canticle 23

with you at my side,
i am not poverty-stricken:
finding rest in your lush love,
stilling myself by baptismal pools,
dipping my frantic feet
in the cool waters;
you add zest
to my fading impishness,
you carve your name
in each paving stone
set in the path.

when fear, sickness, doubt
crook their finger at me
from the shadows,
i can lean on
your walking stick
to make my way to
that table where
my rivals are seated;

you pour healing oil out
for dipping the bread of life,
the cup of grace spills over
staining my hands with hope.

Shirley, Goodness, Mercy
(friends from childhood)
and I play follow the leader
till we end up
on the front porch,
you welcoming us with
wide-open arms of joy.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 4

how long . . .
will i play tag
with the idle idioms
on my street,
or buy a front row seat
at the con artists' convention,
buying their latest
self-help tomes?

not long, for . . .

your joy delights
my palate
more than the
oldest single malt;

you pick me up
and lay me
in the deep downy
mattress stuffed with grace,
pulling the Spirit's
peacemeal quilt
up under my chin,

sitting by my side
until morning comes.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

springtime of doubt

as my frozen heart
thaws bit by bit,
and the brown lawn
carpeting my soul
begins to green,
they appear:

slowly
tenaciously
they push up
through the tangled
roots of my belief

their bright heads
dazzling in the light,
the softness of
their caresses
inviting me to pause
(just for a moment),
to lie down and
contemplate their beauty,
to stay in their midst
a little while longer;

then
you come along,
gathering them up
into your arms,
appearing a little
while later,
a luscious salad
tossed from their leaves,
the petals pressed
into a chardonnay
(with a hint of
of peace),
all placed on the Table

a part of the feast
you have prepared
for us.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the day after

on the second day
of the week:

Salome spent nearly
three hours at the
doctor's office
with a croupy kid;

Pilate and Herod
had their troops
out searching
all the dumpsters
for the missing
body;

11 ordinary looking
guys joined the
ever-growing lines
at the local
unemployment office;

and Jesus played
hopscotch with the kids,
using the stone which
had sealed his fate
to mark his place,

then waving bye,
he danced through the streets,
high-fiving all those
ear-budded teens
twittering
the good news
to their networks.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

twilight

at twilight we gather,
to remember:

a basin of water
will baptize
our trembling hearts
in your warm grace,

then
you will fill it
with your salty tears,
handing us
the cup of hope
to slake our
parched spirits;

a soft linen towel
will swaddle
our weary souls,

then
wrapping it around
the still-warm loaf,
you tenderly break the bread
(with hammer-and-nail
callused hands)
passing on
your passion for God
to us.

at twilight's end we will depart:

a towel,
a basin,
a loaf,
a cup

all we need to love
and serve
one another.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

dawning

when peace sweeps
the cobwebs of our fears
out of the corners
of those tombs
we carve into
our hearts;

when death is left stunned
at the open grave door,
the empty shroud
dangling in its hands;

when grace gently
bathes the scars
with God-tears,
swaddling them in
bands of compassion;

when joy
takes our breath away,
and we can only stand,
slack-jawed,
in awe and alarm;

when hope races
ahead of our doubts,
waiting to welcome us
when we return home,
wrapping us in
the tender arms
of love . . .

morning has come
with unexpected
elegance.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the circus is in town

gazing in the mirror,
you scoop up a gob
of greasepaint,
smearing it all over
your face,
adding the candyred
gumdrop nose,
dabbing multicolored
stars and moons
on your cheeks;

you pull on
the polka dotted suit
the baggy sleeves
stuffed with grace,
sticking the seltzer bottle
filled with living water
in your back pocket;

you pull on your
three-times-too-big
scuffed shoes
and squeeze uncomfortably
into the kiddie car
disguised as a
firetruck;

waving and honking
the big-bulbed horn
you drive through
our lives,
calling out:
'wanna see Jesus?
. . . follow me!'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 51

when you receive the latest
huff-and-puff from me,
be kind
and hit the delete button;

when i spend each moment
hanging out with the wrong crowd,
be patient
and send truth to be
my best friend;

when i wallow
in the muddy mess of me,
be gentle
as a washerwoman with
the unmentionables,
and let me dry in
peace's sweet breath;

when i hear the bell
on sin's seductive truck
coming down the street,
be quick
to turn up the boombox
playing the glad choruses
of your heart;

when you could
toss me out with
the rest of the junk,
be an old softie,
cradling me in your heart,
tenderly polishing me
with your scarred hands,
until i reflect
the hopeful gleam
in your eye.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the enemy

traducer
seducer
accuser
persecutor:
all those people i can be
when i follow
the wrong profit;

rebuker
quibbler
nitpicker
hairsplitter:
of all the faults
i spot so easily
in those around me;

croaker
complainer
grumbler
mumbler:
every time my life doesn't go
exactly as i asked God
to create it;

bellyacher
whiner
murmurer
moaner:
when everyone acts
as if it isn't all about
me;

i've met the enemy
and he is behind me,
pushing me
further and further

from you.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

lead me

tempted to slide
as far away from
my cellmates in
sin's dank, dreary tombs,
nudge me till
i am sitting side-by-side,
our brokenness
a mute witness
to our solidarity;

tempted to remain
at the Jordan's edge,
with my feet tingling
from the bracing water
swirling between my toes,
open my eyes to see
you on your knees,
cradling those
i shoved aside
in my impatience
to be first;

tempted to simply tread
water while the flood
of my fears sweep me away,
show me a new stroke,
so i can make it to
the safety of your hope.

teach me your ways . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

until (Mark 9:2-9)

until

we see the faces

of those tossed onto

the world's garbage heaps

dazzling bright with

hope and wholeness;

until

we respect the prophets

we have been yearning for

in the hip-hopped, do-ragged

teenagers strutting

through the malls;

until

we hear God's sweet

songs of peace and reconciliation

in the mother tongues

of all we turn

a deaf ear to;

until

we catch a glimpse

of you (out of the corner

of our shut-tight eyes)

coming down off

the shelf where we store you

to enter our frayed lives;

maybe

we should have nothing to say . . .

until

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the right time

speak . . .

. . .aloud
for those whose voices
have been stilled
by all who know best;
. . .in whispers,
to a child
tossing and turning
in fear's fever;
. . .caroling
the joy of bathing
in grace's sweet arms.

keep quiet . . .

. . .tongue-tied
when caressed
in a seaside sunset;
. . .tight-lipped
rather than flapping
one's gums
in gossip;
. . .muting
that inalienable right
to lash out
in anger.

there is a time to speak
as well as a time to be silent . . .

may i discern
the right time,
Word of my heart.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

in God's image

when we would gossip
over the pew backs,
whispering behind our hearts,
you thump our ears,
silencing our pettiness
with that 'look' of yours;

when we would
sit in judgment on others,
you dump us
out of our chairs,
taking us by the hand,
so we can walk with you
through the alleys,
past the doorways,
under the bridges
where your children huddle;

when we would stop
to fill up our selves
with arrogance's free air,
you puncture our pride
with the sharp point
of the gospel,
tsking,
'haven't you been
listening?
haven't you figured me out
by now?

you are a servant,

follow me.'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the exorcist (Mark 1:21-28)

what

are you holding

in your hands

(behind your back)

as you come towards us;

have

you come to plunge

the listlessness

of our lives into

the pools of your peace,

or will

you

silence the dubious choirs

which echo 24/7

in our souls,

to be able to

expunge those little

hellions

who bounce up & down

on the bedsprings

of our souls?

do

for us

what you will,

Holy One of Conundrums,

for

with

hope slipping out

of that tiny tear

in our heart's pocket,

and questions piling up

on the dining room table,

we wonder,

if it was left to

us

would we

embrace your healing touch

or renounce you

as the enemy

Jesus of Nazareth?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

pushy, aren't you?

when,
by the shores of complacency,
i am content to simply
mend the nets
of my washed-up life,
pull me to my feet,
plop me in the boat,
stick the oars in my hand,
and push me away
to find the ones
you would have me
bring to you;

there,
as i scrape my toes in the dirt
at the city limits
of petulant procrastination,
waiting for the bus to pull up,
grab the ticket
to Tarshish out of my hand,
put on the backpack filled
with hope and humility,
and push me towards
those who have waited
so long and patiently
for that simple word
which can change them
forever.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

was it you?

that insistent
whisper
that resounded like a
shout,
dumping me out of
a warm snuggle
with my worries,
urging me down
the path,
stumbling through the shadows,
stubbing my toe
on all my doubts
scattered about like toys
i forgot to put away;

was it you?

doggedly shaking me
awake,
while i drowsed
in the shade of
the figments of my imagination,
dreaming of that day
when all my stereotypes
become self-fulfilled,
when all my suspicions
are confirmed by
my prejudices;

was it you?

taking me by the
hand,
pulling me out
of the safe waters
of the womb of my expectations,
persistently prodding and poking,
forging and framing
(focusing so hard on your task,
the tip of your tongue sticking
out of the corner of your mouth),
following the blueprints
sketched out by the Spirit;

it is you,
isn't it?

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

still, waters

like water skimmers,
we simply glide along
the smooth facade of our lives,
till you come running up,
diving right in,
coming up with rivulets
caressing your big grin,
as you splash water
in our eyes so we can
see;

we drift along
just below the surface,
occasionally coming up for air,
hoping you cannot spy us
hiding in the shadowed pools,
but you step in
with your waders on,
tying the special fly
the Spirit made for you,
casting, casting, casting,
again and again,
until we take that first bite
of your grace
and we are hooked;

throwing caution to the wind,
you drive out onto our frozen souls,
setting up the shack,
chipping through the ice,
dropping your line in the hole,
patiently waiting
(while you pass the bread
and bottle around
with your two buddies)
to pull us into
the warmth of your heart.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

star of wonder

i wonder . . .

as she cleaned up
the barn,
packing for the trip
(to God-only-knows-where)
was Mary muttering
under her breath,
'men!
they couldn't have
brought diapers,
or given us
a crib?'

as he pulled
and begged the donkey
to stand still while
the bags were loaded on,
did Joseph think,
'wise?
they couldn't figure out
i could have used
a new power drill,
or at least some
of that Persian hardwood
that is rarely in the store?'

when we reach out
to gift those in need,
are we wise enough
to provide what
they really need,
a job,
child care,
a clinic,
a friend?

i wonder . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

fulfilled

we spend the morning
tubing down the brooks
of living water,
wading in the shallows
trying to catch the tadpoles
before they grow up,
watching butterflies
dance from flower
to flower;

after a picnic lunch
and a (very short!) naptime,
you take out your box
of multi-colored chalk,
drawing a hopscotch game
on the path swept smooth
of any rocks that might
bruise our souls,
patching the holes
so we have a smooth
landing place;

and at night,
you pour us each
a cuppa hot chocolate,
gathering us around
your rocking chair,
telling us stories
about the Word who,
like a long-distance runner,
never tires

of us.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come, anointing oil

when we would place
a foreclosed sign
on the ash-strewn lawn
of disappointed dreams,
you come,
hanging a wreath
strung together
from hope and peace
with a great, glittery
bow of grace;

when we would hand
the outcasts
the cast-offs from
our closets,
you come,
wrapping them in
your handknitted shawl
(from the finest Lambs' wool)
of embracing joy;

when we would
lash the broken
to that never-ending round
of paperwork, regulations
and platitudes,
you come,
slipping the shackles off,
laughing together
as you race to frolic
in the Spirit's sprinklers.

come, grace's fragrance;
come, love's lotion;
come, compassion's comfort;

come, and anoint us with
you!

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman