Wednesday, March 27, 2013

just suppose

what if 
   the homeless are 
      that affordable housing 
      for everyone is a 
        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 
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 

Thursday, March 14, 2013

because (John 12:1-8)

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;

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;

we are so busy
prattling pious platitudes
about the poor, the least, the lost,
we ignore your words
which anoint them
as your children;

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;

we are who we are,
restore us, Holy Grace,
and make us
a fragrant offering
to the world.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

Wednesday, March 06, 2013


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;

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
wearily sinking back
as the shadow passes
the end of the drive;

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

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman