just suppose

what if 
   the homeless are 
               right, 
      that affordable housing 
      for everyone is a 
             possibility 
        and not a problem; 
 
what if 
   the poor are 
        telling the truth, 
     that we silence their voices, 
     stepping right past them as if 
               they were invisible, 
          in our rush to be their 
        advocate; 
 
what if 
   the broken and the sick 
           are correct, 
      that they should 
      be able to receive 
            the medical care 
                 we do; 
 
what if 
   the testimony 
   of the women is true, 
         that the grave is empty 
         and the Gardener 
      is planting new life 
   for every one, 
          every one, 
             every one. 
 
(c) 2013  Thom M. Shuman 
 

because (John 12:1-8)

because

we have preserved our joy

in manna jars

for the long winter of despair,

storing them in the dark corners

of our souls,

we have forgotten

its gritty taste;

because

we have put a tight lid

on our joy,

and put it in the back

of the pantry,

we have forgotten

how it can tickle

our noses;

because

we are so busy

prattling pious platitudes

about the poor, the least, the lost,

we ignore your words

which anoint them

as your children;

because

we have put up

the shutters and storm doors

to keep your future

from sneaking in,

we have missed

the sweet breeze

carrying your hope

to us;

because

we are who we are,

restore us, Holy Grace,

and make us

a fragrant offering

to the world.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

prodigies

dragging his emptied life behind,
one wheel wobbling,
ready to fall off at
the next crack in
his misery,
the children trailing behind
laughing and throwing
derision's husks
at the wastrel
wondering towards home;

the lenses of his glasses
so grimed with envy
he can't see past the end
of his sharpened red pencil,
he stands in the shadows,
arms full of ledgers
where each and every slight
is recorded,
ready to make his case
at any moment;

recklessly
burning the midnight oil,
the robe lapping his knees,
the ring rubbed smooth
from so much twisting,
he watches until
the stars doze off,
starting up from the chair
every time a figure appears
in the periphery of his
hope,
wearily sinking back
as the shadow passes
the end of the drive;

so many prodigals . . .
yet
you welcome each
at your table,
eager to waste all your grace
on us.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman