Brandon K. Nobles – The Wheatfields East of Eden, 2011

Old homes along the beach were strewn,
amid the coral reef and stone—
perhaps they watched the stars instead—
Wet metal kissed the ship abreast—
he kept the gun on daddy’s desk;
In summary his memories
had locked himself inside a dream.

The Siren’s sang their sacred songs—
the Children laughing in the halls
they slept under a parasol;
between the static on the phone
the children wept in monotone.
between the static as it died,
paradise had been a lie.

Fountain pens and violins
are shiny toys for gentlemen;
in a field outside of town,
smoke in circles carried down,
two walking friends had disappeared;
they waited he would appear.

Another file, one more to keep—
in the vaults of memory.
Chasing yesterday, a dream,
the Swan Song of the human being.
Digital feelings have replaced—
the need to see the other’s face,
soon it seems will be erased,
computers sing in binary
and not a glance of happen chance
will order love for you.
[
That is it, a young man said!
That’s the wheatfield, over head,
we’ll see are long gone friends by then,
the everglades around the bin.
Christmas morning in the den,
porch lights and peace on earth
Have a drink, and perhaps some bread,
perhaps just a good massage,
it decomposed in summer’s heat
just like a pale mirage.

A group of flowers and perfume,
blushed in the night when showed the moon.
From the virgin tree of life,
he cut sunflowers with a knife—
they split underneath the sun,

A group of flowers, vibrant fumes,
a conclave glass had caught the moon.
From the trees of virgin life
the flowers looked up to the light
and other flowers burst under the sun.
its seeds are scattered by the wind,
they’ll grow again when light comes in.

The rustling of the summer song,
sounded like an old trombone.
into a place we cannot flee,
strapped inside a memory.
Some are good, and some are bad,
a life without a mother;
Trust the love you never had.

BLANC

In the Tempest of the storm
The waves that died had been reborn.
the shore the sea our mother’s urn—
ashamed of what her kid’s had done.
.
Left them by a glimpse now gone.
And let her child on their own,
to wonder if they’re all alone.

Those amongst the coastal beach,
shoveled water out to keep,
their home and business clean
outside the leaves protected seed;
The flowers and the carpet’s grass
upturned to the sun en masse
the seeds of trees along the breeze.

Strangers in the wood that night,
only to the terror as it hides;
the seeds of trees trapped in the breeze
Mistress Twilight eats and feeds
on dreams and happy memories,
they flash before his eyes, they’re gone,

a inkling of the past comes back
with his father at the ranch,
riding on a little horse,.
Chickens roamed the land and sand
blew like hurricanes on land;
the house was white,
with shingles blue—
a red doorknob and windows too.
The vigil kept a déjà vu.
families and friends
To see those you love again.
it’s just one click away—
no need to chase miss yesterday,
when she is in your hands.
life is itself is just a game*
count the losses,  take the pay,
you only have one chance to pray.

The piper led the mice behind.
The mistress of the Twilight-blind,
in the night above all things,
Twilight at night the wind that screams;
the songs she heard, songs of her own,
yet no one new her name.*

She walked across the country roads,
each one of them sort of pose;
She walked amongst the people
a specter in a mask;
to cut the swing or let in be—*
and her body’s vacant eyes.
and a phony smile;
she was new again.
was buried underneath, a stone,
A young lady in the crowd, she watched
as shovel after shovel dug her plot.
locked and quiet.

they buried white that sacred hue,
the blue of our discontent,
the re a solemn hue,
a byword for distress;
White is light and blind they too;
the color of the prison brought
another color fire wrought
the floodlight bled that neon red