junk (Romans 6:1b-11)

those secrets
      known only to
            us in the
         shadows of our
            hearts
   and the flickering
      monitors in the
         dim rooms?

those grudges
      we stockpile in
             our souls,
         where they fester,
   oozing bitterness
            every time
            we pick off the
         scabs?

those thoughtless words
      and mean-spirited
          phrases 
          in that
                tattered
         dictionary of
            disdain we
   keep in our back pocket
      for use at a
          moment's notice?

you gather all these
          up, (and all
      the rest of the  
      junk of our lives),
   sorting them out
      on the tables in
      the driveway,
         planting a big
         sign reading
   Yard Sale
      by the curb;

then,
turning on the
          sprinklers,
   you teach us
       to turn
          cartwheels
      in the cooling
          drops of
   life.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

poem/prayer for Trinity Sunday

at the
         crossroads,
   i could keep
      going the route
      i have been
            traveling
   all these years, with
      no end in sight,
      no benchs where
         i might rest;

i could go
         back,
   retracing my steps,
   hoping i might
      be pick up
      all the pieces
             of life
      littering
         the sides
         of the road;

I could turn
         towards
   that street which
      (with its broad
       tree-lined walks,
    houses so freshly painted
    they look brand-new,
       and lawns which will
       tolerate no weeds)
            looks
   too good to be
                real;

or
      i could simply
      turn down that
               way
         everyone warns
         me about,
   following you,
   the family playing
            leapfrog,
      splashing noisily
      through every muddy
            puddle,
   building a kingdom
   from all the discarded
         people left
      by the curb.

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman

dare we? (Pentecost - A)

hesitant enough
to whisper your name,
   much less tell any one
   of your presence in us:
         dare we ask for
         tongues of boldness?

our hearts
fatigued by
   the cancer of poverty,
   the fears crouching in
                the shadows,
   the children wandering
                our streets:
         dare we ask for
         a transplant of
            compassion?

souls numbed
   by broken lives
   and shattered dreams,
grace iceberged
   by the chill of our culture:
         dare we ask for
         just the smallest
                     spark
         to engulf us?

dare we hope
      dare we dance
dare we yield
      dare we dive
      into your red-hot
              love
   so we can live?

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman