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Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
The new built church was filling up
For its very first Christmas Eve.

It was finished in October
On a piece of vacant land, and
Reverend James had joined the greeters,
At its entrance shaking hands.

From seeming out of nowhere
A stranger just appeared
He was hunched a bit, and limping
With a longer gray-white beard.
His suit was black and dusty,
Like it hadn’t been used in years,
And his eyes were red and misty
Like he’d been shedding countless tears.

The Reverend grabbed his hand and said,
“Welcome!  Welcome, come right in!!
You’re a stranger to these parts I guess,
But we’re mighty glad you came.
And if it’s all the same to you,
We’d like to know your name.”

“Name’s Everett.  Everett Kent,” he said.
“Been alookin’ for this church.
Knowed some day you’d build it here.
Now I can end my search.”

The stranger loosed the Reverend’s grip,
Limped in and settled down,
At the far left end of the far back pew;
Where no one was around.

He sat through prayers and sermon,
Through a couple hymns as well
And when they got to ‘Silent Night’
He appeared to know it well.  
Silently, he closed his eyes,
The words were his release
“Round yon ******, Mother and Child,”
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”

As the song went to the second verse,
The bearded stranger, dressed in black
Vanished into silent night,
Not once looking back.

The next day - Christmas Morning,
The ushers found a curious thing
A parchment in the offering plate
******* with a string.
When they untied the string they found
Much to their surprise,
A stack of Hundred Dollar bills
Of a slightly larger size.
They were from a different era,
Was this some kind of a joke?
A heartless cruel trick to play
At the expense of righteous folk.

On the inside of the parchment
In an antique writing style
Was a poem, (or a riddle?)
Now they couldn’t help but smile.

“One Thousand for the Father,
Two Thousand for His Son.
Three Thousand for the men who followed on the run.
Four Thousand for Mother Mary, who must have suffered most,
Five Thousand in remembrance of the wandering Holy Ghost.
That leaves nothing for the Devil
Though he’d like to claim it all.
May it help to pay the mortgage
On the church you built this fall.
Fifteen thousand dollars here,
Count it if you want –
I’ve had it for safe-keepin’
‘Twas much safer than a vault.”


The Reverend and the Deacons counted 15 Grand
The Reverend and the Deacons, together made a plan
Early the next morning of the very next business day,
They found a numismatist
To see what he would say.

He said,
“As currency it’s worthless
But a collector will pay well
These notes are rare and valuable
As far as I can tell.
You’ll get thirty / forty times the face
Look at the condition that they’re in!!
Where the Hell did they come from?”
And, where the Hell have they been?”

Reverend James contradicted
Remembering Everett Kent,
“Sir, it wasn’t Hell they’ve come from.
These notes were Heaven sent.
A stranger came on Christmas Eve
And left them on the pew.
All we did was count them,
And bring them straight to you.”

On the way home, Reverend James perplexed
Reviewed the strange events
Prayed that God would grant him wisdom
So he’d know what to do next
Surely the stranger didn’t know
The value of the notes
He mentioned only Fifteen Thousand
In the poem that he wrote.

A lawyer was a member
Of the Richland Christian Church
So Reverend James implored him
To do a legal search
He vowed to find the stranger Kent
To make known the real worth,
And inform him of the value
Of the bills he left at church.

Three days later, four o’clock
The Reverend heard a frantic knock
“I’ve found something that’ll interest you,
From 23 December, Eighteen Seven Two.


Richland Herald, December 31, 1872
The First National Bank of Richland was robbed last week, on December 23rd, by a man who, holding the tellers at bay with a pistol, demanded that they surrender all the money in the vault, without protest so that none would be harmed.  The thief escaped on horseback, though the Sheriff’s department was duly informed, and the Sheriff and two newly appointed deputies immediately gave chase.

On or about 4 pm the following day, a man matching the thief’s description was said to have been seen at the stage stop, run by Everett Kent, and his wife Mary, two fine people known about these parts for their hospitality and generosity.  As a testament to this fact, an itinerant preacher (known only as Reverend Jim) had been staying at the house for some time and conducting meetings at the stop whenever possible.  It should be mentioned as well that the Kent’s have a young son David, who, taking a liking to the eloquent Reverend Jim, had decided to also preach the Gospel and had taken the his first steps in that Almighty Direction.

As the posse surrounded the house, the thief, perhaps knowing that he could not escape, endeavored to bargain his way out of the situation by taking hostages and thereby securing his own safety.  Everett Kent, pleading for some shred of decency from the villain, asked that his wife and child and Reverend Jim be released, and that he, alone would serve in that capacity.  The thief relented (maybe the only time in his villainous life that he concluded a decent act.)  Mary and David ran from the building and were quickly placed out of harm’s way by the sheriff and his men.

What happened next will never be known to any but those in the building and the Lord God Himself.  What is known, is that yelling and commotion came from the house, and three shots were fired.  Perhaps upon being released, instead of removing himself to safety, Reverend Jim, attacked the villain and a scuffle ensued.  In the process, a kerosene lamp was broken, and the building caught fire.  Although Mary implored the sheriff to rescue her husband who had been tied to a chair, the Sheriff exercising judgment, if not valor, determined that it was already too late.

The thief (identity forever unknown), the valiant Reverend Jim and the pious and unfortunate Everett Kent all perished in the fire.  When the house had burned to the ground and the bodies could be examined, it was determined that the thief was shot through the heart and Reverend Jim also had received a mortal wound.  Everett Kent, though tied to a chair, had somehow procured a bullet wound to his right leg.

The spoils of the robbery, according to the First National Bank, $15,000 in uncirculated $100 bank notes, were never found, and presumed burned to ashes in the fire.


Reverend James felt faint
His knees and legs were weak
He sat down at his desk, and
Heard the lawyer speak.

Reverend James, there’s something more
That you have a right to know.
The stage stop never was rebuilt.
The widow moved away
And raised her son in another town
Very far away.

The son became a preacher
And later changed his name
In honor of the Reverend Jim,
Called himself David James.

You are David’s GG Grandson
You descend from Everett too.
The land where you just built the church?
Left so long ago to you?
Was once the home of Everett Kent
I found that in my search.
The widow left it to her son
And he thus passed it down.
And now you’ve built your brand new church
On that very ground.

You’ll never find the stranger
The notes are yours to spend
And the Christmas Eve Tale of Everett Kent
Has finally reached its end.

“One Thousand for the Father,
Two Thousand for His Son.
Three Thousand for the men who followed on the run.
Four Thousand for Mother Mary, who must have suffered most,
Five Thousand in remembrance of the wandering Holy Ghost.
That leaves nothing for the Devil
Though he’d like to claim it all.
May it help to pay the mortgage
On the church you built this fall.
Fifteen thousand dollars here,
Count it if you want –
I’ve had it for safe-keepin’
‘Twas much safer than a vault.”

Reverend David James III,  recounted to Philip W. Lindsey on 4/13/2015
Karijinbba Jun 2019
Poems are born and given
names like people are don't they?
   vested with special brainy wings right? then ejected!
 as if birthing slides
help push them through
a cyber time machine
computerized world

poems seem to travel
as in rockets to space
yes that fast!!
Others ballooned by air
in baskets moved slowlier
or in simple rainbow sorted
balloon batches and
then gone with the wind!
inflated by helium air
initials inscribed on each
from the parent poet or poetess
"A lot more happens
to poems"
Lucky few reposted by the
holy sages of H.P
a few more seem air lifted in
an eye blink secluded in mysterious arenas
Jack in the box boxes!
private uncirculated rooms
there reveared?
All poems in my world
seem firstly inspected by
the same compassionate
doctor, few masked Knights
powerful mystery kings

birds of song, purring cats
even angry dogs all sorts

same crafty nurses seem
to eagerly revise
their parchment scrolls
and from there nothing
is heard of these
baby boomer poems
or if ever are read by others again who can tell? It's unclear unless a fee is paid
its like having children
really isnt't it?
that must be sent away as in
time machine missions once named treasured revised
adored then freedoms grant'd
some poems will make it explored reapearing loved reposted moving priceless!
other poems perish
by green with envy
other muses hubbering
curiously around
lizards wizards snakes
all sorts.
Poems seem to travel  
dead silent through
a cyber mirror
Twilight Zone
~~~~~~~~
By:Karijinbba.
people's life small or great is the life of poems
naturally all poets and poetesses understand this is true i just wanted to agree with all of you
with this little ink just to greet you all.
Celtic Lass Jun 2014
We sat in quiet whispers--resigned and frozen
To the wrought-iron slats--shoulders touching,knees barely bumping,
Shivering in the sojourn of our anxious intentions...
We were in default wait mode
And it was the waiting that tinged the tension.

You referred to me as your Jaded Juliet--
Impulsive innocence of perfect porcelain,
Protected within my world of privilege and power,
All feigned sophistication at fourteen.

I regarded you as a renegade--
A rouge in Romeo's guise aloof, unattainable;
I longed for your street-smart savvy swagger,
Thought of you as my iron-hearted hero at fifteen.

We huddled with few words--motionless for hours,
Wrapped in false facades of our uncomfortable indifference...
Feelings and fingers  entwined in the fantasy realms
Of our imagined lust and nervous satisfaction.

My head at war with my heart--fidgety and flustered,
In that feet-twisting,breath-hitching moment of madness,
With the cold creeping into my words of nauseating embarrassment,
I brandished them as loud, unweildy weapons of awkward....

I blurted out "I  l o v e  you," and meant it,
To sodium arcs reflected in your copper eyes--
Staring transfixed, as brilliant uncirculated  pennies--
Marveling at the 297 ways to make change for one dollar,
But absolutely no way to alter those words.

Suspended--swirling, and writhing like wraiths--
They floated as feathery plumes of breaths ...
Within the icy, silver stillness,
The scheduled snow fell as the hush between us.
( For A.J.---wherever he may be.....)
Joel M Frye Feb 2015
You might have picked an easy man to love;
a man extravagant with praise, effusive
with romance. Instead, you found a recluse,
a misanthrope whose heart is loath to move.
My love for you a shiny copper coin,
uncirculated, minted fresh each day;
the effort to produce far and away
exceeding its face value.  Even knowing
what small change my passion's purse will carry,
your wishing well stays waiting, wanting, open
for what pennies, salted tears I spare.
A scanty promise made: no matter where we
find ourselves, I'll wake, create my token,
drop it in, and wish for more to share.
She's put up with a poet for ten years...need I say more?
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
If every penny that I find, ain't
bright and shiny,

I don't mind, I smile at the motto,
and know, that's not much questioned.
And nowadays, nothing costs a penny.

I could begin right now to elucidate,
but wait,
you know, knowing,

nobody cares if the motto on the penny
is true, any more than
if anyone adjusts worth
by bright and shiny degrees,

dull pennies, purchase nothing nowadays,
and, I find the motto holds any worth one
may imagine,
after finding a we, who agree, bright
and shiny,

does not change the worth, until you know,
the worth is in the holding having something,

so shiny, as to be guaranteed uncirculated,
meaning it never bought a thing,
and now you -- see the worth
or so the ads imply,
any one may buy
an old shining penny, for five bucks.
- a good day to learn something right that I had mistaken as known, while growing old enough to know the differnce in power mottos command.
Lexa Feb 2019
I’d slit my arms open for you
Let the blood soak the wood
Watch it spread like you did
When you were sleepy and
My bed was just too comfy

Every drop of blood I have
I’ll pour in glasses across the
Counter-tops you used to kiss
Me on top of at seven a.m.

I don’t need the pumping in
My chest if you are not here to
Hear it beat against your temples
In the middle of the night
When I’m sick and you don’t sleep
To check my fever every hour

What’s the point in blood if my
Heart is still in the backseat
Of your car, next to the shoes
I forgot to get after the beach

If it would bring you back
I would deal with the cold of
Uncirculated skin and freezing
Lungs holding their breathe until
You say you love me again

Fill your limbs with my bleeding
Take it all and warm your
Mind with the feeling of me
Back in your arms, through all my
Essence I don’t need without you
Its been 7 months, 4 days, 17 hours, 5 minutes

— The End —