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. He has appeared in venues such as Skyline Magazine, Timeless Reflections, Open Skies, to name a few, and has managed to remain in the Top 10 most read for 20 consecutive months through Impspired Magazine. Keith has published multiple collections of poetry, with his most recent releases being “Shadowfall,” and “The Gilded Tome”. He is the creator and former editor of, the now archived, Open Skies Quarterly, a digital and print publication that was dedicated to poetic voices. Keith resides in West Virginia with his wife and three children whom are the epicenter of his existence.

The Scorned

I wonder if a sonnet knows it’s worth--
and feels the printed passion in it’s lines--
in spite of those who feel it’s too much work
to pattern out the depth between the rhyme…
and paint with light across reflective seas
that mirror every aspect born of stars--
to fill the sky with wishes that we need
that gift us with belief in who we are…
Or does the sonnet feel he’s left alone
to waste away behind forgotten doors--
where no one cares to see the truth he’s shown
of human nature hidden within form
that hides a crippled heart that slowly dies
in knowing that he wasn’t worth your time.

The Measure of a Horde

It feels contagious by design…

Infecting subtle patterns in the head
through pressing moments bound to human rage
that linger where the clouds have swallowed light.
To cloak the days preserved from angry suns--
and hide away the color of the day--
through soot-stained skies that hinder all regret
in fleeting moments bound to every page…
As through an art we’ve learned along the way
of slicing throats of those who will not kneel
to keep the warmth from every huddled face
and show the bid for peace was never real…
Instead, we hide the color of the day…
infecting subtle patterns in their heads
through slivered splinters crafting fractured minds
that feel contagious by design…

Elegy By Timeclock

When time has slipped through fingers worn with age--

that crafted scars which barely heal through wounds
of absence where there should have been more play--
have carved the paths of loss they feel you knew
would bear the pain of failure in their eyes--
believing that their time must not hold worth--
as labor robbed them day by day of time
that holds no hope of flowing in reverse…
But in their heart, they’ve gathered tiny grains,
that shine a light on every precious day
in hopes that it’s enough to dry the rain
that trickles down the cheek while you’re away
as every piece of sand that hits the ground
becomes a thought of how you weren’t around…