Featured Eastern University Poets

Ours is an age which has learned to domesticate despair by approaching any and all enchantment as illusions and, therefore, lies. I believe that poetry is an antidote to this despair, not because reading or writing poems makes one happy, though often it does, but rather because poetry is meaningful in and of itself, and thus every poem is an invitation to embrace the inherent meaningfulness of our existence. It is good that you exist, and it is good that I exist, and poetry, in its uniquely enchanting way, reminds us of this goodness. This article features poems and thoughts on poetry by three Eastern students: I commend their work to you and ask that you listen with openness to what they have to say.

Reflection and Poetry by Doxa Zannou

Matt Wolek/ Waltonian

     I write in worship to God who gave me this most beautiful gift of crafting words to bind hearts to mine. After all, by creating the world with His spoken poetry, God clearly shows us words have an inherent power we have yet to fully comprehend or explain. I write because the Bible contains some of the best poems ever written. I write because my Creator is the best Poet in the whole universe. I write to understand and reveal His glory. I write because poetry is symphony where melody is not needed. And when I write, a fever of fierce inspiration inflames my mind, and my hands shake with words I cannot hold back from the page, because poetry is my destiny and my gift from God, who as the Word shakes us to our very core. I write to speak to God, and I write to hear from Him. I write to dig into my soul and understand my spirit. I write in search of truth and for deeper revelation of all I do not know. I write because He created me just for that!


There’s too much—


we don’t know how to cross

and too much—


we don’t know how to give.


I still remember when your

ocean eyes crashed into

my muddy soul

and dragged my free will

into your vanishing tide.

Reflection by Luke Megonigal

Matt Wolek/ Waltonian

     There’s something transcendent in reading a poem: visiting a bereft man at a lonely seaside home, or exiting a lecture to gaze into the cosmos without even moving out of your chair. Poetry cuts deep into the reader’s very person. With form and meter, it speaks to the depths of the imagination and the intensity of the heart’s loves. Exploring poetry once a week at Poetry Club continues to chip away my edges and refine my heart, forming me into who I already am in Christ.

Poetry by Alysia Green

Matt Wolek/ Waltonian


The world sculpted by the Sovereign hand was created in time.

The slash of steel sword that divided humanity inflated in time.

Under pressure the few began their Great Commission

retreating from their homeland like soldiers activated in time.

Prosecuted, pressed, but not crushed they waited for relief.

“Your patience is growing thin” the world stated in time.

The faithful are fearless and focused on sacrifice,

realizing that mustard seeds are cultivated in time.

The few were still pursued, hated, and martyred.

Yet, the meek servants still waited in time.

Weary and weak they continued to spread the Gospel

like the drooping blooms of daisies deflated in time.

Some became self-righteous, selfish, and superficial.

The sins of others were debated in time.

Judgment is vicious and had to be stopped because

the wages of sin is death and cannot be weighted in time.

Stop the bickering and focus on relationship for

the righteous rise and unbelievers are fated in time.

Love baptizes us all and we ascend while

in a lake of fire, sin is defeated in time.

An army of believers trudge through temptation as

the arrival of the king of kings is awaited in time.

Not distracted by today, but thinking faithfully, eternally

of the reunion between us and Glory that is undated in time.


The daffodil scramble of eggs

that stuck traces of white

on my skillet.

The store brand bread

I brought home a dollar cheaper

than Wonder bread.

The vanilla coffee beans grounded

into my rose

painted porcelain cup.

Other beans, mashed

as the coffee maker drips.

I plant myself on the wooden chair,

as I wait for my bread to turn

golden brown.

I stare at the beating pulse

of my oatmeal as it cooks

on my stainless steel stove.

When the bread pops up charred,

I’m disappointed, but I replace it

with a more satisfying piece of Bread.

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