Lee Busby's guest appearances

Lee Busby

Mentors for Military Podcast

Fieldcraft Survival

Podcasts – Written In Small Spaces

The Uncle Henry Show

Yellowhammer News

Tuscaloosa Talk

David Burnett

Chris VanSant

Rick Hogg

Shawn Ryan

Remi Adeleke

Mike Glover

Andy Stumpf

Scott Johnson

Nick Dunn

Kevin Estela

Ted Nugent

John Nores

Jason Dickinson

Kate Smith

Matt Johnson

OwlTail

Lee Busby is a retired 20+ year Special Operations Veteran with service in the 75th Ranger Regiment and 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta (Delta Force). Busby’s service includes 12 combat deployments as both a Team Member and Team Leader in Delta Force. Lee joins Robert, Paul, and Chris VanSant on this episode. Lee Busby on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/busbytyrtactical If you enjoy our content and you want to help support our show, visit https://www.patreon.com/join/Mentors4mil to become a donor of our podcast for as little as $2. Support a veteran owned business at www.veteranownedus.com today! Follow Mentors for Military: Tribal App: https://appv2.tribalapp.com/groups/mentors-for-military-podcast-aka-mentors4mil/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mentors4mil Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mentors4mil Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/mentors4mil Homepage: http://www.mentorsformilitary.com

Lee Busby is a retired 20+ year Special Operations Veteran with service in the 75th Ranger Regiment and 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta (Delta Force). Busby’s service includes 12 combat deployments as both a Team Member and Team Leader in Delta Force. Lee joins Robert, Paul, and Chris VanSant on this episode. Lee Busby on Instagram: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/busbytyrtactical" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.instagram.com/busbytyrtactical</a> If you enjoy our content and you want to help support our show, visit <a href="https://www.patreon.com/join/Mentors4mil" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.patreon.com/join/Mentors4mil</a> to become a donor of our podcast for as little as $2. Support a veteran owned business at <a href="http://www.veteranownedus.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.veteranownedus.com</a> today! Follow Mentors for Military: Tribal App: <a href="https://appv2.tribalapp.com/groups/mentors-for-military-podcast-aka-mentors4mil/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://appv2.tribalapp.com/groups/mentors-for-military-podcast-aka-mentors4mil/</a> Instagram: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/mentors4mil" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.instagram.com/mentors4mil</a> Twitter: <a href="http://www.twitter.com/mentors4mil" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.twitter.com/mentors4mil</a> Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/mentors4mil" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.facebook.com/mentors4mil</a> Homepage: <a href="http://www.mentorsformilitary.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.mentorsformilitary.com</a>

EP-273 | Lee Busby - Tip of the Spear

In this epic episode, Mike talks with Lee Busby and Chris VanSant, two guys who made it to the highest levels of operating at the "tip of the spear"http://Shop.dometic.com Use Code "fieldcraft"https://uncanna.com http://www.tyrtactical.com Use Code "fieldcraft"http://www.triarcsystems.com Use Code "fieldcraft"http://www.killcliff.com Use Code "Survival10"https://www.kchilites.com Use Code "Fieldcraft"https://bravocompanymfg.com http://www.blackpowderredearth.com https://www.511tactical.comFollow us:https://fieldcraftsurvival.com/collections/training/training https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcj3FycZBXIPNj7QIBKTIDw https://fieldcraftsurvival.com/ http://www.instagram.com/fieldcraftsurvival https://www.fieldcraftmobility.com https://www.instagram.com/mike.a.glover/?hl=en

In this epic episode, Mike talks with Lee Busby and Chris VanSant, two guys who made it to the highest levels of operating at the "tip of the spear" <a href="http://Shop.dometic.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://Shop.dometic.com</a> Use Code "fieldcraft" <a href="https://uncanna.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://uncanna.com</a> <a href="http://www.tyrtactical.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.tyrtactical.com</a> Use Code "fieldcraft" <a href="http://www.triarcsystems.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.triarcsystems.com</a> Use Code "fieldcraft" <a href="http://www.killcliff.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.killcliff.com</a> Use Code "Survival10" <a href="https://www.kchilites.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.kchilites.com</a> Use Code "Fieldcraft" <a href="https://bravocompanymfg.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://bravocompanymfg.com</a> <a href="http://www.blackpowderredearth.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.blackpowderredearth.com</a> <a href="https://www.511tactical.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.511tactical.com</a> Follow us: <a href="https://fieldcraftsurvival.com/collections/training/training" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://fieldcraftsurvival.com/collections/training/training</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcj3FycZBXIPNj7QIBKTIDw" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcj3FycZBXIPNj7QIBKTIDw</a> <a href="https://fieldcraftsurvival.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://fieldcraftsurvival.com/</a> <a href="http://www.instagram.com/fieldcraftsurvival" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.instagram.com/fieldcraftsurvival</a> <a href="https://www.fieldcraftmobility.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.fieldcraftmobility.com</a> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/mike.a.glover/?hl=en" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.instagram.com/mike.a.glover/?hl=en</a>

Episode 175 Lee Busby And Chris VanSant

A man claiming to be Lee Busby's friend calls the show to speak on behalf of Busby, the new write-in candidate for the Senate.

Retired Col. Lee Busby's "Friend" Calls In

Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re back! We have a wonderful episode for you this week with poet Lee Busby. Author of the chapbook, Wild Strawberries from Finishing Line Press, founding member of the River Pretty writer’s Retreat in Tecumseh, MO. He has published numerous poems and won an award for best poem in the 2008 issue of Moon City Review. He also co-hosts PADSMASH, a Hulk podcast with J David Weter. Plus, I talk more about persona, heteronyms and of course Fernando Pessoa. So kick back, do some stretches, put the key in the ignition, and enjoy! https://writteninsmallspaces.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/episode-03-look-in-the-sky-its-lee-busby-and-pessoa.mp3 Get a copy of Wild Strawberries here.  And Check out River Pretty And if you like podcasts and the HULK go listen to PADSMASH. Below you can find the Richard Zenith translations of the Pessoa poems discussed in this week’s episode.     Alberto Caiero  THE KEEPER OF SHEEP XXXIX The mystery of things – where is it? Why doesn’t it come out To show us at least that it’s mystery? What do the river and the tree know about it? And what do I, who am no more than they, know about it?   Whenever I look at things and think about what people think of them, I laugh like a brook cleanly plashing against a rock. For the only hidden meaning of things Is that they have no hidden meaning. It’s the strangest thing of all, Stranger than all poets’ dreams And all philosophers’ thoughts, That things are really what they seem to be And there’s nothing to understand.   Yes, this is what my senses learned on their own: Things have no meaning: they exist. Things are the only hidden meaning of things.   Ricardo Reis Since we do nothing in this confused world That lasts or that, lasting, is of any worth, And even what’s useful for us we lose So soon, with our own lives, Let us prefer the pleasure of the moment To an absurd concern with the future, Whose only certainty is the harm we suffer now To pay for its prosperity. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. This moment Alone is mine, and I am only who Exists in this instant, which might be the last Of the self I pretend to be.     Alvaro De Campos From The Tobacco Shop   I’m nothing. I’ll always be nothing. I can’t want to be something. But I have in me all the dreams of the world.   Windows of my room, The room of one of the world’s millions nobody knows (And if they knew me, what would they know?), You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people, A street inaccessible to any and every thought, Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain, With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings, With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white, With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.   Today I’m defeated, as if I’d learned the truth. Today I’m lucid, as if I were about to die And had no greater kinship with things Than to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becoming A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure Blowing in my head And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out.   Today I’m bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot. Today I’m torn between the loyalty I owe To the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the street And to the inward reality of my feeling that everything’s a dream.   I failed in everything. Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing. I left the education I was given, Climbing down from the window at the back of the house. I went to the country with big plans. But all I found was grass and trees, And when there were people they were just like the others. I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about?   How should I know what I’ll be, I who don’t know what I am? Be what I think? But I think of being so many things! And there are so many who think of being the same thing that we can’t all be it! Genius? At this moment A hundred thousand brains are dreaming they’re geniuses like me, And it may be that history won’t remember even one, All of their imagined conquests amounting to so much dung. No, I don’t believe in me. Insane asylums are full of lunatics with certainties! Am I, who have no certainties, more right or less right? No, not even me . . . In how many garrets and non-garrets of the world Are self-convinced geniuses at this moment dreaming? How many lofty and noble and lucid aspirations –Yes, truly lofty and noble and lucid And perhaps even attainable– Will never see the light of day or find a sympathetic ear? The world is for those born to conquer it, Not for those who dream they can conquer it, even if they’re right. I’ve done more in dreams than Napoleon.   I’ve held more humanities against my hypothetical breast than Christ. I’ve secretly invented philosophies such as Kant never wrote. But I am, and perhaps will always be, the man in the garret, Even though I don’t live in one. I’ll always be the one who wasn’t born for that; I’ll always be merely the one who had qualities; I’ll always be the one who waited for a door to open in a wall without doors And sang the song of the Infinite in a chicken coop And heard the voice of God in a covered well. Believe in me? No, not in anything. Let Nature pour over my seething head Its sun, its rain, and the wind that finds my hair, And let the rest come if it will or must, or let it not come. Cardiac slaves of the stars, We conquered the whole world before getting out of bed, But we woke up and it’s hazy, We got up and it’s alien, We went outside and it’s the entire earth Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite.   (Eat your chocolates, little girl, Eat your chocolates! Believe me, there’s no metaphysics on earth like chocolates, And all religions put together teach no more than the candy shop. Eat, dirty little girl, eat! If only I could eat chocolates with the same truth as you! But I think and, removing the silver paper that’s tinfoil, I throw it on the ground, as I’ve thrown out life.)   But at least, from my bitterness over what I’ll never be, There remains the hasty writing of these verses, A broken gateway to the Impossible. But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears, Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling The dirty laundry that’s me–with no list–into the stream of things, And I stay at home, shirtless.       Fernando Pessoa Oblique Rain   VI The maestro waves his baton, And the sad, languid music begins…   It spends me of my childhood, of a day I spent playing in my backyard, throwing a ball Against the wall… On one side of the ball Sailed a green dog, on the other side A yellow jockey was riding a blue horse…   The music continues, and on the white wall of my childhood That’s suddenly between me and the maestro The ball bounces back and forth, now a green dog, Now a blue horse with a yellow jockey…   My backyard takes up the whole theater, my childhood Is everywhere, and the ball starts to play music, A sad hazy music that runs around my back yard Dressed as a green dog that turn into a yellow jockey… (So quickly spins the ball between me and the musicians…   I throw it at my childhood, and it Passes with a yellow jockey and a green dog And a blue horse that pops out over the wall Of my backyard…and the music throws balls At my childhood…and the wall is made of baton Movements and wildly whirling green dogs, Blue horses and yellow jockeys…   The whole theater is a white wall of music Where a green dog runs after my nostalgia For my childhood, a blue horse with a yellow jockey… And from one side to the other, from right to left, From the trees where orchestras okay music in the upper branches To the rows of balls in the shop where I bought my ball And the shopkeeper smiles among the memories of my childhood…   And the music stops like a wall that collapses, The ball rolls over the cliff of my interrupted dreams, And on top of a blue horse the maestro, a yellow jockey turning black, Gives thanks while laying down his baton on a fleeing wall, And he takes a bow, smiling, with a white ball on top of his head, A white ball that rolls down his back out of sight…

Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re back! We have a wonderful episode for you this week with poet Lee Busby. Author of the chapbook, Wild Strawberries from Finishing Line Press, founding member of the River Pretty writer’s Retreat in Tecumseh, MO. He has published numerous poems and won an award for best poem in the 2008 issue of Moon City Review. He also co-hosts PADSMASH, a Hulk podcast with J David Weter. Plus, I talk more about persona, heteronyms and of course Fernando Pessoa. So kick back, do some stretches, put the key in the ignition, and enjoy! <a href="https://writteninsmallspaces.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/episode-03-look-in-the-sky-its-lee-busby-and-pessoa.mp3" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://writteninsmallspaces.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/episode-03-look-in-the-sky-its-lee-busby-and-pessoa.mp3</a> Get a copy of Wild Strawberries <a href="https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?products_id=41" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here.</a> <a href="https://writteninsmallspaces.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/fileitem-120053-dawt1.jpg" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"></a> And Check out <a href="http://riverpretty.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">River Pretty</a> And if you like podcasts and the HULK go listen to <a href="http://www.incrediblehulkhomepage.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">PADSMASH</a>. Below you can find the Richard Zenith translations of the Pessoa poems discussed in this week’s episode. Alberto Caiero THE KEEPER OF SHEEP XXXIX The mystery of things – where is it? Why doesn’t it come out To show us at least that it’s mystery? What do the river and the tree know about it? And what do I, who am no more than they, know about it? Whenever I look at things and think about what people think of them, I laugh like a brook cleanly plashing against a rock. For the only hidden meaning of things Is that they have no hidden meaning. It’s the strangest thing of all, Stranger than all poets’ dreams And all philosophers’ thoughts, That things are really what they seem to be And there’s nothing to understand. Yes, this is what my senses learned on their own: Things have no meaning: they exist. Things are the only hidden meaning of things. Ricardo Reis Since we do nothing in this confused world That lasts or that, lasting, is of any worth, And even what’s useful for us we lose So soon, with our own lives, Let us prefer the pleasure of the moment To an absurd concern with the future, Whose only certainty is the harm we suffer now To pay for its prosperity. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. This moment Alone is mine, and I am only who Exists in this instant, which might be the last Of the self I pretend to be. Alvaro De Campos From The Tobacco Shop I’m nothing. I’ll always be nothing. I can’t want to be something. But I have in me all the dreams of the world. Windows of my room, The room of one of the world’s millions nobody knows (And if they knew me, what would they know?), You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people, A street inaccessible to any and every thought, Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain, With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings, With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white, With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing. Today I’m defeated, as if I’d learned the truth. Today I’m lucid, as if I were about to die And had no greater kinship with things Than to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becoming A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure Blowing in my head And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out. Today I’m bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot. Today I’m torn between the loyalty I owe To the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the street And to the inward reality of my feeling that everything’s a dream. I failed in everything. Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing. I left the education I was given, Climbing down from the window at the back of the house. I went to the country with big plans. But all I found was grass and trees, And when there were people they were just like the others. I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about? How should I know what I’ll be, I who don’t know what I am? Be what I think? But I think of being so many things! And there are so many who think of being the same thing that we can’t all be it! Genius? At this moment A hundred thousand brains are dreaming they’re geniuses like me, And it may be that history won’t remember even one, All of their imagined conquests amounting to so much dung. No, I don’t believe in me. Insane asylums are full of lunatics with certainties! Am I, who have no certainties, more right or less right? No, not even me . . . In how many garrets and non-garrets of the world Are self-convinced geniuses at this moment dreaming? How many lofty and noble and lucid aspirations –Yes, truly lofty and noble and lucid And perhaps even attainable– Will never see the light of day or find a sympathetic ear? The world is for those born to conquer it, Not for those who dream they can conquer it, even if they’re right. I’ve done more in dreams than Napoleon. I’ve held more humanities against my hypothetical breast than Christ. I’ve secretly invented philosophies such as Kant never wrote. But I am, and perhaps will always be, the man in the garret, Even though I don’t live in one. I’ll always be the one who wasn’t born for that; I’ll always be merely the one who had qualities; I’ll always be the one who waited for a door to open in a wall without doors And sang the song of the Infinite in a chicken coop And heard the voice of God in a covered well. Believe in me? No, not in anything. Let Nature pour over my seething head Its sun, its rain, and the wind that finds my hair, And let the rest come if it will or must, or let it not come. Cardiac slaves of the stars, We conquered the whole world before getting out of bed, But we woke up and it’s hazy, We got up and it’s alien, We went outside and it’s the entire earth Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite. (Eat your chocolates, little girl, Eat your chocolates! Believe me, there’s no metaphysics on earth like chocolates, And all religions put together teach no more than the candy shop. Eat, dirty little girl, eat! If only I could eat chocolates with the same truth as you! But I think and, removing the silver paper that’s tinfoil, I throw it on the ground, as I’ve thrown out life.) But at least, from my bitterness over what I’ll never be, There remains the hasty writing of these verses, A broken gateway to the Impossible. But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears, Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling The dirty laundry that’s me–with no list–into the stream of things, And I stay at home, shirtless. Fernando Pessoa Oblique Rain VI The maestro waves his baton, And the sad, languid music begins… It spends me of my childhood, of a day I spent playing in my backyard, throwing a ball Against the wall… On one side of the ball Sailed a green dog, on the other side A yellow jockey was riding a blue horse… The music continues, and on the white wall of my childhood That’s suddenly between me and the maestro The ball bounces back and forth, now a green dog, Now a blue horse with a yellow jockey… My backyard takes up the whole theater, my childhood Is everywhere, and the ball starts to play music, A sad hazy music that runs around my back yard Dressed as a green dog that turn into a yellow jockey… (So quickly spins the ball between me and the musicians… I throw it at my childhood, and it Passes with a yellow jockey and a green dog And a blue horse that pops out over the wall Of my backyard…and the music throws balls At my childhood…and the wall is made of baton Movements and wildly whirling green dogs, Blue horses and yellow jockeys… The whole theater is a white wall of music Where a green dog runs after my nostalgia For my childhood, a blue horse with a yellow jockey… And from one side to the other, from right to left, From the trees where orchestras okay music in the upper branches To the rows of balls in the shop where I bought my ball And the shopkeeper smiles among the memories of my childhood… And the music stops like a wall that collapses, The ball rolls over the cliff of my interrupted dreams, And on top of a blue horse the maestro, a yellow jockey turning black, Gives thanks while laying down his baton on a fleeing wall, And he takes a bow, smiling, with a white ball on top of his head, A white ball that rolls down his back out of sight…

Episode 03: Look in the Sky…It’s Lee Busby…and Pessoa