Keith E. Sparks Jr. has been writing from a young age. He has had his work published in various literary journals and magazines and has been nominated for the Pushcart Poetry Prize. More recently he has published two collections of poetry titled “Facets” and “The Doggerel Dog.” Keith is the creator of Open Skies Quarterly, a digital and print publication dedicated to poetic voices, and operates its Facebook presence, Open Skies Poetry group, as an outlet for poets worldwide. Keith resides in West Virginia with his wife and three children whom are the epicenter of his existence.
Misshapen figures depict the scene of Mystery etched upon the wall In vibrant hues of crayon and sharpie. Carefully crafted by miniature Picasso's with crooked smiles and “wasn't me's.” While the colored hands of innocence proclaim the guilt of a mischievous three in reds, blues, greens, and golds-- And the backward letters of signatures below a family portrait newly scrawled.
What use is Love Poem Revealed
Blunting the edge of perception traded for insecurities? The scythe of emptiness has failed to kill the loneliness. It was bound to come, as destiny not as rushing water nor of wind, but silent, being that which is despised. The western sun has fallen, the world has slowly changed, and melodrama, rotted halfway up the thigh has acquired him with regular progression. Yet, he would not search or travel Cupid's blessing through painted forests. Until the blush and Irish laugh; sunlight dancing behind brown eyes —the return of acquiescence to a life of pleasant surrender. What wonders he could pen! But would it seem a Line blunting the edge of perception and fail to kill the loneliness leaving trembling hands with nothing save the emptiness and a shamrock-breasted bear chanting prayers for the damned. Previously Published in “Facets” by Keith E. Sparks Jr
Shrouded Eyes Do Not Prove
I, like you, underestimate the depth for one to properly submerge emotion. For shrouded eyes do not prove emotional death colored blue, as obsidian eyes do. Only hint at the inevitable fall underscored by the game last played, last lost, and the last-place pennant dangles as a pleasant reminder (though heroes easily forget!) of bygone love only so erased as one claims it to be. Leaves are often crumbled, trampled upon, divested of life, for such is a lover’s wont. To draw closed the shutters and shut out the memory of a candle still alight, admonishing, like a preacher rigidly avoided, yet sought by moths just the same. Forgetfulness desired, we rally weary defenses and fade, building castles by the sea. True, some envision themselves champions, imagining victory attained, as Lust overpowers Love’s essence, and graffiti disguises its mask. Run and play little one; run and play the colors may find you. I may yet join in, though I pray to never win or lose again. Under the ice I will sit, to ponder. Memory after memory may yet reveal the depth easily accomplished for the man I submerge. As obsidian eyes do. Previously Published in “Facets” by Keith E. Sparks Jr