spoilsport

personally
(and please don't
take this personally)
there are those times
when i wish i were an
orphan . . .

then,
i could ditch
my Easter outfit
and put on my
all-too-human skin
again;
then,
i could
be cranky
without guilt
belaboring the point;
then,
i might just enjoy
treating people
the way they seem
to enjoy treating me.

But nooooo!
You have to go
and make Spirit
my sibling . . .

and spoil all my sin.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman
(based on John 14:15-21

fare

good-bye
is not in your vocabulary,
Embracing Love,
but you speak
grace,
so may that gift
swell gently
in our hearts;

ta-ta
is a word you've never
spoken,
but you sing
thanksgiving
for friendships
which last beyond
painful departures;

ciao
is an attitude
you do not reflect,
but you
celebrate with us,
even as we let go
of hands that have
encouraged us
through the years;

farewell
is not forever,
but your faith
which brought us together
and binds us forever,
is the promise
we will see
even when our
remembrances
fade.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

indeed (you are!)

indeed (you are!)

when our GPS
shorts out,
you blow the dust
off the map
written
on our hearts
so we can find
our way
home;

deadened by the
old songs of the old guard,
flooded by the
slick siren calls
of the sellers,
you cradle your hand
and hold it to our ears,
whispering,
'have a cuppa
truth';

as our days dribble on
dully
despairingly
dryly,
you hand us
life's pogo stick,
and laugh with
delight
at our foolish attempts
to follow
your lead.

and
finding every door
shut in our face,
you clean up
the Pilgrim Suite
at Abba's B&B,
where we can stay
forever.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 23

my steward,
you share with me
all i need;
my babysitter,
you tuck me under
the green quilt
of love;
my teacher,
you lift me up
to drink from
serenity's fountain;
my guide,
you point out
the walking paths
to hope.

when the power fails,
you take my hand,
so i won't trip
over the furniture
the evil one
has moved around
in the darkness.
your heart,
your joy
are a warm shawl
for my cold
soul.

you whip up
a gourmet meal
(but ask me
to share the
leftovers
with those who
never gave me
a crumb)
you pour grace
into my heart
until it overflows,
running down the
kingdom's streets,
so kids can
splash in its
puddles.

leniency and goodwill
tiptoe after me
wherever i go,
until i make it
safely
home,
where we will live
rent-free,
watching the sunset
that never ends.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

easter eyes

lost,
i take
a shortcut just
down this alley,
where anger
and agony come
tagging after me;

wandering,
i explore the wide avenues
of the world,
whose hope
has been potholed
with despair;

wondering,
i glance at the map,
and race down
the next street,
only to find sin
standing in every
doorway,
enticing me with its
fingers sticky
with temptation;

then we turn down
Emmaus Road,
where the aroma
of fresh-baked life
wafts out each window,
and, tapping me on the shoulder,
you shout, 'go!'
and race me
home.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

upper room

from the corners
of our doubts
come the claustrophobic
mutterings:
'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 . . .!'

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

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

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

breathing
"Peace"
sweet, simple
unimaginably
unlimited
peace . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

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
disappeared,
and i've ransacked
the house trying
to find it!

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

my fears have become
wildflowers
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

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
uneased
no matter how much
they consumed last night,
took double doses
of painkillers
and stumbled back
to bed;

Jesus
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

come Friday

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

nails
were strewn
in the path
of the
cross-bearer;

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

as death
came striding by,
arm-in-arm
with
Pilate and Herod;

and
the silence
from his friends
was deafening.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

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
(cross-stitched
with the names of all
who had eaten with him
over the years),
he spread it over
the scarred table.

now,
everything was ready

come Thursday.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

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
with
the whispers
of the lovers
of shadows.

the spines of the scolds
stiffened
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

come Tuesday

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

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

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

come Tuesday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

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
breath
when the service
was so lousy at
his usual eatin' place;

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

come Monday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

you

glory
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;

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

you
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);

you
we welcome
with cheering voices
and nail-choked hearts.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

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
who,
cradled in hunger's arms,
cry themselves to
sleep;

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

bucket list

each morning,
i fill my bucket
at the Well of Sin,
and by the time
i get halfway through the day,
i have to turn around
to get more;
will you meet me there
to fill me with salvation?

in the middle of the night,
i find my bucket
overflowing
from nightmares;
will you meet me
at the Well of Dreams
to tell me every hope
you have for me?

in the silence of my soul,
i discover that bucket
called my heart
is cracked by the heat
of my anger,
is holed by the hurts
of others;

will you meet me
at the Well of Grace,
to refresh me
with healing's
flowing stream,
to fill me
with the nectar
of sweet life?

piano man

at the bar, where
he's been nursing his wounds
after a long bored meeting,
Nick pushes himself to his feet,
wandering over to
the cigarette-scarred
piano
where Jesus is
slowly plinking
out
'in the still of the night'

putting a dollar
in the chipped glass,
he begins to chat
with the guy
who can do wonders
with just a few notes;

nodding slowly,
listening carefully
Jesus looks up
and smiles:
'my man,
you need a new dance partner!'
nodding to the corner;

as Nick turns,
he sees Spirit
waiting with open arms

'but, Nick,'
Jesus whispers,
'you gotta let her lead . . .'

as he swings into
a bluesy
'i could have danced
all night'

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

blame game

it's the snake's
fault
you see . . .

that's why
i look at the outcasts
with a chill-carved face,
that's why i offer the poor
soup full of rocks;

it's that snake,
you see . . .

coiling around me,
whispering that i
am on my own,
no One
to guide me;
no One
to follow;

it's him, you see . . .

crafting money, power
success into icons
that slip so comfortably
into my pocket, my dreams,
my life.

yet,
in the wilderness
the tester wears my face,
offering me
petty pride,
dubious hopes,
faithless fears.

if only i
could
blame the snake!

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

transfigure me, please

i'll meet you
on the mountaintop;
but could you come
and find me
in Lost Valley?

i'll build you
a home
in my heart;
but could you visit
that hovel
called hopelessness?

i'll worship you
on Praise Peak;
but could you cherish
me when grief
knocks me down;

i'll bathe myself
in glory's light,
but could you wash away
sin's shadow
which stains me?

i'll promise
not to tell a soul;
but could you whisper
that i am
Beloved;

i'll try to wait,
but when i can't,
could you transform
my fear into faith
and raise me to life?

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

this year

i've gotten rid
of all junk:
chips, chocolate, cola;
the fridge is now stocked
with fruits, veggies, juice -
this is the year
i get into shape!

no more contrived reality,
no more glazed eyes
from watching "Idol" wannabes;
it's public radio and tv,
it's a stack of bios from the library -
this is the year
i form new habits!

but you would
take my twisted logic
about 'who deserves'
and reshape it
into compassion;

you would
take my bitter heart
and fill it with
hope and joy;

you would
take my hurtful ways,
and reform them
into acts of gentleness;

this is the year
you take delight
in making me
a servant!

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman