Where do cockroaches go when they die? (A poem)

Behold a tale of myst’ry and woe And the questionable fate of where cockroaches go Upon their death, if they ever die, (For nobody knows if they do…sigh.)   Heaven, hell, or the next door apartment? Do they die outside or in a compartment? They can resist a bomb scare, or so I’ve been told,…

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I am different now from who I once was (poem)

I am different now from the girl I once was. That girl sipped tea and watched the sunrise as she read her Bible and wrote poetry. This woman wears business casual. She is confined by her busy life and takes no time to relax, little for her Creator. This woman remembers the girl from before.…

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Modernist Literature and the Cross

I’m currently taking American Literature: Realism through Modernism, and in it we have recently been discussing modernist poetry. Fragmentation within poems has been a common and thought-provoking topic as we discuss how breaking apart objects can reveal reality better, ignoring the romanticized symbolism that people have attached to objects for centuries, but last week I…

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On Mr. Harris and Frail Bodies

Whenever Mr. Franklin Harris snoozes at church, I wonder if the ninety-five year old man with whom I sit will awake again. He is a wonderful example of someone who loves Jesus, and he brims with wisdom. His body is frail, though. He recognizes his disability consisting of his inability to stand for long and…

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