Monday, March 31, 2008

upper room

from the corners
of our doubts
come the claustrophobic
'it's their fault . . .
. . . how many times . . .?'

in the solace
of the shadows,
fingers stiffen in accusation:
'i wasn't the one . . .
. . .you said you would never . . .!'

churns the room,
as we wait for
hate's hobgoblins
to jump out, yelling,

you come,
parting our tears
to bring us out
of grief's slavery;

putting your finger
in our fissured faith
to make it whole;

sweet, simple
peace . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Sunday, March 23, 2008

what have you done?

what have you done
with my fears?
i left them
on the dresser last night
and now,
they are gone!

what have you done
with my death?
it has suddenly
and i've ransacked
the house trying
to find it!

what have you done
with my name?
it was ground
by the taunters
and tormentors
of Friday . . .

my fears have become
in Eden's garden,
my death
is the tattered shirt
now used
to mop up spills
at the Lamb's Table;

and my name
is that sweet whisper
in my heart,
as you take my hand
to dance the
Resurrection Waltz.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Saturday, March 22, 2008

come Saturday

come Saturday,
Mary, MM, and Sally
were rearranging
the furniture
and cleaning up
the mess
from Friday's wake;

the guys,
who found their loss
no matter how much
they consumed last night,
took double doses
of painkillers
and stumbled back
to bed;

lay in the chill
of the darkness,
his head cradled
in God's lap,
while she stroked
his hair,
humming the
Resurrection Lullaby.

come Saturday.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Friday, March 21, 2008

come Friday

come Friday
palms were stuffed
into trash cans
for the post-Passover

were strewn
in the path
of the

little kids
stopped their games
of streetball,
pressing their backs
against shadowed

as death
came striding by,
Pilate and Herod;

the silence
from his friends
was deafening.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Thursday, March 20, 2008

come Thursday

come Thursday
the powers-that-be
were being themselves,
lining up lackeys
to do their dirty work;
taking money
from petty cash
to pay a bribe
under the table;

Jesus was up early
working out his frustrations
as he kneaded the bread,
letting the grace
rise to a double measure;

decanting the wine,
he giggled
as the rich bouquet
of hope (with just a hint
of promise)
filled the room;

shaking the wrinkles
out of the tablecloth
with the names of all
who had eaten with him
over the years),
he spread it over
the scarred table.

everything was ready

come Thursday.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

come Wednesday

come Wednesday
the world stunk
with the bitterness
of intrigue;
the foul breath
of secret machinations
fogged the alleys
and byways
of the city,
while the silent
walls echoed
the whispers
of the lovers
of shadows.

the spines of the scolds
and dander filled
their mouths
as they took umbrage
with the one
who spread solace
on the soul
of her Beloved,
when they
would have doused him
with the sour perfume
of self-righteousness.

come Wednesday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

come Tuesday

come Tuesday,
the Morally Superior
was back in business,
selling conspiracies
(buy 1, get 1 free),
fear (one size fills all),
and a variety of nails,

people stood around
with their hearts
in their pockets,
listening to stories
as usual,
missing the punch line;

stubborn-souled Jesus
reminded folks
(once again)
that it is all about
not rules, regs, rituals.

come Tuesday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Monday, March 17, 2008

come Monday

come Monday,
Jesus groaned
getting out of bed,
trying to stretch out
the stiffness and tenderness
from riding that donkey;

hungry enough
to eat a donkey,
he grumbled under his
when the service
was so lousy at
his usual eatin' place;

wanting to find
some silence and solace
he wandered into
and wailed with grief
when he saw
that it had become
so upmarket
that those
who needed it
were not to be found;

come Monday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman


is left behind,
hanging in the closet
gathering Adam & Eve's dust,
as you put on
humility's shirt
(stained with grace)
that's been lying
crumpled up on the floor
to be tossed into
baptism's wash;

(who waded
splashing and laughing
in Eden's crystal fountain)
jump feet first
into this messy muck
we call life;

could be dancing
with the stars,
gliding around
Saturn's rings,
but you throw
your leg
over the back
of an animal
(which reminds you
of your disciples);

we welcome
with cheering voices
and nail-choked hearts.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Sunday, March 02, 2008

anointed one

when i would kneel
to be anointed
from the horn of hubris,
you thow mud
in my eyes,
so i can see
those trampled
by a world stampeding
toward success;

when i would
splash on
pomposity's perfume,
you sprinkle me
with the tears of children
cradled in hunger's arms,
cry themselves to

when i would
soak my feet
in the salts
of self-absorption,
you massage them
with the dust
from the souls
of mother's walking
weary's highway
to their third jobs.

anoint me,
Lord God,
that i might serve
my sisters and brothers.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman