No Nobility: Poetry dump 8 June 2015

There was a tale about a Queen–
Whose regal name was Kathryn
She was a broken flower,
Unable to be picked, or helped,
And by her dead king lay;
And one day, walking,
Came a talking,
Peasant and he said:
“I could take your pain away.”
Queen Kathryn turned her head.
By her King’s old grave,
chained like a slave,
she wished to wake the dead,
though restless silent as she lay.
she saw him in her head.
the king, once spurned,
his body burned,
Now dust and ashes out his mouth.


There was a tale about a King–
a Noble man for sure;
A bit eccentric, strange indeed,
Though held a strange allure:
He drank some wine,
Smoked Chinese pipes,
And chased the dragon’s tail.
He lost his mind,
and lost his chips,
and the King was thrown in jail,
pale bars of the mind and looking out,
for a broken flower by his cage to sprout.
The poor King was locked behind,
The bars he called himself–
his body detached,
a ventriloquist act.
And as he suffered,
locked inside,
He ran from dragons in his mind.

Why we write

A fair question just may be
why do we spend such time
singing of autumn’s dancing leaves
that waltz of passing time
Songs of beauty,
song of spring;
the songs of love,
a diamond ring;
Such white clouds circle our world
as nature’s madness shapes a pearl

to sing of beauty
and of shame
of nature’s chaos
which with a storm
through madness does a pearl take form
this random thrashing,
smaller pieces
turns into beauty right beneath us
we write to scream
we write to cry
for those we love
for those goodbye
a warm hello
to never die

Sonnet 13b
We had more than a fantasy,
an island in the stream
just you and me;
two mirrors conscious looking at ourselves
through the love in our reflection’s eye
a pitiful and contrite heart,
might hide under disguise;
but turned to love it’s easy seen
in a glass-blown lover’s mind.
And that’s when the glial cells,
group together for a memory
the coalescence of a love forgot,
the scenes of frozen time to hold.

When love was easy,
no need to stop;
dancing life was by the Drop
a heart by rule made to be broken,
ne’er to heal, the scars–
remind us what we really are.
Confused strangers in a crowd
calling for each other loud
two pieces of the chromosome,
when mixed, the memory moves on;

the picture books we store lest we forget,
that cigarettes are like regrets;
they even burn the tray;
and as with smoke they burn they choke
but do not ash away
to write the name of we to be
is disappearing ink;
with time it fades like naked footprints on a beach
the cold hand of a loved one lost,
returned to warm, to stand;
to be lost again inside our self created lands

to say us by mind to switch,
bad memories as though a glitch
and with a focused mind rewind
and enjoy most beautiful times
so that some joy we make take yet
in memory of silhouettes.
To dance in the dark as ages go,
one year to another through
will no day bring another you, nor me
what could it be except a mockery of what we call destiny
that ball and chain the aggregate of all our choices made

it is the same song, sung of old,
of passion rich and fervor bold;
when the music rattles out
nothing left o dance about
the record skips its but a scratch
rewind the dreams and play them back.
if to dream one only is to cling,
to the beguiling call of birds, who sing,
and moments past the only source,
from which our happiness may spring
from the pool of a most pond’rous stream

quiet with no water falling,
just still and quiet to call,
upon that stream again, to bring our joy
back to the surface of the looking glass to see
in spite’s place lay simple understanding
if there lies the rub then let it lie—
with memories and chemical lullabies


We have to wait for someone
and hope they make it home
No one on the other side,
there has to be a call.
from someone loved
some years ago
I’ve been here for so very long.
Singing still that same old son,
of doubtful, how she was, to love,
a man to whom she didn’t know
which wayor path that they might go
together if they can
together if they could
You were the red queen in my dreams
the seam that patch that kept me whole
year after year, from time to time,
you arrive and there’s an air sublime
forgetting much I found much more,
how very much of you i adored.
Cigarettes are like regrets,
they burn the tray in which they lay.
The brightest star tonight,
will be forgot today.
It came to me of no remark,
I remember from the start,
there was more than friends to me,
my love.
I’d make things better for you if I could.
Happy lives, with your pick,
your type of job, your type of life,
rare would be some humble wife,
of a man unknown by lines,
it happens in the heart, in time,
you’ll be more than a dream of mine


Palace in the Sand

Our life is just a down-payment
the soul ’tis Death’s receipt.
Moments gone, where in the shade,
we went to quiet read;
The magic of forgotten days,
when we could peaceful sleep.
From here they seem quite far-away
our memories and dreams.
Where once we thought that we were safe.
When we could still believe.
No word from Heaven need to say,
how to treat a human being.
We have learned along the way-
there is no better reason.

Behind us is our shadow laid;
that which we fear the most,
the Devil’s deal, the easy way,
is far too great a price;
We may await the man to take
the Thief to Paradise.
So life asked death,
that wretched why,
Why love they me though you deny?
Death said ‘I’m a painful truth,
and you-a beautiful lie.’

Memories, foul ghosts, which haunt
The days within this petty place
the rainbow by a prism caught.
when we are older we confront
strangers in a forest lost,
they may one another cross
and yet not be aware;
that someone like themselves had passed,
going nowhere, going fast,
to our Palace in the Sand.

And those grainy photographs,
from one hundred years ago;
lost Children of the Sun,
that is the divine ratio.
Abstract in their function,
is a fraction of the sum,
Love is the equation,
long division yet may come;
We may not solve the riddle
yet we’ll all die having learned.

How fare all the wheatfields,
where once we used to play,
and now a day is but a number,
on the calender to fall away;
This anaesthetic of familiarity
have drapes so drabs it seems it has
obscured our memory.
If there’s heaven for a saint-
there’s a heaven for a whore;
take a moment, pause, and think,
none need such comfort more.

Memories, foul ghosts, which haunt
The days within this petty place
the rainbow by a prism caught.
when we are older we confront
strangers in a forest lost,
that one day may another cross
and yet not be aware;
that someone like themselves had passed,
going nowhere, going fast,
to our Palace in the Sand.

There are people in this world
whose beauty is unknown
but inside their complex mind
a light so bright it shone
Problems come and problems go
Some more for others than for rest
Some people they don’t even know
what for them is best
So by default the sin no fault
could do someone their best
They are the sum of all their parts
nothing more and nothing less
They are flowers and their oxygen
fills the noon-time sky
they’re more to me than but a friend
someone for whom I’d die
In confusion their delusion
isn’t just a curse
They don’t know what face to show
they don’t know what is worse.

Although fair a breath of air
although confused don’t ever lose
your life the sense to dare
for you to me a sunrise beams
your eyes shone as a glare
And in your sadness, and the madness
no one might wish to dare
to go through that which you do
you’ve congealed into a pair
And if he so well you treat
to set off in your heart a flare
intimacy and and joy and glee
there’s nothing more for you and there
you have found a seam that gleams
somone whose fondness and whose care
would if you could become a piece.

There’s love that lasts and love, the past
will teach you of the world
You’ve found a guy grand as the sky
to him you are his girl
Someone who would do all
Just for your smile, a life, worthwhile
And when you’re down, whose call
Will bring you back and you relax
and forget your troubles all
Love is grand and, that, to stand
is but for you to fall
For through the bad, and through the good,
he waits outside the stall
when you come out he speaks about
how he might lift your pall.

Life is grand and in the plan
you’ve found someone to touch
he may not be perfect
but oh! how he loves you much.
To him you’re sweet, he’d kiss your feet,
just like in love’s curfew;
You mind a rose, and swell it grows,
Your love not overdue.
We have our problems, nothing solves them,
yet that is what it takes to make the being known as you.
Through good and bad, when sad, glad,
Your love you will not lose
And that’s enough, it is no bluff,
and for all that love will do.
It’s no vice when the advice
is that the love is true.


On Truth
This many years I’ve been
the fiddle for a tawdry song
and cheap I was to croak, to clap,
to be a well rehearsed deceit,
dancing to dishonest fairytales.
No more! the hole is dug,
it is my hole; I there belong,
glimmers of a dancing light above the rim,
hints of a mid-day sun.
If to myself for this I must remain,
thrown to the silent cellar,
leave me not awake and begging,
leave as i lay in fairer pastures dreaming
of a carefree life,
romantic wheatfields golden.
Let me live the life, the lie distorted;
to make merry in my madness waiting
in such a place where someday one may come
back to this lying sinner pardon gave.
hopeful in narcotic stupor rich,
waiting on the fulfillment of a promise never made.
The promise that this season of a fruitless yield
may on the eve of next year’s spring-time bring,
that apparition with a crown of garlands
Scoundrel! they may say,
that it is too late for me the pity card to play,
the words, kindness, and the flowers
blue electric have they lied,
their bloom a brief reminder
of a false sincerity remind

True it is to say I’ve played the fool
amid a myriad of tired faces worn
clothing the insincere–afraid,
not knowing what to be yet I do swear:
a flower of our nature’s crown,
in silence cannot lie,
only the false prophet with the rose an emissary.
And these lies, the ghosts of yesterday,
whose apparition haunts the day,
what new disgrace by morrow yet may bring
the dawn to bear upon another promise empty.
And good intentions do but clothe deed,
thus flung to the wind are they,
dandelion puffs lost in the breath of summer
scatter as they all somewhere to seed
Somewhere amongst the fields whose plot so fair
may come the most fragrant, scent of the subtle flower,
that subtle flavor whose fair bloom is purest truth,
naked and unaware of shame, nothing to hide
We lesser men, scoundrels of the world!
Exalt in our edifice of empty repartee
The softest of the world might seal
the fountain where springs forth the lie
This poor jest does well to undress
the louse unnerved by his own hand deceived.


Graffiti (Remember Me)
it gets cold when one gets old
like a flower’s blossoms end
the winter comes summer begins
the ultraviolet garden welcomes bees
to pollinate and on the breeze
the taste of fading fragrance face
to live, to die, to give, to cry,
to rise, to fall, under the sky
under evolution’s eye
that watches as we all pass by
heeding not our tears, our why

just a procession in possession
of our life, our love, our strife
the ups and downs of our brief life
until the bed we take to wife
to live is to die, to try, to strive,
to falter on the stage alive
it is our lot by all forgot
we scream we shout, we plead, we tout
our virtues and our failings too
that someday someone just might hold true
to our image screaming fades
as we become another page
a hushed tone in a single script
we try, we cry, we die, we live
all writ down in but a blip
that’s all we are a footnote but
trampled by yesterday’s foot
and left to languish in the past
our memories our thoughts will pass
as we will boast our idle thoughts
as but a ghost return to naught
to haunt the minds of those we love
ne’er to come back as a dove
or spread our wings to fly above
the life we’ve left behind, to shrug

from nowhere comes to nowhere goes
our life the briefest tale’s shadow
a show of sorrow, anguish, hate,
to learn to love to live and late
we find the meaning of it all
graffiti scribbled on the wall
that says remember me, that’s all
that when we past to death, our pall
is but a glimpse caught by our friends
who stand around us in the end
remembering our laughs, our tears,
joking o’er the sojourn years
with which we tried to make it count
our one life and left to doubt
where to we go who knows who goes
to come back and in lightning shows


My Madonna Lost
Flashing words once lit the page,
then dimmed and blurred away each day.
The flame, though weak, the muse remained,
to wane and burn out in the rain.
The stories of the streets,
the smoke,
rose amongst those lost who go,
down narrow roads, each alleyway,
is another story told.

The outcast men who coughing pass,
the shadows of some tragic past
hands in their jeans, they see the ark,
of gasoline rainbows in the dark;
passing bums push rusted carts,
and artists with their beggars bowl;
they paint themselves into a hole—
a frame around them, and they’re trapped,
the page—
becomes the starving artists grave.

They may as well be lost at sea,
the lost Madonna theirs for free
as lost ships passed by in the streets
each other rarely seemed to see,
themselves an island in the stream—
Lost love passes by unseen,
déjà vu of some old dream;
when the night comes,
mute are the birds;
their mating songs above unheard.

Fleeting moments thrown away,
the drafts:
one after another—trash,
a pen in hand, still waiting, and,
on empty streets the gutters string,
There are no u-turns in a dream.

Were artists robots to convey,
their dreamlike musing during day,
with what they’ve seen,
and what they’ve heard:
The artist learned, if to return,
to the past and Eden save.
only to have to have a portrait
of lost paradise on page.

Something true, before the fall,
if only it’d be seen by all.
What is it for the writer, then—
oil on canvas with a pen>
The vibrant golden orange groves,
to only be transposed to prose,
and neatly filed away by page,
They the lost souls blindly stray,
into a self created maze,
they look and strive; they peek, they pine,
and yet they find no peace of mind.
There is no piece to find,
just daily drives, down memory lane,
still cradling the infant flame.

The silent highways dying pale
rose up from the streets a wail
the trash the cans the cups,
dying crying cigarette butts
stubbed out not needed, not enough
The Mona Lisa turns to dust;
and that lighthouse with no shore,
the light the beggars all strive for,
confused Arjuna in the war,
lost in the dreamscapes of the mind,
out of space and out of time.

Driving down the dusty roads,
music up and both eyes closed,
visions of Madonna,
of Loretta on the stairs—
her arms around the Christ child bare:
before her knelt two sinners lost in prayer.
And languid lays the muse,
the queen with golden hair:
holding a heart electric in the air.

A moment, just one minute please
From her hand the neon flame
was eaten by the Beast.
To search, our raison d’etre,
to wander is our creed.
Looking for nothing,
and in the end—
are shadows of the hollow men.


The Living Memory

Milo, are you there?
How have you been old friend?
“You know—“
I saw Diane, again,
“Her ghost?”
Of all the friends that I have lost,
she bothers me the most of all.
“What did you see?”
She waved at me.

Through the window,
down the eaves—
She follows me into my dreams.
“She can’t return.”
She never leaves.
“A haunting?”
I guess, possibly.
“What can you do?”
I’ll talk to you.
“God, this feels like déjà vu.”

There is no cost to put on loss.
“Life has a price.”
But can’t be bought!
For when one dies,
a sun has set;
We have one life.
“That’s all we get.”
It’s not a lull,
it is a bye.
The sun is swallowed by the night.
To get to live is such a gift.
“It isn’t offered twice.”

“Most of you believe the lie,
that life’s in infinite supply.”
Memories are all we have;
“A soul trapped in a photograph.”
Touch her brush, and feel her hair,
“And watch her as she disappears.”
Above she hovers trapped in space,
With a white dress and a glowing face,
“Try to grab her.”
Childish laughter;
She evaporates.
So much I wish I could have told her.
“And now it is too late.”
She’ll live forever on the page.


I guess we’re chasing yesterday–
By crisscrossing memory lanes;”
All I think of is her name.
Shelly who I barely knew,
Was as good as me or you;
Giotto’s charity and grace—
“It’s written plainly on her face.”


Loss is the name we give to Death,
But we should not use regret.
Nor should we ever so forget,
That’s something we should never do
She lives in me, and lives in you;
“And now upon this paper too.”
A eulogy to me you see—
Are shadows of a slanted beam.

Taken young and far too soon,
She died under a paper moon.
I guess I just believed that lie,
That life’s in limitless supply.
“That might sound good.”
It would be nice.
Life is a gift not offered twice.
“The rarest thing—you get to live.”
No words can any comfort give.
She has gone, and hope has flown;
The soul at last has made it home.
Shelly I wish that you could see,
That you live on in memories.
And’ll remember you;
So on behalf of all our town,
We hope that you some peace have found.


What Could Have Been, The Black Notebook
There are some among us sinning monsters
who sometimes wish that we were younger,
just so we could go to see,
Hell through a quiet angel scene;
and cherish best what’s meaningless,
as sacred hours–all.
Every game that we still play,
Is hangman and the word is faith;
the wrong word makes it fall.
Boring days when seen this way,
are as sacred as all,
And memories, fragmented scenes,
is all that’s hanging on,
a pale leaf in the Autumn bleak,
by Winter long is gone.
Of those we’ve lost who lit our face,
who warmed our hands and heart,
whose prism in it’s brilliance
was the match that struck the spark,
that wavered in the prison wind
then left us in the dark.
In this hole we’ve made we know,
that this brief life, this time, and space,
what we have made our home–
is nothing but an endless march
to that silent world alone.
That hourglass, the Lord of Lies,
is the illusion we call life,
It is the image we are given,
to paint those passing by.
It has been said, life said to death,
‘Why do they hate you so?
when to me they cling and cry?
Tell me, I must know.’
In hurried breath thus whispered death:
‘For I’m a painful truth,
you are a beautiful lie.
You’re where they’re from,
I’m where they go.
There is no reason why,
a brief life, it happens that,
it but a dance of choice and chance,
that’s how it will be played;
You’ll feel no pain, you’ll have no name.
faith is the botfly in your brain.’
That king of death, the clock itself,
Has never been defeated yet;
that shadow cast, that silhouette,
is the only thumbprint of us left.
Life isn’t free; the Rich Man’s King,
will come and then collect,
The interest rate they calculate,
is found between the dash and dates.
Don’t hide the scar, when burned,
when marred;
Don’t drown the pain, but you are warned:
Get too close and you will burn.
But when you burn is when you learn.
When you burn is when you learn;
that nothing lasts forever;
the earth, that sky will idle by,
It’s stops for no one, never.
Death never has arrived on time;
And we these frightened fireflies
in our confusion wonder why–
that one of us that lit the night,
had to leave without goodbye.
Who lived so brief, and died so soon,
and sleeps under a paper moon.
When all our sin is added up,
karma will pull in a truck
and we must get inside.
To then be taken to the place whence Ben has made it,
and unfinished portrait signed.
So this will be goodbye for me,
I miss you Ben, I hope to see,
a part of you, and get to meet
if but a portion in some corner
in this manic world of wonder,
But just in case you may be there,
I hope that you can read.
That all this town, from mainstreet down,
came to cry and stand around;
to pinch your cheek and weep and weep.
We loved you kid, don’t steal a base
There’s no more running,
you’re sliding
in the dirt, cause you’re safe.
You were loved by old and young,
and your vigil I will keep.
And if by chance you catch a glance,
of you mother in her sleep.
Give her a hug and all your love,
and tell her not to weep.
We all made the deal at birth,
to the last man from the first,
To live we pay the highest price;
our death is how we purchased life.
If there are questions left unanswered.
trivia for Zoroaster.
It isn’t like it is on camera:
because there is no Necromancer.
Death started with the first man,
and the last man hasn’t learned,
where we go, or where we’re from,
only that no one has returned;
and why we’re given brief a peek
at such a universe unique
to pull the rug beneath our feet,
when we’re dressed our very best
we want to look nice as we sleep,
in the last tuxedo sleep.
The funeral, the road, the show,
The silent cars in somber rows.
The people too are dressed in suits,
Like all parades they too will fade,
but at least we got to go and see,
that young child on his final ride
before they lowered him inside,
that soundless cave so dark,
he’s gone–
and time itself must carry on.
I guess it must be stated that–
we know of good because of bad.
and as beings who can reason,
I think that we should say,
hello to an empty place
where once he sat with mom and ate.
These memories in lowercase,
that when we talk, we don’t relate;
The mirth died as they walked beside,
that casket green with him inside,
and hopeless we all cried and cried.
We still are bleeding now.
To bring him back I’d call old scratch
and hammer out an old contract,
I’d go to hell to bring him back.
This tragedy is wolfish sheep,
it’s not what it appears to be.,
although his passing was quite sad-
the torture is what he won’t have.
No computer or his favorite games,
no girlfriends later in his teens–
All those songs he’ll never sing
or bob his head and laugh or smile
nor grow into a man with child
a child of his own to kiss;
this is what the torture is,
all the things he never did.
The things that he loved best,
I can see him with my catcher’s mitt
all the things he never did,
all the weird things he would do,
laid to rest, to gather dust,
The memory is kissing us.
What could have Ben,
that is the rub,
to think he’ll never own a car
or know the pain of love,
or go to school and play the fool
What would have Ben, if when we wrote
we kept alive a hope, a note,
that by some magic we could have him
return to us and in our arms
the falling dream a false alarm
We’ll sing this tune for you.
That by some witchcraft you might come back,
and we’ll see Ben crawl out the pen,
look at us and laugh.
He’s living in the future,
of our world already passed.
This is a saeance and i pay homage
to all the people lost forgotten
I’ll light the candles, chant the tune.
Mommy can you hear? Can daddy hear me too?
I’ve possessed this man to speak to you.
I’m still hear mommy, and daddy too,
I’ve possessed this man to speak to you.
Mama I was always proud
although we fought and often loud
I knew what you had to do
so say Hello to daddy too.
I miss our dogs and all my friends
I guess I’ll have to said goodbye,
I love you mama, Max, daddy you guys,
think you for such a wonderful life.
It won’t be easy for you now,
to get used to me not around
But know that anytime you’d like
you can take a bath, call it a night:
Dream like we are on a stage
the king and queen of our domain
With you mama I miss your face
the beauty in the eyes and grace;
I’m in your mind, a better place,
and I live on, I’m home, I’m safe.
For some life might be a ride,
a carousel of colors wild,
their neon ghosts that fill the sky,
there are those who still compose
lamentations for a rose,
to see such beauty die.
Some people give off fire bright,
make sure you cover up your eyes–
the beautiful things we see in our dreams
Give off heat, they give off warmth
but get too close and you will burn;
for when you burn is when you learn.
When you burn is when you learn;
that nothing lasts forever;
the earth, that sky will idle by,
It’s stops for no one, never.
Death never has arrived on time;
And we these frightened fireflies
in our confusion wonder why–
that one of us that lit the night,
had to leave without goodbye.

Who lived so brief, and died so soon,
and sleeps under a paper moon.
When all our sin is added up,
karma will pull up in a truck
and we must get inside.
To then be taken to the place whence Ben has made to,
and unfinished portrait signed.
Yours truly uncle Brandon,
tall guy with dirty hair;
The crazy man with dirty hair.
I’ll never try to reassign any aspect of my mind
to blind the time I stood in line to simply kiss your cheek.
It’s bedtime baby boy,
we love you, rest in peace.


The Blind Composer (Disappearing Ink)
Imagine what could happen
if you got to change the world
And somehow you could resurrect
Some memory, a girl;
It’s been ten years, yet still, those tears,
they make my stomach curl;
The light that burns more bright than most
may burn for half as long
Only to be brought back
by a nightingale in song.

On that day I watched her play,
with birds about the shore.
A finch had washed up in her place,
from the well amid the waste—
who floundered by the Sea,
and then flew on.
The bird fluttered for a moment,
and was gone.
And now she’s on my mind again,
that poltergeist who was my friend;
A while we stood,
where lolled the waves,
under a sky where seagulls played;.
Dead in the sea, she washed ashore,
her eyes were closed;
bonne nuit, amore.
She splashed about the waves, my child,
and then she splashed no more.

Destiny weaves spider webs,
the water flows; the water ebbs;
Life must be played by hands we’re gave;
a gamble to be sure.
It is a shame that fate plays game,
We leave this casino with less than we came;
It is a game one cannot win.
We’re seeds lost in the cotton gin;

That is the cost for life when lost
We get to place no bet,
We keep no cash as we must pass
into the Graveyard of the Past.
and in the end we all pretend
we cannot be quite sure;
if all our tragedies are penned,
by a blind composer.

To live is but to write your name
in disappearing ink;
but to fade like naked footprints,
on a wave tormented beach.
We are but chasing yesterday
a day we cannot reach.
We are but fragments, as it happens,
that’s all that we can be.
We’re driftwood on a crazy river,
floating in the stream.



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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