Some of my poems are below:

Heaven-Maker

I do not understand
from my view 35,000 feet below
that You, God, 
Stream-Drier, Cloud-Pincher,
Snowflake-Stretcher, 
the One who said to the sky, 
“This is how to rain and wind and hail and snow,”
You, the Heaven-Maker,
would say to me 
“I am a portion,
your portion, 
not of lima beans on a plate
or noodles in a cup, 
but of life, of truth, of promise.
Your inheritance.” 
How can I understand that,
in earth, in sky, in clouded heaven,
what I have is You,
and all you ask me in return
is to desire the Cumulous-Crafter,
the Cirrus-Sifter, the Nimbus-Namer,
and to precipitate your praise?

On Chamberlain, 2008:
Sea Anemones Burning

“Neptune, help! Someone help!” The anemones call
As their tentacle branches crisp under the fall
Of the opals of fire Mars chucks from the sky.
The plant’s colors, still darkness, are brightened with dye
Now that lights, each cupped egg-like, have broken the sea
With their undying whiteness. “Oh, Neptune!” Then he,
Ocean’s overlord, listens, curves swatches of wave
Towards the trembling polyps. He tells them, “Be brave.”
But resisting, Mars’ fires in ridges still thread
Through the polyps’ thin tendrils, for King Mars has led.

“Someone hurry, please hurry!” Waves curve to the sound.
Each one rains like a fever. Blue workers surround
The still-morphing coarse brightness consuming the limbs
Of the trembling anemons—It seems fire swims.
For unfazed, still it circles and drenches and grows
To the centers and sides of the ocean’s blue flows.
Finless fish, from below, backs streaked red, wish the night
Would forget there was fire, would re-cap the light.
Each one shivers, then turns, to the green ocean bed
And the purple-red dark. They want silence instead.

“Get away, rush away!” For the white-yellow swirls
Into circles, near perfect, as Neptune still hurls
Royal raindrops pulled wave-like that fling down their fronts.
The wet overlord finds that his javelins are blunt,
That it’s useless to stop them, the eggs of the stars,
Birthed in vibrance and violence, the children of Mars.
As the flames echo upward and waters fall down
It would seem Mars has won it. The pricks of his crown—
Made by fire and tadpoles of orange and red—
Stab the stars. The anemones’ cry has been said.

both poems previously published in Cedarville University’s The Cedarville Review, 2017