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 four collections of poetry titled “Facets,” “The Doggerel Dog,” “30 Days Of Triolet,” and “The Wandering Cognitive.” Keith is the creator of Open Skies Quarterly, a digital and print publication dedicated to poetic voices. Keith resides in West Virginia with his wife and three children whom are the epicenter of his existence.

On Wishing For It’s Death

The bitter winds that harbor phantom dreams
that feed the captured fiends that stop the flow--
With taloned hands the mind cannot perceive
if frost or lack of blood has brought the cold

to offer us a tightness in the chest.
Where drums of War that pound inside the head
have failed to calm the beast inside your breast
that brings a heart to wishing for it's death.

And yet an icebound death just wouldn't do--
To vanquish all the demons no one sees--
Whose piercing claws present an honest truth
by finding that the pain is what we need

to overcome the sorrows that may thrive
and let us know through pain that we're alive.

The Faltering

The crimson eye of hate that steals the breath
through pulmonary pathways torn apart--
with tantalizing visions of your death--
the Bannok steals the Fortitude of heart.

To feast upon the life sustaining blood
and purse his snarled lips against the flow--
To revel in the weakness from the flood
as courage fades and fear begins to grow.

While shadows offer pain to crowd the sight
the Bannok sits and cackles on his throne
and grasps the valve in curious delight
to plunge the severed artery back home…

Where finding strength and vision is restored
we choose to let the gasping be ignored...

Glitter

Once, a child tossed his glitter high
and wondered at the pattern
on a backdrop deepest black

At night, city lights muffle heavens 
blocked by towers snug within the smog.
It helps to quiet nature's voice—
the smog, the billboards, 
neon pretties and fluorescent lights
that blind the eye to glittered skies.
 
Above, the fallen gather still
to mourn the wondering man
whose eyes now choose a pixel pattern.
And to mourn Orion, who,
after downing malt liquor with Scorpio,
stumbled into antiquity,
fearful of fate and collapsed.

Previously Published in “Facets” by Keith E. Sparks Jr.