh yeah. I guess I’m kind of crazy about this stuff.”
They say a sailor loves the sea….
…but what does the sea say?
He is hollers and hoots and scopes and charts.
This star and that port and treasure and returning with glory for the court.
She is waves and wallows and winds and whispers.
Everywhere and near and over and under and washing the world with tears.
Trimming and tacking and trading with the wind… does he think only he brought himself to here?
He might… splash over her tremendous deep and step to the con with forgetful feet.
So she rages and tears at his blistered beams,
the tackle and the ties, all to touch his hiding heart, inside.
He scabs his knees and wails and weeps…
“oh god save me from this terrible sea!”
Now sails are tissues and masts are toothpicks…
…you hear the Loveliest whisper “I AM, this terrible sea, is me.”
Open lassos lace the choked arena air.
Lithe and lank and spurs to flanks,
one ring racing, sparkling;
a loop free for the head.
Too, the heeler hopes a bright hoop,
head down to hold the other side.
Teamed ropes racing the torch of time.
Banding to bond a single beast in time.
Steady eyes, running, dust.
Blood. Breathing. Still.
Hushed, heaven and earth looks to the Judge.
Firebrands, standing still.
Heavy, more than weight.
Gold on their soles.
Old in their souls.
Time tastes all claims.
Time licks with flames.
Silver shining threads remain.
Here’s something that scraped out the bottom of my soul.
be.thebright.co/every-little-whiff/
If you’re curious enough, hang on until 1:37, at least.
I think you’ll be glad you did.
You might even watch it twice.
Or ten times.
“It won’t be easy. It won’t be certain.”
But take heart…
A boy looks through glass thick as your fist
and sticks out his tongue at the lions,
his death grip on daddy’s pant leg
and tiny fingernails let blood
but daddy doesn’t seem to mind.
—
Let this song beat your heart
like the pounding hooves of a Texas Rangers patrol
riding for truth, justice and The Resurrected Way.
Delight all you sons and daughters
of goodness and light!
Good always wins, in the end.
We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.
’Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.
—
A poem about the flaws of poetry…
A delight.
And so, He did tell us.
“I think I found my calling.”
“Is it saying random things?”
The strange boy tossed his head back and bunches of bluebirds burst from the tree to speckle the yawning sky.
“That was a good one. You got me.”
Flinty steel in his eyes betrayed the glimmer playing around his mouth.
Whatever he said next was likely to set something on fire.
“Love is like cliff diving.
“On a trail you might turn back at anytime. You might see another trail more fair, more appealing and turn down there.
“On a path you might find great pleasure in each whispering fork you pass knowing your way is only yours, to split or not to split.
“Truly you may follow your heart to top of any mountain but the truest way to the bottom of your self is found when your feet leave the ledge.
“There are no off ramps in cliff diving.
“No take backs, no tap outs.
“After the toe tip it’s all out for the all in.”
I don’t know how I know that.
But… I do.
—
Love leaves the overlook of heaven without any wings.
Fallen to the bottom of my shattered shoreline.
Collided at the crossroads of eternity.
Perfectly laid beneath the waves of my curse.
Until bursting forth the Island rises.
Even salty death gives way to molten Love.
Come to the Island, oh my soul, and be melted.
Robert H. Cantley.
He is a great grandfather.
She drove north every young summer to visit him and the woman with him.
He’s like the dad she didn’t have because somebody ran a red light.
They shared homemade dinners and wine and would wind miles of stories at the stove every night.
They moved their lives over for that bright-eyed girl.
They believed in seeds and a harvest they wouldn’t live to see.
Sun up, top down he drove a 1953 Chevy Corvette, baby blue, shiny and cool.
He sold it with light in his heart when the heavy bubble burst.
He rolled right over the worst months in a 1994 pickup painted like raw milk.
He found the 4×4 far better for first-time-fishing in the mountains with great-grandkids and when they weren’t looking the lake shiny and cool would fill his eyes bouldered and blue and make him cry like a baby.
“He drives me crazy.” His wife will say.
He won’t argue with his lady. And he never says why.
He just makes music with his eyes.
“He loves like heaven does.”
He’s a stake driven in the ground his family goes around.
The bright-eyed girl gave his name, to her first boy.
They sent her boy to pick up his old fashioned Ford, last year.
Single cab stick shift saddle blankets on the seats.
Pneumonia hit him in the chest like a cement truck.
Death is one helluva red light.
So I sit in his seat and drive.
—
Did you know Randy Travis wrote a song about my great-grandfather?
“I see bright beams begin to feather the air, fluttering and floating and tickling the stars to death.
One by one they give their twinkling rays to the gaze of the one testing the horizon.
His warm fingers of light find the cold locks of night… the door to the day is here.
There’s certainly something sacred in the sun’s gentle way.
Warblers wait rooted in the treetops, for that moment.
Seeds stay their wrestling in the earth, in that moment.
Even time trembles and takes a breath at that threshold moment.
I’ve always wondered why he hesitates. What is he waiting for?
Maybe waiting for us to feel the waiting…
Then it’s crossing over and riding on the clouds, peeling back the robes of night and washing clear the cold black blight.
Naked fire fills the sky and the full glory is harsh light.
The beauty in all the earth is seen as she newly is. As she truly is…”
They sat and stared awhile, wearing the heavy light.
“I’m glad you asked me that.” said the strange boy.
“What do you see in a sunrise?”
Valentine’s Day celebrated everyone knows but I’m not very sure I have one of those so I’m writing to you to celebrate red.
Red is good for many things.
Keeping the robin warm in rain springs and telling the tomato how to make a burger look yum and making barns less boring and Texas tourists call the fire department when they see fields on fire with all the Indian paintbrush.
Red is always reminding us where we are.
A red dot in a crowded mall or a red blot on a cursed tree.
Red is good for knowing where you are.
You are here.
Are you glad you are here?
I am.
Glad you are here.
He stared at the German anti-aircraft gun, his mind filled with flames, remembering.
The starboard wing had snapped off just before he jumped.
Then swimming in ink.
His parachute inhaling the night.
The muddy lights of occupied Paris pulling him down, through the exploding sky.
The boy at his side was pointing and saying something.
His thoughts were pulled into the present.
Today was Sunday, and Paris was sunbathing.
August 13th, 1944. A holiday, Assumption Day.
The City of Light was pretending especially well today.
Pretending they had enough to eat.
Pretending they didn’t mind the Crooked Cross streaming blood-red from every monument top.
Pretending they weren’t hiding an American pilot.
They had drawn him in as a breath.
Quietly holding their secret as Nazis paraded in the street.
His defiant host, Louis Berty, was a local pork butcher.
For 10 weeks he’d kept the gangly American pilot folded away.
Today was different. All of Paris was breathing today.
The German jackboot wasn’t pressing her throat, at least.
A good day to walk the wrinkles out.
“You can’t visit Paris with you not see the sights! Today we tour, Wehrmacht scum or no!”
So Berty the butcher, his seven-year-old boy and the leggy American sought the sights.
The pilot stretched his full frame to six feet and three inches.
The sun and the Seine filled his eyes.
Dressed as a local stone mason, Lieutenant Bob Woodrum almost didn’t fit in.
Gawking at the anti-aircraft gun crews wasn’t helping.
The would-be incognito sightseers sought a less supervised scene.
Near the place du Trucadéro, the French Naval Museum yawned a casual welcome.
Inside, Lieutenant Woodrum shrugged off the gun crew and his blistered memories.
Waves of timeless talent washed the walls here, a good place to loosen your mind.
Then an officer stomped in.
His Iron Crosses glinted angrily in the timid light.
Faces and furniture twisted in reflection.
The German officer took special interest in the American sculpture wrapped as a Parisian mason.
His interrogating eyes prodded the pilot, measuring the blond hair, blue eyes, towering form…
A painting there by Claude Joseph Vernet became frighteningly, critically interesting, to Bob.
Woodrum stared straight, trying the melt the colors with his gaze.
He wanted to wriggle through the oil and join the smiling subjects in the painting.
Then he could stand on the rock and wave, happy as they.
Together they would watch the liquid tricolor follow her ship to sea.
The sun would drop through the sky and all would be well.
The boy at his side brought him back.
Louis Berty’s seven-year-old son was staring at the canvas too, and silently slipped his small hand into the large American one.
Lieutenant Woodrum held the boy’s hand and poured his face into the painting.
The brown uniform barked a sparkling question in German. Then French.
The American stared ahead and breathed with those souls in the image, not at all.
The boy twisted around to look into the German face.
“My father is deaf and dumb.” He said.
—
On August 25th, French and American forces wrested from Nazi control, the City of Love.
On August 26th, Lieutenant Bob Woodrum greeted the champagne sunrise wearing his American uniform and carrying on his shoulders Louis Berty’s seven-year-old boy.
Intrigue for this story provided by a friend.
Why is he always telling stories?
Why doesn’t he just say what he means?
A full moon smile rose on the strange boy’s cheeks.
“Here’s a good one. Once, dad fired one of our orchard managers.”
“Okay. What happened?”
“Before he cleaned out his desk, the manager called a meeting with all the orchard people.”
“No, I mean why did he get fired?”
“And at this meeting he says “Alright everyone, I’m feeling generous today. Everyone who owes us anything, get our your bills, mark them down by half. I’ll sign off.” Just like that he cut all their debts in half, on his last day!”
“What!? He was already fired. He can’t do that, right?“
“He figured his little display of generosity might win him some new friends. It worked too. They loved him for it. He couch-surfed with some of them until he found steady work again.”
“Well, what did your dad do, wasn’t he mad?”
“Hah, no way! He almost rehired him.”
“But the guy cheated! He basically gave away your dad’s money!”
A laughing stream broke their path.
“Here, I know the way across. Watch where I put my feet.”
“You still didn’t tell me why he got fired.”
“Oh. I guess he got afraid. He got stingy with the orchard, anyhow.”
On the other side, the strange boy drew some numbers in the dust.
“How much is $1,000 worth? Or $10,000? Or $10 million?”
“How long does any wealth last?”
He looked up and the sun filled his eyes.
“How much is a friendship worth?”
“How long does a friendship last?”
Daylight was courting the horizon now.
The confident path sped their steps.
“Still, I don’t think your dad should let people just give away his stuff.”
“If you owned all the stars, how many would you give away?”
“Can you waste something that never runs out?”
Something in his chest sprung.
“It’s like I always say, little brother…
…the only way to lose your life is to try to save it.”
Moonbeams are quite soft underfoot, you know.
So they went on silently, for a while.
The world would be fine if you never existed. Don’t sweat it.
The world will never be the same because you exist. Sweat blood.
Nothing we do changes anything in the end.
What we do is all that matters in the end.
All of this collapses to dust.
All of this sings for eternity.
Life’s greatest pain is in giving yourself to another.
Life’s greatest joy is in giving yourself to another.
If you commit you will probably lose everything.
If you don’t commit you will probably lose everything.
Losing isn’t everything.
Winning isn’t anything.
Being together is painful delight.
Being alone is delightful pain.
Death is a bitter pill in the end.
Death makes every day sweet.
You are born and then you die.
You live.
An English Earl knocked on the front door with a battering ram, but Patrick Dunbar wasn’t home.
The enemy Earl believed this castle kept by women would be easily swept from their keep.
He learned hard that a Scotswoman doesn’t sweep easy.
Earl arrived at Dunbar Castle early in 1338, February.
Marching up from Edinburgh, his army encircled the entire fortress.
They petitioned the mistress of the manor, Mrs. Dunbar…
“Surrender, or be sieged!” they said.
The lady of the lair rendered the following response…
“Of Scotland’s King I haud my house,
I pay him meat and fee,
And I will keep my gude auld house,
while my house will keep me.”
Did you know Scots invented the “rap battle?”
The English were much better at old, less fashionable forms of battle.
So they began battering the walls with mud-caked boulders.
When the trebuchet slings hung still, even the proud top parts had not cracked.
The damage was so nil, Madam Dunbar marched her damsels across the walls.
Dressed in their Sunday best, they faked fear and laughed and feigned tears.
They made a show of dusting the ramparts with their handkerchiefs.
Blustering, Salisbury staked his final assault.
“Get ‘The Sow’ to the wall!!” he ordered.
The Sow was a two-story siege machine, soldiers up top, miners down under.
Why was it named like a mother of pigs? We have no idea.
“To the wall! That’s it!” he said.
Mother Dunbar and her maids promptly dropped a wardrobe-sized rock on the porcine machine.
Their gravity powered pile driver had been delivered air mail, courtesy of the Royal Catapults.
That soggy stone squished the squealing structure completely.
The Earl of Salisbury “sallied forth” shortly thereafter.
That’s fancy English for “he gave up and went home.”
Agnes Dunbar held her own.
Some have said this story is too wild to be true.
If you’ve known a woman who carries the spirit of Scotland in her heart…
…you know this sounds about right.
Easy going hard knowing looks safe cracking smiles easily strong castle keeping Sunday best dressed down river heart over head out of town squared shoulders brushing boulders off… flint face on, smiling, knowing, holding her own.
She lives and loves on her own two feet.
No sweepy sweepers need apply.
—
P.S. Two ancient words suggest that this special spirit lived in the first lady.
My friend wrote about it. Some think he’s crazy. He’s definitely not sweepy.
Only click if you like ideas that surprise. =)
Do you know about The Scarecrow?
It’s a short story.
This story is haunted by a song from Willy Wonka.
…come with me,
and you’ll be,
in a world of pure imagination…
Wonka was a lovely, crazy bird, wasn’t he?
An albatross in the land of Light, Willie was.
Speaking of giants…
Chipotle made themselves delightfully small
with this animated story, The Scarecrow.
If you’ve already seen it,
then you know you want to see it again.
So watch it.
Watch out for the cow,
sometimes that part gets blurry…
Watch “The Scarecrow” (exactly 202 seconds)…
Okay, who’s chopping onions in here?
Chipotle made us cry and get angry… by drawing a cartoon cow?
How? Facts?
Zero. Figurines are the hero.
Why did people love to watch a three-and-a-half-minute advertisement for a virtual farming game?
Why did you watch a three-and-a-half-minute advertisement for a virtual farming game?
I asked some of my friends – Jerry, Roy, Steve and Wiki.
“There is no such thing as an attention span. People have an infinite attention span, if you are entertaining.”
— Jerry of Seinfeld
“Entertainment is the only currency with which you can purchase the time and attention of a too busy public.”
— Roy H. Williams III
“We’re trying to bring people in through entertainment…”
— Steve Ells, Chipotle Founder
Let’s cut to the check and chase the bottom line…
When it’s a big idea you’re selling,
it better be a mad story you’re telling.
Once upon a time, three magicians rolled into town.
“We’re looking for a baby who is a King.”
Everyone laughed at these kooky Eastern guys.
“Seriously folks, the stars are telling us he’s around here.”
But everyone in town pretended they didn’t care.
The magi went a way, following their star.
After many days, said star stood still in the sky.
This star parked right over a little house.
When the wise guys saw this, they went nuts.
They went into the house.
They saw the boy with his mother.
They fell to the ground and worshipped Him.
Then, opening their treasures, they presented to Him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Later in the story,
the king of the town tried to kill Him.
But He lived.
Later, later in the story,
the people of the town did kill Him.
But He lived again.
Lovely, crazy, and bright.
…and so are you, right?
…if you want to view paradise,
simply look around and view it.anything you want to, do it.
want to change the world?
there’s nothing, to it…
A 90 second story, served warm and foamy.
– To those who serve.
Her shiny gold balloon jumped to greet a patient blue sky.
She let the green nylon ribbon slide through her hand.
If you find this balloon, please write to:
Laura Buxton at 18 Fourth Ave, Stoke-on-Trent, UK ST2 8NF
“Papa, are you sure someone will find it?”
“If we’re lucky, kiddo. Sometimes special things happen.”
Her brown pigtails bounced back to the orange stuccoed farmhouse.
10 days later…
A white card tumbled through the tired bronze mail slot.
Red crayon writing says…
To: Laura Buxton at 18 Fourth Ave, Stoke-on-Trent…
Blue crayon writing says…
From: Laura Buxton at 63 Havering Ln, Pewsey…
Dear Laura Buxton,
My name is Laura Buxton too. I found your balloon.
I live in Pewsey. I am 10 years old.
My mum says if you are real you can ring our house.
+44 1672 596148
LB
Laura’s balloon flew more than 140 miles,
and found another girl with the same name.
Laura Buxton phones Laura Buxton.
“Do you like animals?”
“I have a dog, a rabbit, and a guinea pig.” Laura said.
“I have a dog, a rabbit, and a guinea pig too!” Laura said.
Then things get weird.
Both Lauras have blue eyes.
They are both 4′ 7″ tall.
They both wear their brown hair in pig tails.
They are both in Year 5 of primary school.
They both have a grey rabbit.
They both have a three-year-old black Labrador.
They both have a white guinea pig with orange spots.
Their parents decide to all meet in person.
They meet at Caffè Nero in Birmingham, UK.
Both Lauras walk in wearing a pink sweater and blue jeans.
Some folks use the cold hand of Coincidence to grasp mysteries.
Laura Buxton2 uses the hand of Synchronicity…
“…there must be some reason…”
What is the difference between Coincidence and Synchronicity?
How do you grasp Life’s mysteries?
P.S. watch this clip from Pi if you want to nerd out about synchronicity…
When was the last time you felt this way?
Every good thing and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Creator of light…
James (brother to Jesus of Nazareth) wrote that around 45 A.D…
Kinda fits the photo, don’t you think? =)
P.S. Do you like words that go with photos? Me too… here’s s’more for ya.
Rivets were popping like firecrackers, exploding from their holds.
The skin thick as your fist screamed and twisted, now gashed wide open.
Then silence.
Except for the horrible sound of water. Water where it shouldn’t be.
Named “Unsinkable,” but no one told the iceberg.
Certain survivors did tell of other, warmer sounds... “Many brave things were done that night, but none were more brave than those done by men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly, lower and lower in the sea. The music they played served alike as their own immortal requiem and their right to be recalled on the scrolls of undying fame.”
Theodore Brailey, Roger Bricoux, John Clarke, Wallace Hartley, John Hume, Georges Krins, Percy Taylor, John Woodward…
Eight bright souls played until the lights went out.
When everything is still, if you listen gently,
you can hear the song
that was in their hearts.
All ships sink, eventually.
What song will be in your heart, when the lights go out?
—
Pondering this musical mystery, Gavin Bryars composed The Sinking of the Titanic circa 1970.
Here it is, an arrangement performed by the Trinity Laban Conservatoire.
Careful, this song can tear you up.
Buckle your seat belt for the first two minutes…
You might need a lifeboat, for the last two minutes.
No light. No sound.
She lived in silent darkness for most of a decade.
Then Helen met a woman named Anne.
This story feels like sunbeams bouncing off your face.
Watch it if you like bright things.
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
By Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
I said: what about my eyes?
He said: Keep them on the road.
I said: What about my passion?
He said: Keep it burning.
I said: What about my heart?
He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?
I said: Pain and sorrow.
He said: Stay with it.
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
-Rumi
1. Choice – this means being free, and being responsible. Thank You for giving me choice.
2. Opportunity – this gives me something to do, to work on, to accomplish. Thank You for giving me opportunity.
3. Today – this is time to work and play, new each morning. Thank You for giving me today.
4. All Creation – this is the reality, the host of natural law, the rules and the playing field. Thank You for giving me creation.
5. Purpose – this is the drive, the reason and the knowing, where fulfillment comes from. Thank You for my purpose.
6. Family – this is support, knowledge and experience, where love is learned. Thank You for my family.
7. Wisdom – this is guidance, the understanding that brings joy. Thank You for wisdom.
8. Thought – this is the tool for creation, for development and application. Thank You for my mind.
9. Hope – this is renewed connection, a force of inspiration. Thank You for hope.
10. Triumph – this is the ultimate win, life over death, good over evil, light over dark. Thank You for triumph.