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 multiple collections of poetry including a Compilation Collection of four separate book releases gathered together titled “Gathering Dust.” Keith is the creator and former editor of Open Skies Quarterly, digital and print publications dedicated to poetic voices. Keith resides in West Virginia with his wife and three children whom are the epicenter of his existence.
I dream of nothing and travel the road that never bends. I do not fear the cyclopean eye that looms red, peering from a yellow face. For red must lead to green and place my fate upon the road once more. I travel alone with clearer eyes for rain. Like magic, almost infallible, a sort of royalty with a sense of familiarity. I think of nothing; there is safety in clear thoughts, unaware of what transpires at crossroads in a side-mirror, where walls need mending and graffiti pays homage to itself. Painted women huddle in doorways for fear of melt—but beckon all the same, assuring comfort from the rain for a price. Trust in character, the eternally valuable element! But who can tell us how? I think of nothing; but of guile —One must never reveal awareness. I am a martyr to a notion not my own for admitting truth is to find oppression. The yellow face with a yellow eye —Peer not, neither left nor right! For yellow leads to red as red to green and crossroads and coquettes are never what they seem. There is safety in clear thoughts, of a lonely road that never ends —the eternally valuable element. I think of nothing; but of guile —to admit awareness invites oppression. Yet I do not fear the cyclopean eye —or painted women huddled in doorways. I am a martyr to a notion not my own and I feel nothing. Inspired by the words of F. Scott Fitsgerald and Theodore Roethke First appeared in “Facets” by Keith E. Sparks Jr.
I understand the sadness in a loon and feel the weighted pain of every call that echoes through an amplifying gloom in waters where the moonlight cannot fall through shadowed skies that grant a bitter wind to hold aloft the mournful lullaby-- that brings a chill to seep beneath the skin as every lonely wail finds no reply-- and yet the song still carries through the night to bear the brunt of casting calls alone-- until the sun can send its morning light and lead me to a truth I've always known that understands the pain of empty rooms but cannot match the voice of lonely loons.
Where Sun And Shadow Collide
I see the bruise that bleeds across the sky in colored depths that mask a hidden hue. Where shadowed shapes meander as they cry and cast about the bitterness they knew by tossing vengeful curses to the earth that follow every blinding flash of light-- where fallen tears proclaim their questioned worth and patter out cruel rhythms through the night as each to each the shadow shapes collide to chastise rays of light that bring the day and worry that the bruise no longer hides the twisted games of sorrow phantoms play... Where all their cryptic moves are countered by the one who sees the sun within your eyes...