Brandon Nobles,
The Tree of Transmigration, 2005

There is a tree of transmigration,
planted in the sea of time created.
The branches stretch from Earth to heaven,
with lotus leaves the flowers sacred.
The buds for pleasures of the senses,
with roots into the world of men;
by binding them to action,
they’re moved by unseen wind.

Here the sun shines not,
neither nighttime nor the day.
In the land of life forgot,
there are few ghosts along the way.

There is a tree of transmigration;
few men see this changing tree,
with its limbs far in the heavens,
it sees as does the sea.

When he departs, or when he stays,
those in delusion see him not.
He could not live, and could not slay,
not in the land of life forgot.

Heaven hates what heaven hates,
yet the clouds cast open wide;
mankind knocks often at the gates,
with no idea why.

Rain seeps through an ill-thatched hut,
as passion to an untrained mind;
when all the outward doors are shut,
your third eye you’ll find.

In delusion of division,
comes love and lust and hate.
Follow those divine illusions,
and we’ll kick down the gate.

If they depart into the flame, and light,
and the dark weeks of the moon,
as foretold by ancient insight,
two thousand years is just too soon.

If they depart into the smoke or night,
and bright weeks of the moon,
to enter into lunar light,
the tree around us blooms.

Though all these words will pass away,
then return their loves forlorn.
Many have forgot this way,
as dogs to be reborn.

Though all these beings disappear,
when the light of darkness comes;
seen only by the overseer,
Shiva above bangs on the drums.

With the leaves of that tree falling,
delicate down to earth,
with the same old sun around us rolling,
we wait for our rebirth.

This cycle of a world that withers,
is transient like the day;
formed like fleeting phantom figures,
from out the potter’s clay.

II

However tall the top exists,
to haul escaping slaves to Heaven;
they crawl the lines like butterflies,
and moths about the lights.
Faces fall around them;
another day is night.

The bark around the tree is covered,
in memories and days;
by some old wiseman once discovered,
when Khayyam sang its ways.

In a world of figures falling,
and none who sing aloud.
The ball of water keeps on rolling,
listless like the clouds.

In the summer it still blooms,
and buds will issue then:
giving off a sweet perfume,
as leaves fall forth as men.

For man to then stand under,
with hope inside, look up;
in each blossom, and each wonder,
the wine of life drains from the cup.

There is a tree of transmigration,
from it we hang on strings;
it talks about the revelations,
and delusions give us wings.

So to the top we float,
to finally get a view,
between us and the Gods, at last,
mankind born anew.

But it blossoms in the winter,
summer and the fall;
the hands of clocks begin to splinter,
into dust to turn us all.

There is a tree of transmigration,
with roots inside our soul;
all the flowers bloom in heaven,
as we’re shoveled in our hole.

Perhaps some apparition man,
could lead us up the stairs,
save us from time’s endless sands,
and wipe the chalkboard’s clear.

Tomorrow’s apparition
descends at dawn alas.

Waking up the bugs and things,
that scuttle in the grass.

First from the leaves that fell,
the beginning of the line;
which over time has spread,
and blossomed time to time.

Like fruit the first man fell from the tree,
and crawled up from the ground;
he stood on two feet,
so he could greet,
the living wonders all around.

But then put forth was fruit of sin,
ate readily by those who came.
To them it was just nutrition,
with only god to blame.

III

Then comes the night and winter,
along with pigs and cows.
Then emerges those who slither,
with sorrowful holy vows.

Eternally we might return,
condemned forever to this world.
The fire at the end of time should burn,
the carpet before the door unfurled.




They pass away from here forever,
and from death to death they go;
they wake up in the morning,
at night asleep to go.

Man is but an incidental view,
between two states unseen.
Who stumbles mourning in the dew,
pulled here and there by strings.

This is a vicious cycle,
death to death just like a wheel;
flesh is recycled once again,
to the tree to steal.

This tree as well will bring forth fruit,
apples and the like.
Man too often abandons truth,
and waits to pass from sight.

Like a flower man should bloom,
rise up on two and flower.
Realize the speed of death,
and be a slave to hours.

A slave to his creation,
like idols in the sky.
Regardless of the implications,
the carousel goes by

But the tree as well starts from a seed,
like us and insects too.
Simple though, they are in need;
Veiled pass the figures through.

As a candle throws our shadow,
high above us on t

In what part of the world do you live? South Carolina, USA

Title of Poem or Short Story (FOR ALL AUDIENCES ages 0-99) The Tree of Transmigration