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Poems by Ken Mowbray

"Blackout"

The noise of silence is deafening. It sears life's reverberating heartbeat as though a knife has penetrated its soul. It cauterizes each breath and slips away forgotten, unrealized, and unquestioned. Robotically, we cross so many streets full of listless shadows, coming from nowhere and going someplace else. Following one another's footsteps as if traversing a minefield, lobs of faint echoes go unnoticed. And the perspiration of silence continues to drain the soul's sheath dry. Hands are cracked and chapped needing, wanting, and wishing to carefully wipe the salt from rusty lips of ignored prophets. Does anyone hear us? Does anyone hear them? Oh the noise of silence is hurting. With cupped hands, the cringing sole of emptiness stings the inner ears. All those endless chants, chants that only by chance ignite a spark that sets forever free the feverish tones that are dutifully bound to the decrepit spirit, shadow's reticent kin. When unexpected rays escape the bulb to raise goose-bumps on skin, it buzzes in a chatter that settles into a serene numbness. Everything is heard from soul to pelt, and then the sensation fades as quickly as it began. What was said on those crowded, lonely streets? It seems so childish. To listen, is it not, a simple task? I think naught, all one must do is never get caught. Listening begins with breathing and smelling shadow's desires. Careful, no one is talking, but everyone is breathing. They can hear the silence of noise and it is deafening.

by Ken Mowbray ©2004

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