Where English Majors Go to Die.

Sterile walls,
Silent halls,
Temperature that continually falls.
Fluorescent lights,
Burning bright,
Air constructing much too tight.
Beakers bubble,
Threatening trouble,
Acid stains which aren’t so subtle.
White-washed floors,
Iron doors,
Shiny objects in the drawers.
Dying plants,
Frozen ants,
Things preserved in ice-cold tanks.
Sterile walls,
Silent halls,
Nothing living here at all.


In Peace

I wrote this poem almost a year ago after switching to a vegetarian diet. After feeling a little judged for my decision (hey, I get it, chicken is tasty!) I wrote this poem as a response. It is not meant to be accusatory, just humorous and hopefully insightful to those of you who have difficulty understanding us leafy-eaters 🙂

“She just wants attention!”
Accuse my leering mockers,
As I order my green salad,
And they their tasty Whoppers.

“How do you get your protein?”
She asks in obvious disdain,
Before quickly changing topics,
Not even letting me explain.

“You’re missing out on life!”
He exclaims in total disbelief,
Comparing my bowl of quinoa
With his spaghetti and ground beef.

“But aren’t you a Christian?
God made animals for us to eat!”
My colleagues crow triumphantly,
Thinking they finally have me beat.

Throughout the day they scoff and scorn
Ridicule ensues at every meal.
Yet I keep silent, I keep the peace,
Though weary of their remarks I feel.

So when the day draws to a close,
I escape to my little paradise (my home),
I cuddle with my cat, I kiss my dog,
And I eat my food-

In peace.


Little culture makers,
Scurrying down below.
They build and write and draw and sing
And to the skies they crow
Boasting of all their strength and wit
With everyone they know.

Puffed with pride they strut,
Like peacocks all pruned up.
So vain and silly about their work
And giddy as the newborn pup,
Who, so in love with life,
Forgets him who fills his cup.

For up above sits one who laughs
As their boasts increase;
Don’t they know it was He,
Who formed the first masterpiece?
The Great Sculptor and Artist is He,
Without whom their lives would cease.

Yet let us not scorn their art
For there is still beauty to be found
In their works which imitate
The work of Him who’s crowned.
Though they don’t know it yet,
Their art reflect truths profound.

So let us revel in their talent
And admire their creations,
For such are skills He gives,
To cultivate every nation.
Let us remember to appreciate
The gift of Imitation.

To My One True Love

Dark and beautiful dost thou appear to me

Oh tempter of my soul.

Thy tender warmth and surface smooth

Lure me under thy control.

With sweet aromas thou dost beckon me

From my cocoon each morn;

To live without thy comforting presence

Would be a loss too great to mourn

Thou art the only reason I live each day;

I am energized by thy affects.

And with they helping hand thou dost keep

Me from saying things I would regret.

I could never describe thy perfection,

For it art higher than Heaven.

The greatest earthly joy could never compare,

Even if multiplied by seven.

 Oh how intensely do I cherish thee,

Dear sweet and magnanimous coffee.

Too Much Noise

She smiles not, nor takes delight
At the cause of their excite.
Summoning all within her,
She struggles to remain polite.

A deer caught in the headlights,
She strives with all her might,
Not to run and not to scream,
Though her heart constricts so tight.

Their voices continually rise,
And their laughter intensifies.
As it echoes off the walls,
Her soul within her cries.

I can’t get a word in edgewise!
She speaks through agitated eyes.
Her fear is morphing into flame,
And her propriety quickly dies.

In her skull it could be found,
Their chatter bouncing round.
The stress lies just beneath the surface;
Tightly as a clock she’s wound.

Under duress her voice’s drowned
And chained to Stress she’s bound.
Claustrophobia invites itself in,
And her vexation mounds.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she finally screams,
“I’m tearing at the seams!”
Her plea is met with silence,
For her outburst was quite extreme.

Her reputation, once highly esteemed,
Shall never be redeemed.
But does she care? Heck no!
And for the first time, she beams.

“Ahh…peace” she sighs.

A Little Lonely Seashell

This is a poem I wrote a few summers ago after visiting the beautiful beaches of Cape Cod. It is intended for young children.

A little lonely seashell
Sits on the banks of the shore
Waiting for some small boy or girl
To pick her up off the floor.

She watches as the tide recedes
And seagulls come out to play
And the sun that rises overhead
As she sits and wastes away.

All her life she has watched
As children race out on the dunes,
Enchanted by the salty sea
That plays such bewitching tunes.

She looks on with envy as
Other shells are picked,
Shells with prettier hues
who are more likely to be nicked.

Until one eventful day
Oh! To her delight!
Does she spot a little boy
Come toddling into sight.

As his shadow passes overhead
She sits impatiently on the sand,
Anticipating being scooped up
In his small and chubby hand.

Yet-Oh!-to her dismay,
And with a great big sigh,
Our little shell is ignored
For a hermit crab passing by!

Plucked up from his sandy home
The crab is captured in the hand
To be borne away against his will
To some new and frightful land.

And our poor little seashell;
How does she mourn, she is so sad!
She wishes with all her might
She could replace that ungrateful crab.

All alone she waits
As day turns into night,
But no one comes to rescue her
Or save her from her plight.

A little lonely seashell
Sits on the banks of the shore
Hoping the next boy or girl
Will pick her up off the floor.



Nature Overlooked

Every day’s a miracle,

Which few will ever see.

For in the rush of day to day

 We miss it utterly.

Do we ever pause to watch

The sun rising ‘bove the trees?

Or cherish the flowers

Playing host to busy bees?

Or are we so caught up

Encumbered by our plans,

To cherish the perfection

Of things untouched by man?

Nature takes a backseat,

Though its charge is free

For busy schedules, which confuse

Our priorities entirely.

What a tragic irony!

We miss the best of life;

In our haste to live,

Our pursuits become the knife.