Kenneth R. Jenkins

Freelance writer, poet, author of three self-published books, minister, currently a student at Southern New Hampshire University studying for an A.A. degree in Liberal Arts and devoted husband living in savannah, GA.

When the Silence is Deafening

The children cry in the night

And all the world is sleeping,

And the gangs are fighting

Over turf that that does not belong to them—

That’s when the silence is heard.

When a leader slips the country in half

And violence and blood hit the streets

And there’s no clear path of freedom—

That’s when the silence is heard.

When freedom is like a punchline,

And when you’re on the streets

But it’s questioned at anytime

Where you’ll live or die

Because that’s when the silence is deafening.

Silence is heard when a gun goes off

Another life down in a sea of blood

Just another life taken from the hood,

Where you’ll live or die

And you hear the silence is heard.

The silence of death heard loud

The panic of lives is heard,

And the lurking of the sworn to kill proudly

Then no one hears it

That’s when the silence is still heard.

When we stop the violence in our streets

When we stop killing one another

Taken the lives of our sisters and brothers

When leaders wake up from their sleep

When justice takes off its blindfold

And sees the injustice in front of them.

When the flooding of blood stops,

When the children can play once more,

When the elderly gets their respect and honor

When our soldiers study war no more

And that’s when the silence can be heard

But when? Sept. 2017

Divided  Those blues and reds are broken apart A Social Commentary 

But there’s a river of trouble that is right in the middle

 A stream of blood flowing and pouring out from the dust of the earth. 

The shedder dreams of what was once there 

They are now just photos that are black and white,

 Looking bleak for a future that we are looking forward too, 

And noises drowning out the sounds we hear now made us deaf

 But the darkness is out dancing while the light dims. 

Give me your hand and let me lead you 

To  a better way of living. 

Let me touch your soul As a way of giving

 Yourself to the cause of right, To fight what is wrong Instead of what’s right. 

There’s a grey line in the middle, 

There’s a grey line in the middle 

Yes, in the middle of the air 

Because it is up in the middle of the air 

There’s a grey line in the middle of the air. 

Can you hear the train coming, In the station of reality, 

Thinking outside of ourselves 

Like a circle 

Yes, that circle called—life. 

There are mothers in the streets 

Protesting for a wrong turned upside down, 

While there’s a force out there 

Who wants to tear up and tear down 

The very fabric of justice we try to keep 

But the nation remains divided. 

Hungry people everywhere, 

Looking for someone to eat

 While the government puts a no vacancy sign

On their ivory towers and those who looks down on them, 

Like we don’t belong, 

But treat us wrong 

While we crawl on our bellies hungry 

Looking for something to eat. 

Who am I to get an attitude, 

When my woman burnt up my food 

While the cost of living picks our pockets clean 

While there are some who blows their noses with hundred-dollar bills, 

Then disregard them for the next sucker to pick it up. 

I look above my head, 

And this is what I see— 

Buzzards flying over me to pick my dry bones 

As I lay helpless. 

And while a nation is pulled apart, 

Torn asunder with no care and no regrets. 

Now meanwhile a nation watches Mr. Smith slaps a Rock 

For being funny—ha ha 

About his lady’s looks, 

Then again still torn apart 

As a nation rocks and weaves from that punch in the gut.

Those blues and reds are a blur line 

But there’s no doubt we are divided, 

Separated by race, 

Separated by culture

 Separated by political affiliation 

And now separated to be separated to be separated 

But yet divided. 16 Oct.2022