Brandon K. Nobles – The Broken Mechanism, 2011

From one place to another
we move like caribou
huddled like the emperors of old
egg rests on their mottled feet
they gather as a circuit board for heat
when the sun and warmth are gone
so leave the birds in manic throngs
when gone the moss it grows

when seasons change
and melt the frost
blind children of the world are lost
in a world not seen yet heard
the mating calls of mockingbirds
nothing to see but mirrored glass
The rain clouds up above have passed

Their first view of the world
A world of water and of sand
Their fledgling waters meet the sand
And natures struggle starts again
In the spring the flowers bring
sparrows from their porch to sing
Alone are all the gulls that fly
Into the upturned bowl the sky

And underneath them hand in hand
the broken mechanism man
Hera’s necklace is the stars
to which we look through narrow bars
of our own creation made
placed before the dying man
was his last masquerade
the main performers night and day

the cycles of the sun once spun
is autumn by September done
and multicolored leaves are flung
against the speckled grass of green
the leaves are scattered in the breeze

fear keeps the hermit locked away
so bleak that no one could assuage
us to forget our yesterdays
the wounded bird stays in its cage
like a mockingbird that cannot fly
just like a one winged butterfly
that’s how the desperate circle dies

Brandon K. Nobles – The Hole, 2011

We try to fill our hole with pills
Some from books of old
Drug after drug until they dug
the anxiety hole

One other childhood misery
The adult fear of tomorrow
And the hole grows larger
Nothing can kill it, nothing stops

No one hears you in the box
No one left to lie
And no one there to say
Everything will be okay
The lie rings hollow in the dawn
And shimmers like a lake, the fawn
Hobgoblins eat our merry psalms

The bird of paradise
Follows the ox drawn plow
The fledgling worms caught in the ground
Ate by the bird of paradise
The seeds are planted in their song
And the reborn grass becomes the dawn
Must lie still, must lie still

At night the silhouette of luna glows
It’s silhouette on light post throws
The rats return to numbered holes
And we who walk, the hole just grows
Until it has swallowed hole

It’s all the algebra of need
Have a cigarette a drink
Look it in the face, then hail
You never will be high enough
Click it, view it
Watch it bloom
Anxiety the hole consumes

Upon our death I’m sure they’ll dress
In their Sunday best
The father’s collar is pristine
His life a blip between two screams
Inhale it, smell it
Eat it, drink
You’ll never feel so good in bed
Against the velvet cushions red

It never feels so good, so real
As natural as spring time hill
For there are floating moments still
The fleeing dream stuffed in our dreams
They melt away at night

To wake to find, the night before
Our hopes in puddles on the floor
Shoot it, just a little prick, a sting
The more you mourn the more it seems
Our life a struggle, just a dream
One comes out, one other dreams
One to scream and one now sound

Heaven comes in milligrams
Two loose psalms day
One to eat and one to drink
And two when down they lay
Smoke it, swallow
Eat it, hollow
The natural device is hollow

Click it, lust
You’ll never be high enough
A glass of whiskey and a puff
It’ll never be enough
Like in the crystal of a dream
As clockwork, runs the new machine
And clean his coat and cuff

You won’t see in your crystal ball
The weakest baboon of them all
A sleepy shepard of the heard
Was guided by a guilded bird
He walked along the wall
He ate rectangle palindromes
And did not mean to love at all

When we look down the inclined hill
Echoes of the sirens call
Knowing all the while he’d fall
He never meant to love at all
Eat, repeat
Until we all are obsolete

Just one hand full of dust
Smoke it, smell
Inject, inhale
You’re never high enough
Inhale it, hold
Try to fill the nervous hole

Dig until you can not see the light
There will never be enough
Those diamond bracelets, golden cuffs
Take a drink and take a puff
You’ll never be high enough
You’ll never feel so good, so real
That moment once, the moment still
Never to look down from the hill

Never meant to love at all
The dream of climbing up the walls
Eating rectangle palindromes
Two pills, two prayers, every day
It crawls inside our blood and leaves

When we take a pill we feel
As though we were in golden fields
And Mara chews the brain that bleeds
When tuned in her frequency
We see the hobo, ghosts inside
We flush them out with cyanide

Brandon K. Nobles – The Orphan’s Last Parade, 2011


At three years old–the kids were told,
their families were gone.
They were dead or lost instead.
Or so the old nuns said.
The cold that year I won’t forget.
like some old country song.

We ran under that paper moon
Our kites were drug along.
we played, and laughed,
we rolled in grass,
we had no for no life boat
we tried to tune into the sun.
just old willows, ragged pillows,
no way would we have fun.

How faraway the brilliant star,
The oft inspired songs
No signal on the way back in
perhaps some sing-a-long.

We went into a bedroom quiet,
With poles of artificial lights,
Back in the bedroom,
All was quiet;
Still colored by the neon lights,
The Chinese candles on the mantle,
Potpourri and incense burning
Logs in fire over-turning.
Washing the room with warmth.

We walked in circles all along,
And never found our way back home.
There was no beacon bright.
Staring at the ceiling, feeling,
Nothing would be alright,
We joined their cult and prayed along
Singing plagiarized angel songs.


The nuns came in at night, at ten,
to tuck the children into bed.
No attempt to comfort or console,
she knelt to pray instead.
just a tiny needle hole
–that’s all I need, I said.:

To quiet cries she heard at night-
she gave a piece of bread and rice;
to each child, still awake,
and gave out sleeping pills and slipped,
one into a glass of milk,
they drifted off, into the sky,
no glimpse of Heaven going by.

Drifting further, drifting by, a icy stream across the sky;
Too high to drift, to disappear–
and soon did fall their eyes.
the kiss of death swells in one’s chest
just one more kiss the last.


And all the hollow days that followed
for children in a kennels, cage
wagging their tail for minimum wage,
and when the days that follow hollow
the days before it fell tomorrow.
for the children in the cage
Out there at night they turn to stone,
and they had nothing left to say.
hauled up a mountain top along,
and had nothing left to say.
Every night they were their quiet
until some child cried
the children wept, they pined
For some mother bird to find.


“The older kids had lost their hope
Parental days were such a joke.
We wagged our tails and
cleaned our hair,
we brushed our teeth and combed
our hair,
as everyday some couple did come in
they opened up our mouths and
turned our chin
and then they all moved on-
looking for some child better-small
a little boy to call their own
and the others weren’t good enough
for a home and shelter, love
Sometimes its not in the cards for us


And in the pound my mahtra found,
all was done for naught
We played our games, and we watched tv
and then we talked and we talked
She read the Bible line for line
at each and every story time
and we were fast asleep.
We dreamed of open windows
they were no longer barred
and from the window we could
see the lovely distant stars
Whose light had been fractured
as it passed the iron bars.


There were other lost strays,
my bunk mate Adrian, that knew
how fond I was of books
He had his father order them
so I might take a look-
sending books his father did
but somehow could not raise his kid,
and Adrian used to say,
“One day When I leave this place
I want to have a house of birds
birds and never keep them in a cage-”
In that way he thought he’d help
having been caged himself


The footsteps at the dawn were soft,
when the nuns descended from the loft
to rouse them from their sleep
I could not sleep, try as I might
in delicate turns and twists the sprites,
Their shadows on the wall.
I covered my head and did not peek
and lay there silent in my sheets
to keep such a seneschal
the tedious watchman of the wall
Where shadow figures thronged to room
the preacher’s face was earnest, gloom
the parents had arrived too soon.


*The older kids had lost their hope
potential days were a cruel joke*
I did not wear my baseball hat
it messed up all my hair,
I brushed my teeth in their old sink
and with the others marched
parade – the rubes so polished for
potential parents through the door
their clothes – so perfect starched
Lining up in that old row
*In the middle of the crowd stood
a girl once silent found
she ran up to the front
The parents looked and but to see
that young girl had a cavity
and she was turned away
Forgotten back in the stream of time
those orphans lost their minds*
that all once sifted alas go.


I walked amongst the judge, the trial,
and stood there on the stand
I fell, and almost swooned–
I crumpled like a paper man.
My girl she died! Too soon! Too soon!
she died under a paper moon

That night they stood and vigil kept,
for those between the worlds who crept,
the elders hanging on for life,
and the others on the fridge,
Someone just press the reset button
and let’s just try again.
His silhouette and rippled curtain
passed above him to make certain,
that I’d not him to see.
Man the burden, beast excuse,
behind the curtains walk the dolls
the velvet curtain and the shawl,
A silhouette, a certain, that,
like those ones of old who showed
their men across the sea.

22They put on their happy face,
and did not speak a word
they barely talked,
as slow they walked
The orphans last parade—
Their brightest eyes
In single file
a merry masquerade.
They thought about their futures

Yet only saw a grave
Rows and rows into the hill
A gray sky hanging o’er still
That waits for fools, for knaves
That golden meadow by the brook
Two angels and peered and Sol they took
And dissolved into the manhole
Inch by inch they shaped the flint
And walked blind in the winter’s breath
Unable to see their hands
No rope to guide them home

And blind and they find from dust at Everyday from dust to dawn
They always into had they saw
the mirage of a corner store
the electric neon lights were on
12 to midnight, a bag of coat
Honey, put some music on
time to close
And they run
in their white dresses
for their coke
anxiety feels like dying
conscious of erosion of the red blood cells
the shrinkage of the skin around the bones

Brandon K. Nobles – Mara in a Business Suit, 2011

King Mara’s back,
and dressed in black.
In a business suit and hat
alone he walks the Mile.
Whistling as he’s walking
Wearing such a charming smile.
Mara must be fed to live,
But he can’t feed himself.
He crawls inside our brains
and tells:
Feeding him is for ourselves.

We’re twisted and we’re warped,
he lied:
We’re born to rise and fall by pride—
Into a maze made by our mind,
left to find our way back home.
That could be King Mara’s song—
scattered people on the lawn.

Bow before the bottle, pray;
like birds of paradise—
Shrieking out their mating call,
so delicate, precise:
The Animals of the Earth pristine,
They roam the wilderness unseen,
Their tracks left in the snow;
Never has a human been,
To that place, nor have they seen,
What once lived long ago.

The obsolete, it makes me weep,
the things I’ve been, the things I’ve seen,
Yesterday was just a dream,
I must be someone else.
How much is a person worth,
Their strife, their happiness?
Their starry cars and dying houses
collapse into the ground around them.
In the tempest of the storm
the sun itself may be reborn.

From mother’s wrath we cannot hide,
Self sacrifice our alibi,
King Mara walks behind us,
And never does he rest,
like Oedipus Rex,
whose subtle complex,
In the throne of all our misery sat.

Life is a weekend in the rain;
And death is Monday—it’s a shame.
Don’t let the weekend slip away,
when Monday walks in all we lay,
in this world of ours to die.
Years from now will come the day,
when no one not a word can say,
when the body dies the essence flies
and gets scattered in the sky.

All we have is brief a time,
resting as our mother shines,
Miss Sol a dying star.
One day soon the sun will turn,
upon herself and earth will burn,
the lines of mountains like a scar.
The Earth adrift in open space,
rolling about with simple grace—
the moon follows from afar.

In Siberia the cold wind blows,
through the thickets and the foal,
the food is a mirage.
Through the deserts, and the snow,
migrating caribou they go—
the camels not far behind.
Across the river, ‘round the bind,
they eat from little piles of snow.

As nothing in the winter grows,
they long for warmth, for heat.
They march across the dunes of sand,
in their Pilgrims Caravan,
To a place they’ve never seen:
To a never-ending valley
of a water-color green.

And men they run in circles,
No idea where we go.
We try to find some meaning,
In life’s magic shadow show.
Desperate to fill that hole,
that anxiety bestows—
this generation’s plague.
Where everything is meaningless
that is their disease.
Meaningless, to know it’s so,
to know the Sun itself will go,
and become an unheard whisper in the dark,
the grand hoorah will be a blink,
amidst the black of space and shrink,
and disappear amongst the stars.

The disease infects all those who fret,
and rock silent on their bed,
for them there is no cure.
They never will get high enough,
And that at least is sure,
Never high enough to smile,
to walk with all the happy people
on the golden Miracle Mile.

The anxiety hole will still be there,
When Mara has you in his snare,
and sin your alibi.
Born with misplaced wires,
in our minds a software glitch;
there is no medicine for this,
and for it we will die:
A most peculiar mechanism,
the flaw deletes the organism.

Without a Heaven, or a God,
we live next-door to hell.
Plugged into some dream machine.
our fantasies rebel,
Like the seraphim who fell,
for pride,
those in their dingy houses lied,
watching a fan go ‘round and round,
smoking sticks and stems—
Every day the same game played;
no Miracle Mile for them.

They ache, they yearn, and justly dream,
On this King Mara loves to feed,
on fantasies of kings and queens,
upon a throne and looking down,
as the court jesters dance around—
their little toys, their little things,
if only happiness could bring,
itself to fruit upon the root,
of an adder bitten tree.
The dream dilutes the crown is gone,
and waking in that bad alone—
the morning sun rains down in beams.
Yesterday was just a dream.

There are those with defect parts,
Who can’t pull themselves together—
In Humpty Dumpty’s generation,
They stay broken forever.
With a job and normal life,
Everything will be alright—
We knew that was a lie.
I much prefer the word farewell,
and never wish to say good-bye.

And now we have our new machines,
So treat yourself just like a king,
And wear a Caesar’s crown,
welcome Bacchus into town,
to on the kingdom of the ants look down.

The kingdom lives in symmetry,
Precise in their geometry,
they’ll run themselves alone,
when our blood dries on the stone,
like all the others who have gone,
in picture frames upon the shelf,
their jail.

The man alone himself can’t help,
Spring them from their dusted cell,
But when the time comes he’ll kneel down,
And bow before the sleeping crowd

Brandon K Nobles – Chasing Yesterday, 2011


Our cameras catch echoes,
And the ghost-like faces fade
As snow angels in the dawn,
The ghosts of yesterday
Stranded on a Polaroid
In Technicolor graves,
Withering the cigarettes
Crawl in a plastic tray.
In silence while their dying
Their tobacco burns away.


A thumbprint on a skyscraper,
A smudge across a page,
That’s all the new exhibit
of the toy they would display.
Left behind their statues lone,
God’s experiment went wrong


These fraying letters
fortune tellers
Everything’s okay.
You walk the ground,
Where once we stood
And sang our simple songs
We walked between the raindrops
And an old man played along:
They danced in the rain and snow,
A ragtag fool’s parade.
These twilight years are getting cold
There’s not much left to say
They want to just belong again
In some lost yesterday
captured by another photo
a scene from some old play
The old guitarist plucked along,
We are not alone


More and more the echoes go,
In endless imitation rows.
The summer comes,
the summer goes.
The ballerina and her rose,
Her unkempt hair and crown of gold,
The ballerina has grown old.
A self absorbed pale apparition
Her weak ears and weaker vision.


Bags under her once bright eyes,
to sleeps—no greater pain.
I never want to say goodbye,
She walked between the rain.
She left behind just memories,
Of disappearing dreams poor-seen.


A juvenile search meaning,
For something more profound
Has left me looking like a sketch
Of a too lonely clown
Who tries too hard, to meaning show,
arranging it in little rows
So someone might look down and see,
The pages strewn with memories–
And on this page some meaning found
I stumbled into paradise—
Yet then I turned around.


Upon the lake, we used to take,
our rods and reels we’d go,
In an old boat we would float
Our fishing nets we’d throw.
When the moonlight breaks the night,
On the lake Miss Luna glows
We woke at dawn and walked along
The shore and looked above
We turned around when heard the sound
of a far off cooing dove.


We went there in the summer,
and we went there every year
The water quiet glimmered bright,
The lake itself was clear.
We stopped when my father died
He said it all would be okay,
And a list of other lies,
“I loved,” he said, I cried.


No more floating in the sun,
The tangled knots had come undone,
The rods and reels would break.
No more trips fishing trips for us
A childhood blown away like dust
I lost my father but why bother,
There’s no one left to take.
just effigies of loved ones gone.


On weekends and the gravel roads,
At the end a fishing hole
Always looking but to go
Down those old dirt roads and look
At winding roads beside the brook
The buzzards must remember too
This always feels like déjà vu.


Down the maze of those dirt roads,
The beauty of the moonlight showed
What they wished that they would find
Across the bridge around the bind
All my skies are inkdrop lies.
Pretty are they not? some say.
Why chase you your own yesterday
The grass a water-color green
A phony connoisseur’s scene
Dressed as a gaudy play.


The scene dissolves and die the sheen
As rusted parts of a machine.
Looking for what we used to find,
Across the bridge around the bind,
So pretty are they not? He said,
Where do all they go?
the pine combs blew about like leaves
and-scattered on the road


Trees and flowers,
Swift they blow
The trees leak leaves into the road
And then when the wind has blown,
The jigsaw shapes left on the lawn,
Ten years of memories were strewn
along the gutters in the street.


Wavering as though a dance,
when lightning strikes by happen chance.
Through the tumult of the sky
The rains picked up but to subside
And the dying puddles dried
Vanished underneath the sun.
It rolls around and upside down
Another cold day maybe rain
To watch life from a window pane.


Why celebrate the sadness of our lives,
And arrange our suffering to rhyme
As though those moments matter most,
When we still chase beloved ghosts
Long flittered down the hall.
It drifts about into my ears
bit by bit destroys my mind
They knock about inside my head
And I drown them all with wine
I have to take my medicine,
Maybe lay down and unwind
Many has a flower grown,
And kindled by the vine.


It gets no better, so it seems,
when walking through our waking dreams
Yesterday, when life was young
We ran through wheatfields, happy, dumb.
At night we knelt to pray:
Looking back, to think about
The ghost of yesterday.
Lamenting what we lost, to find,
The ashes blown away.


When I stand before the grand inquisitor,
Inevitably myself,
When I must justify my life, I’ll say,
Simply that I somewhat tried, some days,
That’s the problem all alone.
The list gets longer like the songs,
Written by candle light.
We pine away while strung along,
Into life then out of sight.


Twenty years, not much to say,
Too many pills and cigarettes,
A never ending stairway,
Oh how awful to know—
The door at the top of the stairway is closed.
Too many pills and cigarettes,
Pomnet, don’t forget.
We’ve looked into the past and saw,
Days of happiness, and all,
Days to chase if but to fall.
The bird songs of paradise,
Their songs of beauty sung,
They’ve sang for one hundred years
Generations in the sun.
My epitaph I’m sure will read,
The best is yet to come.


What can we do to help the doomed,
What isn’t being done?
Why do they need a little prick
In the morning to have fun?
Aware of our meaningless is for us
The disease of a generation
The side effect for all our woe
Is our lamentation and the self imposed,
Our lamentations,
Of the day that dances on the string,
The morrow a new line to bring.


Aware of living with no meaning,
The disease of a generation,
There is no one in charge,
And that’s the thing.
We sing about our suffering,
And somehow that brings joy.
Keep making that face,
It’ll get stuck like that,
Regret is to mourn history
Whenever we’re looking back.


Every day is called a present,
Life the gift to throw away
But it’s better not to care
Than chase forever yesterdays
Our heroes blew their brains out,
And left behind their songs,
Songs of lamentation,
Songs of life gone wrong.
The life as a lonely war,
Against the devil in the mind
We’ve been down the road before
Though often left behind
Dead end just make a circle
It happens every time.


The cameras catch echoes
And they play the old movies
They talk about that special day
The one that still we all can see
When the universe aligned at night
In that perfect memory.


What is now a point in time to dwell,
On some past unhappiness
or of some future hell.
They’ll never be a day lick that
When later we’ll sit around, look back.


And see it perfecting standing there.
In a Chinese dress with brunette hair,
Her eyes fixed on tomorrow where
She would get to dance
With stars along her neck
And flowers there by happen-chance
It had to rain that day.
Her make-up running down her face
Her hair in disarray
And never did I look as then
So wistful at the day.


The sun came out, the rain gave way,
Later on that night we played
In the storm and danced around
To that pitter-patter sound
When water hits the roof.
It was better than the glitz,
Of that old gaudy ballroom.


Where once I waited, as a child,
Looking at her across the aisle
Through the other people at the dance,
Between the couples caught a glance
Of her trying to look away.
When she looked I did the same,
We had nothing to say.


Later in my life I went,
Back to the ballroom, just to sit
And stare across the room.
I think about that day a lot,
The corny theme of my life.


I sat there wishing she would walk
Across the room to me, to talk
Say anything, it doesn’t matter,
Have something to say,
don’t live but to regret the day.

Brandon K. Nobles – Loralei, 2011

Loralei slept in a house by the sea,
she walked the shores at night
a basket full of flowers and tranquility
she dropped the flowers at her feet
And Loralei she lived alone
In a small house by the Sea.
No one left but her, at dawn,
By herself and humming a song

When she was young
her friends would come
At night they watched the sky
Making faces in the shapes
of clouds as they go by
Clowns and priests
Blankets and sheets

Dusty road, the countryside
a languid codeine afternoon
And Loralei was gone.
In one thought and out another,
It endless rigadoon
The suns and faces in the clouds
The wind will take the clouds tomorrow
The carousel is slow, and by,
Fades out with the neon lights
None of them lasted for  long.

Brandon K. Nobles – Inkdrop Skies, 2010

What is there to write about
Why do we write at all
what if all’s been said and done,
why do we care at all?

about the bushes or the birds
the songs and lullaby’s
to those who write of wistful clouds
that are the inkdrop skies.
and listless, free consistent circles
to pass few faces by.

Like carnivals with neon lights
that shine brilliant in the night
the words at night, they blur
One time or twice God rolled the dive
and shuffled us in turns

the old men with their torn notebooks
who have the time to bide:
with their pens they close their eyes
blurry figures in the rain
where then transcribed to page
became a melody and it sang.

What is there to write about
If all’s been said and heard
About the lies and butterflies
Sang by we mourning birds;
About the faces in the clouds
In listless circles went they round.
The music made by gamblers, gives
All the words make inkdrop skies.

Such images they blur with time
And each word dies along the lines
Just another nursery rhyme
Sometimes when your eyes are closed
You can see a picture show
Of whirling green, patterned white,
The shadows turn  to imps at night
About the room their pirouette,
In the color of a silhouette
Dancing on the walls
Up and down they prance around
My room their seneschal;
In pairs they go in silent rows
As they flitter down the hall.

Children running in the rain
Their feet a pitter patter sang
Again and again old men with their pen
Think of something to type,
To get off whatever is on their chest
Just to try to get some rest.