'tis

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
a community organizer
    walking through
    oppression's
    neatly ordered
            regulations,
        planting seeds
        which blossom
                    into
    radical hope;

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
mold
    on a slice
    of bread
            which
            can cure
        a child's
        infection;

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
the young family
    which buys a
    foreclosed house
            in a rough
            neighborhood
        and turns it
                into
    a day care center.

© 2014 Thom M. Shuman

weeds

no matter how hard
                    we pull,
                    we spray,
                    we curse,
                    we pay
    the weeds
    refuse to go
                        away:

        a death too soon,
            a debilitating disease,
        rejection from loved ones,
            anger enough to destroy,
        heartache that knocks us to our
                                knees
and
            life goes out of
                        life;

yet,

without the darnel
                bearding us,

hope might not bear
        enough fruit for
        everyone who yearns
                    for it;

grace might blossom
            only once every
                    100 years;

the grapes of justice
        might produce
        just a few ounces;

love might become
        an endangered plant.

© 2014 Thom M. Shuman

internee (Zechariah 9:9-12)

from the shadowed
               corner,
   i used to stare
   up at the small
         window set high
      up in the wall,
      waiting for the moon
      to appear (even if
                  only a
                  sliver,
   imagining you were
           keeping an eye
      on me;

for hours on
          end,
   i would stand
   at the door, holdin
      onto the bars
      worn smooth by
      all the hands before
              me,
         waiting for you
         to come by with
         your cart full of
                    books,
   handing me the
           words you knew
      i needed, brushing
         the back of my hand
         with fingers as light
                  as Emily's
                  feathers;

in the early morning,
when even the guard
is too bored to
             notice,
      you tunnel in,
   taking me by the
             hand
   and leading me out
                   to
         where your muster
         of mistfits waits,
     and you swing me
     onto the bowed back
        of that borrowed
        farm animal,
     and we follow
     that route marked

   Hope.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman