Long Coincidence Poems
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PROGENY OF FAITH
mom lead us in prayers
Our Fathers and Hail Marys
and Sundays to church
faith of my grandma
also the start that spurred me
to shore up my own
A red leather bible, family size, illustrated with religious art. I’m sure I knew how to read; faces, integrity, angels and naked truth. The gray pleated jumper in youth’s closet - simplicity accompanied by lacy socks and saddle shoes.
smaller than grown hands
with wisdom and faith
a graven missive
Along with distribution of gospels, psalms and proverbs in a tiny book, for unspectacled eyes, the sighting of saints all around - not serpents but doves;
hands of Jesus Christ.
no longer pinching
prayers off of beads - pretty pearls
fall straight out of book
Leaping not with butterflies nor rainbow eyes, but with flaming tongues. Not trancelike but with a sound mind, no fear, power steering.
Not unlike crossing the equator, an imaginary line - the one drawn in the sand. Think also of Indiana Jones, a fictional character - he had to have faith and leap, and then there was the path, solid that led him to the promised land. Empirical proof is divine.
Did you know the word martyr means witness? You become a witness of powerful things; they are as natural as birds chirping, the dawning of a new day.
not a character
like this Indiana Jones.
led by God alone
a witness with faith
coincidence i think not —
power-filled stories
True Christian faith is an adventure. I’m glad I chose to believe in our Savior.
7/10/2020
My Faith Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
Dear bouquet, I pour out my plea,
When the day has come, and the sun is the only light we see,
Pacing down, I set my eyes on a beautiful pink-purple hued flower,
Its good aroma calls in the bees, a home of comfort,
Nevertheless, the atmosphere is filled with betrayal and ungratefulness as the bees in return beats it down,
Such a pitiful sight, broke my heart,
Leaning down I said " you won't be afraid, just as long as you stand by me"
Filled with sympathy, I plucked the flower to give it peaceful rest.
I sought a room, but found none, so I gave it a stay in my heart, a treasure to behold.
It became pretty, hale, and pert,
We were mutually driven by faith.
Until one day, there cometh a florist,
He hit me with his hammer, vanquished I am not able to protect my treasure
my treasure is pampered, and taken away
"Oh darling, stand by me" I cried
coincidence do happen, I can't be worried by the incident.
I'm devastated, my treasure rejects me, proving it will be safer in the hands of the florist, who would only use her for his marketing sales.
You're able to read this then my days are gone
A weep of fate
There was a man sat on a bench, waiting for his bride to arrive;
There was a woman outside a church, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Today was the day his future bride would have arrived;
Today was the day her husband had lost his life.
The tears that poured down from his eyes,
Created the puddle in which her reflection lied.
Her smile told of beauty, of love and of radiance;
When inside all she felt, was the end of all romance.
She handed him her handkerchief and asked what was wrong;
The words fell from his mouth, unwittingly like a song.
His bride, he said, had not arrived.
His heart was broken; his love-life had died.
She offered him comfort and he thanked her for caring,
Then she spoke of her lover and his death left her crying.
As the two of them talked, she embraced all his words,
As she realised he was just like her.
She suddenly stopped and apologized for talking,
For she had come over in the first place,
To maybe aid him, whilst she was herself in mourning.
As he told her his tale, it saddened her to see,
The man was still in mourning, for his bride to be.
One year before, in a collision with a car,
She too had died and floated away up into the stars.
Coincidence, this may have been.
Two lovers were now lost, to never be;
But with a simple twist of fate, new lovers would exist…
Their misery had given them a connection.
Their love was so strong, it left a lasting impression.
Now twenty two years later, at the graveyard she weeps;
For the twice widowed woman,
Has lost her man of mourning in his sleep.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
t started about a fortnight ago, I think, I began to hear bells ringing. They sound as if they are coming from far away. I listen carefully, and yes, it is exactly the same sound I heard when I was a child. One winter day I was riding in a sleigh pulled by a pony in the botanical garden, and I remember the jingle of bells on the sleigh's shafts. I felt blissful pleasure, unclouded by a single thought. I was five or six years old, I don't remember exactly. I’m not the type of person who is immersed in the past, like Marcel Proust, and I’m not particularly fond of childhood memories. But memories do not ask when they should appear; they simply intrude into one's current life, and always without any apparent reason. I go into the kitchen to wash the dishes and put the kettle on, and I hear the enchanting sound of bells ringing from somewhere far away in the corridor. Of course, there is nothing like bells in the corridor, or anywhere else in the flat. But why do I hear this sound? Can’t understand it. The only thing I understand is that it is unlikely to be a coincidence. Perhaps the ringing of bells means something that I have missed or failed to notice? Most likely, something is happening to me that I am unaware of – but I could've guessed if I had been more attentive. Unfortunately, attentiveness is not my strong suit; I've never been observant, especially when it comes to myself. I have yet to discover why I hear the bells. I expect that the explanation will come naturally, and it will satisfy me in any case. I don't intend to delve into this issue, study it, investigate the cause, and so on. A hint will suffice.
One, you waved at me at the stop light
Two, we bumped carts at Target last night
Three, you were behind me at the line to get coffee
Four, nah... forget it, just couldn't be
Is it just my silly imagination
Could it be my eager anticipation
My own funny fascination
Do you kinda like me to?
It could be just coincidence
Just overdoing the suspense
Maybe I'm just jumping the fence
Do you kinda like me to?
Five, I was the wrong number twice this week
Six, at the game we both had the same seat
Seven, am I stalking you unconsciously
Eight, creepy but are you stalking me
Do you kinda like me to?
You see I am rather fond of you
We seem to meet more then by chance
Is this the start of a crazy romance
Tonight I'll be at Charlie's restaurant
You can meet me there if you want
I'll be at a table just for two
The one were I first bumped into you.
Absorbed in Guernica’s promise Lucifer glanced at Montmatre
Settled his mind on virgins in heaven as Mona Lisa smiled on
One Last Supper tied to a suicide belt he set out to light the church
Of Our Lady and mounted Chagall’s Blue Horse towards The Scream
It was a Starry Night and he wondered how they painted in paradise
Oozing of promise he bandaged his lughole as a quiet reminder that
He had once been tied in desperate love to a Girl with a Pearl Ear Ring
Saw clearly the arc in his tearful eye which was one of glorious triumph
While he remembered Klimt’s Kiss The Birth of Venus fled the scene
On his way from the Louvre to book stalls at the banks of the Seine
He wondered whether a volume of so called degenerate art might be
A fitting companion on his irreversible passage to Death and the Maiden
Noble at heart in his mind he planted dynamite at the foot of Tour Eiffel
Well aware that triangulation was the strongest form of resilient bonds
By coincidence or synchronicity a Blue Dove flew onto his shoulder and
Reminded him of Goya’s dark paintings which suggested kindly to him that
The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters and devastating devils of which
He was one if he followed fanaticism’s religious distortion on his way to hell
15th January 2020
I live in an improbable bubble, insulated from humanity's ugly warts,
here there are still reasons to believe in God.
Of course, I see what's on the news, but isn't that just a reality show?
I feel overly exposed to the world's injustices as a nightly recipient of
"Breaking News!"
The sky is always falling somewhere, it seems.
And every day, I'm reminded there are places in this world
where freedom is nonexistent,
and the sound of children laughing is but a dream.
In some inconceivable places, folks only see what they are told to see,
and only think what they've been taught to think;
not here, though, someplace else, far away.
Thousands of children die every day,
or so I'm told, over my morning coffee.
But I'm in my bubble; none of that is happening around me!
Isn't it all just reality TV?
Madmen are in charge of the madhouse,
but I'm not mad enough to care,
it's only happening somewhere out there, far away from me.
But should I venture outside of my bubble, I only see what I'm told to see,
and I only think what I'm taught to think; now, isn't that a coincidence!
And yet, in my bubble, I'm free to think and do as I will, aren't I?
Life's comfortable in my bubble; there is plenty for all,
and I'm happy, aren't I?
I'm confident nothing terrible can happen here,
my rights are protecting me, aren't they?
Perhaps, I should stay silent in my improbable bubble,
after all, people aren't really suffering; it's just reality TV,
isn't it?
(Dramatic Monologue)
2/11/2018
He's back
like he never left
with scary undertones
in tow
The story goes
They're chasing ghosts
& a known host
of other things
Who knows
what they're really
after in reality
They know Casper
brings a mentality
that borders on
unfriendly
Never mind the surface
it's what's
underneath the matter
that counts
The numbers continue
to mount because
of the unseemly
things that are about
This is a stout reminder
not to take anything
in life for granted
On this planet
the thinly constructed
veil hides more
than they surveil
With a heavy head
I say frail appearances
shouldn't be taken lightly
Granted they talk
a good game
but can they play
them all the same?
So many strange things
casually happening
but this is no
coincidence
They coincide with
certain incidents while they
claim they're on
the fence
His cryptic brilliance
is in question
but I swear that's
nothing new
It's true his
suggestions grew wings
& flew the coop with
an air of exposing truth
For those that know
this is the proof
that they try but cannot
hide
He resides somewhere
between what is seen
& not seen with
normal eyes
Put upon a pedestal thin as a razor blade
where you must balance precariously
for the higher it’s raised the longer the fall
It’s simpler to say and do nothing at all
It’s far too risky to care
to put yourself out there
You slipped once before
perhaps you were pushed
It left a nasty scar
which is quite a coincidence
You’ve never been the same since
as when a child’s innocence
has been stolen away
Wisdom is won by such wounds
but much can be lost too
We are all simply people who
eat, drink, piss, sh*t and screw
until we come to our inevitable end
A few are fortunate and do it
in penthouses, mansions
fancy flats in exclusive sections of cities
sleeping on satin sheets
while some must settle for a single room
a shack or the streets
At least in one respect they’re luckier than you
The world doesn’t give a damn what they do
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PART ONE: What I like
My life has been spent traveling in uncharted waters,
quiet adventures for Ed and Winnie’s only daughter.
A life not loud but with teaching softly stirred,
where His grace was felt, His guidance I often heard.
Neither gold nor fame could match the fierce delight
in mentoring students, their own stories and poems to write.
Through twisting paths, a God coincidence spun,
a husband, a fellow adventurer, danced my way, new life begun.
PART TWO: What I dislike or regret
A siren’s call to gluttony, the dinner plate was my throne~
three hundred pounds of obese flesh on tiny bones.
Ed and Winnie’s bodies, old and frayed like threadbare cloth~
I ignored, too blind to see their pain and wroth.
Forsook God’s gift and my passion for words, leaving them to gather dust
now echoes haunt—what if I'd dared to risk and with faith, trust?
Calloused clock still ticks, unmoved by my late remorse~
There’s no path to steer time back and choose a different course.
PART THREE: What I hope awaits
Fork by fork, kneeling not to gluttonous pronging
praying instead for satiated spiritual longing.
Striving to be the keeper of Ed and Winnie’s quiet things~
her faded recipe cards and his courageous, entrepreneurial wings.
Dipping my pen in holy light, claiming God’s gift, restless gold~
the page is pew, the desk my knees—memoir and poems to behold.
The gift is not the words but the entrepreneurial spirit that shapes them~
the hollow where my writing voice first trembled, a hidden gem.
Though calloused clock still ticks, unmoved by regrets and life’s dramas,
time slowly stumbles, drunk on syllables and tripping over commas.