Keith E. Sparks Jr. Poems

On a rock-strewn bank of Buffalo,
a spinner's cast from Hollow Tree,
I sit, rod propped on a locust limb,
pilfered from a beaver's domain
...

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
recall!

I too, have buried the dead
...

Again I move, a little pen in a poet’s hand
inking love poems for a woman he does not know.

I do not dance for a woman’s sake.
...

I have never captured moonlight, nor have I
harnessed suns to counter coming darkness.
For demons kept at bay by light of day
only return with black-death of Narbondel.
...

It’s curious how rain switches slants;
falling to the left, to the right,
buffeted by winds unable to halt
the inevitable descent, the crash,
...