Poetry is one of several forms of art created by Jeff Schweiker who normally works in three-dimensional forms, specifically stone carving and architectural design.
His poetry writing derives both from the love of the written word and, at times, from the frustration he feels in the face of social and political inequities.
His activist actions have included participating in many campaigns for peace, social justice, and especially environmental issues such as wilderness and other open-space preservation, among others, over several decades.
He is currently ruminating over the fate of several Shona stone sculptors he befriended while studying stone carving and geomorphology in Zimbabwe 15 years ago.
Here we are, locked in the middle of a lifetime, fear of the known and the unknown wallowing in bloodied hearts.
Eyes piercing, revealing a truth that remains unspoken, lingering in the murky shadows of fractured boulders and broken dreams.
Barbed glances cut deeper into enhooked souls while the pretenders grind blue maize into whorls of denied affections across gritty metates.
Arteries and veins ebb with slandered gore moot to the color of the sun, shackled by languid priests immune to love and wed to onerous lies.
I see you, lost in the vortex of a twirling chasm grasping at trivial lusts mired in staminate greenbacks, red trucks, and yellow popover skirts.
Photos of bliss, anger, and despair travel across the haze of eternity in wistful sepia-toned sepulchral chariots.
Evaporating moats expose unspoken veracities drifting within entruckled mists augering toward lifeless oblivion.
Years spill into butter churns of colorless margarine spread across uncooked burnt toast mired in empty stomachs.
Grey chins augment creeping jowls of deaf lips unaccustomed to utterances of truths spoken by hazel eyes.
Embers rot in salacious cavities of lard brewing unpatched quilts rising from the yeast of unrequited yearnings to blanket rotting corpses.
They exist in the eye of a hurricane.
They reside in the center of dichotomy.
They live in the middle of paradox.
They dwell in abodes of nebulous psychosexual psychosis.
It comes from the east, emerging without preamble in the predawn sky.
The passage of its ellipse contains the history of the days conduct.
Molecules explore possibilities of random chance encounters.
The world dreams itself awake in the slumber of the lunar hide.
Disappearing realities reveal sonorous implications of protoplasmic consciousness.
Twilight dusk carries the light across twinkling skies traveling to immortality.
They inhabit crucibles of inert indecision.
They perch on sails of enigmatic dissociation.
They house themselves in lodges of anomalous prevarication.
They roost on the crest of a wave which never curls.