Three to One, 2009

I could’ve been that kind of child
who smiled and laughed a lot
I may have had a purpose, but
somehow I forgot.
Now I’m a man, I think back when,
I was just a child
when life was fun, when I was young,
then I forgot to smile.

When I look back I see a glance
of myself in the view
a distant look by happen chance
eyes closed as though in a trance
who to me never drew
When I see a mirror
face to face I ask it who
why and when and what are you?
The mirror never answers
I wash my hands and go
Asking far more questions
whose answers I’ll never know
No redemption, not for me,
and suicide is blasphemy.
I’m on my way to hell.
The pad is my confession box,
the pen is just the same.
Sometimes I think that I should stop
and play the jaded game.


Why this world and why right now?
Is the question never why, but how?
The plants grew in the field and rose
and blossomed in a garden grove
lilies in the bush, the sun
splinters through a web just spun
so beautiful the day.
The garden of Eden,
a glorious season,
before the wilted trees delay
when summer ends the autumn frays
brings December, and the days
when the wise men through the night-
by starlight made their way
to fall before a child, who lay
naked in the manger’s scattered hay.
What do we do Lord?
Did he say?
No such revelation came
the child looked up
and smiled, then waved
the Wiseman knelt before him prayed
then silent turned and walked away.

I couldn’t understand the silence then
that’s why I’m here with my old pen.
Like dandelions in elegant lines
scatter the words in intricate rhyme
my hope but to relate:
the man I am, my current state
is that the story told of old,
The cards I got, I had to fold.


Of one wise man, who young, and bold,
lit a light for all, behold
the lilies in the field and summer pines
the dying stars in twisted lines
a staged event, some yesteryear
when Goddess Hera shed a tear
when a hole consumed a whole
pearl amidst the necklace night
from far away, to us, the sight
is another in an endless flight
of images and golden lights.

I often see these in dreams
where walk a group of listless things
in shackles, shuffles
in delicate rings
slaves they go around and sing
that song might somehow solace bring
this little light of mine
a little light I’ll never find
the path illumined for the blind
That light I’ll never see.
I’ve always looked, and tried to find,
the truth behind the great divide
Too much time, too many why’s
too many secrets, too many lies


Look! Oh look; the drugs again
talking to myself, my friend
who often bickers to no end
about the world, about the skies
about the listless pale blue eyes
A question I have asked myself
my face pressed against the glass
seeing a younger me who passed.
from one world to another gone,
who left behind just one sad song.

I looked into my pale blue eyes
with no idea what resides
beyond the mask made as a smile
the reflection a collection
of fragment forms that threw
into the loop of Déjà vu
asking the question why, and who;
standing there, my glasses, hair,
the mind behind the eyes that glare:
caught in a tragic feedback loop
no way out, there’s no reply
a lone drone shouting at the sky.


What meaning is there, in the world?
of mother’s with their children curled
in quiet embrace their soft hands trace
their fingers in the heart shaped lace
the birth, a child, our life, and science,
what of the place we go to, silent?

A flicker in the night that dulls
a passage to our deathbed pulls;
the pain, respite, the fears, the night
and flickers in the dark, a light
once lit left to die, and cry,
it all comes back, the same word, “Why?”
Why what? I asked and then, why now?
Why am I alive and how?
That same question
all the time
the forever recurring rhetorical line
that drags us to the darker half
the same as we all through it pass


Forever in an ending row
the words as snowflakes softly flow
from the clouds down to the ground
with muddy footsteps trod around
a path into the master’s house
where sits a piper with his clay
the porcelain rats designed to sway
to follow all the sublime songs
into the Sea, where all belongs
where life forms grew, for eons, died
and washed up silent in the tide.

Forever in an ending row
the conveyor belt of faces ago
A man a wife, some saddened face
passes through the silent waste;
and a man with all his plans
and a perfect practiced face
shuffles in with gaudy grace
the path to shuffle, once a while
before a stage of no one smiles
in his twists, his twirls, and whirls,
the knot of human life unfurled;
what are we but creatures who,
crawled out from the ocean to
walk about the land and in disguise
underground when rained the fiery skies.


I could’ve been the prodigal son
when life before me laid when young
before I threw it all away
against the grain and here today
For a man like me:
no sympathy,
no empathy
I’m so empty
That I’m fishing in the bowl of my past
the world and lilies whilst they last
taking notes to understand,
what to some is just a plan
passed down through the ages to,
prophets and the madmen who
spoke of love and life forever
the same old answer, always, “Never.”

That’s the point, of my who life,
my troubles, madness, and my strife
place a bet on Destiny’s dice.
to find myself amongst the mass
with more poor players of the cast
when the curtain closed at last
in return to bow and smile
and wave to friends lost in the aisle
Thank you all for coming out
to read these words which I surmount
by a tower made of Stone
high into the nimbus rose
in the shape of Kings and Kings,
diamond rings and golden things,
though both will disappear
over time, the time is near,
the clouds break up and dissipate
and when we see it we’re too late.


To save our world, our friends, our loves,
and bring aboard the arc a dove
to scout the land and them know
the conditions of the world to go
and if the flooding reached the Isle
when Moses left the ship he smiled
the rains, now light, subdued,
a rainbow in the rain peeked through
and through the journey all was lost,
the lives were saved, though at what cost?
the end of the road is but a dead end
just a door, and wooden floor,
silently walk in:
the door, when opened,
to their dismay;
were first their footprints on the way.

God’s right hand man is not a man
but yet a vessel that commands
Love thy father, though he’s gone,
my mother left; I was alone.
left in rags without a home.
Now I’m a man, I often glance
at memories in the past:
and in those pictures, as a child
I never wore the slightest smile.
It wasn’t in the cards, I guess
just not my destiny.
There never was a hope for me.


Behind my eyes and in my mind
I see the vultures in the sky.
I sometimes see the game of Chess:
when the queen had gone, the king had left,
alone a lone pawn by himself
himself to march against the world
no one behind him, no sword unfurled,
encountered by a blockade that,
forced the frail pawn to attack
a kind of violence, spineless, cold,
but fortune favors pawns, who bold
turn from the battle, walk away
to in a corner quiet pray.

I march for me, and on my own,
and I’d prefer to die alone;
when word shaped bars,
blot out the stars
and word shaped tears
will oft appear
behind my eyes so crystal clear,
I try to sleep
and it would seem
I never catch her in my dream,
so I wake, some pills I take,
into the living room.
beside a candle, book in tow
reading by the muted glow
philosophy, theology,
books that had forgotten me.
So in my words I wish to say
enjoy the moment and the day,
when all is well a heart can tell,
but never can respond;
of all the beauty in the world,
into the Sea, beyond,
Every song we hear on Earth
is Mother Gaia’s song.


A sublime song of loss, confusion
when friends have long since been illusion
the umbrella in the past
whose pale fabric narrow cast
sunbeams scattered during day
when on the beach shore lone we played
until the tide came in to sway
sand castles and my love that day
and dragged them out to see to die
foul buzzards over head went by
when I looked up and saw the sky
a tear-drop formed within my eye
to see the one I always loved
succumb to time and die
to leave me on the shore with, “Why?”

I wake up in a fever often
and sometimes cannot sleep
my mind returns to that black urn
death my love forlorn would spurn
and dissolved into the whole
of memories and songs of old
to be reprised amidst the skies
when seagulls sing sad lullabies
and raises her and in the form
a golden child alive reborn.


A golden child to grow to see,
the wonders of the sky, the sea
the wonders of the springtime in the morn,
when light in raveled fleeces, torn
through twigs and sticks, these limericks
with letters paint the world
not the world at large but less
the world that has subdued the best
Fast cars and fancy clothes
Eve in Mona Lisa’s pose.

Tragedy to man the plan
for us to try to understand
is but a joke and to respond
one attempt and just a bird
scatters in the shallow pond
as stones across the surface skip
and drop into the sea, a blip
and for those along the shore
with no rocks left to throw no more
pack up their bags and seal the door
honey birds above them soar
the phoenix falls, the curtain falls
and turns back into ash:
the ash like night though obscure might
be a prelude to the morning light

And when it rises, man shall wake
and on his feet his first breath take
to look across the range to see
to one path mountains, one path sea
with his friends the man agrees
to climb the mountain, face the sea
to take control of destiny
Destiny the blackjack shark
behind a veil who deals her cards,
twenty one or bust, one must,
hit again or lose the pot.
His fortune gone his life forgot
he wanders in abandon lots
in circles through the city where
he often laughed and live, no care,
now to return his fortune spurned
only to go again;
the cards are dealt, a nine and twelve
Victory! he calls, what else?
A five card Charlie, twenty-one,
lost again and drowned in rum
In his defeat the gamblers run
but never paid the price.
Two days later unpaid debt
had cost the man his life.
This is how it goes, you know,
another comes, another goes.
The procession is a winding road,
though we all walk it, we don’t know,
to where it is when we all go.

Published by

Brandon K. Nobles

Brandon is an author, poet and head writer for Sir Swag on YouTube. With 630k subscribers. Since February 2021 he has written for the most important and popular series, News Without the Bulls%!t and the least popular work on the channel, History Abridged. Brandon joined the channel in late January, since then his work has been featured every month in News and History. His novels and works of fiction have also been well received, and he continues to be a proficient and professional chess player. In his spare time he like to catch up on work.

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