Category Archives: Poetry

Yellow on green in Illinois

Posted on by
1

Jonquils, daffodils, deep golden tulips,
bloom in swatches, in waves, in clusters–blaze
against the growing grass of the broad lawn.

The forsythia bushes tell it’s time
to prune all the peace roses that will climb
on stretching canes for sixty days to rhyme
their hues each edged with pink and proudly raise
unfolding petals toward the southern sun.

I will not poison, will not even mow
the dandelions till they age and grey.
I’ll rake in grass seed that I scatter, sow
in bare dirt patches–praise the month of May.

– Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, May 3, 2013

Two kinds of prayer :-)

Posted on by
Reply

Verse — Sanky Reed

Standing in the center aisle
of the small church, she told her friend
about a thief the night before
(while she was sleeping) broke into
her shed and stole her new chainsaw.

Agnes said, “Well, we should pray
for him–we are in church.” Sanky
said, “Let’s pray he cuts off his leg!”

– Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL

Designated Driver

Posted on by
Reply

I had 2 drinks in 4 hours–
they each guzzled 10 or more:
Scotch & sodas, gin & tonics,
wines with dinner, bottles pour
port and Irish cream and brandy,
Chambord, ouzo, B & B.

Friends for years, they each had stories–
I, of course, had heard them all
many times before: the punch lines
had no punch– they each just fell
on the dirty dishes, greasy
napkins, glasses finally empty.

– Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL

I’m SURE this is a very old memory!

Ode to Mama

Posted on by
Reply

Leah Thomas and family

Leah Thomas and family

Leah Thomas was known as “Mama” by her clients. She was an attorney at the Legal Rights Center in Minneapolis when she “fainted” at a coffee shop on her way to work. This poem was read at her funeral. We called her Mama because she treated the “juvenile offenders” she represented as though they were her own children. Leah’s older brother had been a member of the Black Panthers in Chicago.

ODE TO LEAH THOMAS

Like light
Like joy
Like sun breaking through a storm
Her laughter
Brightens the room
Breaks the ice
Fills it with peace.

Mama walks lightly
Amid the trials and the cares
Quick as a black panther
Steady as a turtle
She coos the tenderness of
the turtle dove
walks with the strength of a lion.

With steady hand
With sturdy faith
And clarity of mind
She laughs
And soars her craft
Through clouds and storms
To lead us on and through.

Like light,
Like joy,
Like sun breaking through a storm,
She laughs,
She brightens the room,
She wipes our tears
She fills us with her peace.

– Gordon C. Stewart, Executive Director, Legal Rights Center, Feb. 1, 2005.

Maggie (Acrostic)

Posted on by
Reply

Maggie and Morning Love

Maggie and Morning Love

(Tribute to Maggie)

Magnanimous mellifluence,
Attentive, affectionate, alert,
Good dog, as good as any
God could ever send to such as
I, the aging friend she trusted
Even at the end.

– The day after Maggie left us, April 23, 2013

For people AT HOME in Boston today

Posted on by
Reply

Areas of Greater Boston are in lock-down this morning because of the madness that lit the fires of hate and violence, whatever the reason(s) behind the bombings at the Boston Marathon. In times like this, I often turn to deeper sources for strength, hope, and peace. Veni Creator Spiritus is one of them. The second and third stanzas of the lyrics, attributed to Rabanus Maurus in the 9th Century C.E, become in 2013 a prayer for the people locked in their homes in Boston:

Thy blessed unction from above
is comfort, life, and fire of love.
Enable with perpetual light
the dullness of our blinded sight

Anoint and cheer our soiled face
with the abundance of thy grace.
Keep far our foes, give peace at home:
where thou art guide, no ill can come.

To hear the plainsong, beginning with the ringing of a bell, Click Come, Holy Spirit, Our Souls Inspire.

Space to Breathe and Grow

Posted on by
1

Verse – “Pruning”

Even under insulating cones,
roses in the Midwest winter die
back and turn brown from the tips of canes
almost to the ground. It’s time for my
pruning shears to clip away the dead
wood and give the living plant some air–
space to breathe and grow. The thorns are red,
black or brown, but still sharp so I wear
gloves of thick cowhide to carry all
cuttings to the backyard burn pile. Fire
turns them all to ashes which I pile
at the foot of every rose bush. There
fertilizer, water, and bonemeal
grow the blooms that make it all worthwhile.

– Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, April 15, 2013

Lady of Liberty and the Mother of Shame

Posted on by
Reply

As Washington takes up immigration reform, this piece is worth a read.

This was written in 1982 when McKinley Presbyterian Church, Champaign, Illinois (where Steve Shoemaker was Pastor) joined with five other local churches as part of the national “Sanctuary Movement“–providing help for undocumented residents fleeing oppresive regimes in Central America.

A NEW INSCRIPTION FOR THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

The lamp once was a beacon. Now the hand
holds high a searchlight, torch, a burning flame
exposing all the exiles, all who came
unasked in search of liberty. Our land
is full, our steel gate closed. Those who demand
a chance to live in freedom now will name
our border guard lady Mother of Shame:
the rich protected, refugees are banned.
“No sanctuary here, no room,” she cries
with rigid lips. “No welcome at our door
for homeless masses struggling to rise
above the hunger, pain, disease and war
in lands where they were born. Compassion dies.
I send the poor back to El Salvador.”

[Published in The Presbyterian Outlook,
August 18-25, 1986.]

The Other Side

Posted on by
Reply

The poem of one dying of cancer:

“NOTES FROM THE OTHER SIDE”

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.

Now there is no more catching
one’s own eye in the mirror,

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course

no illness. Contrition
does not exist, nor gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

Jane Kenyon (1947-1995), New Hampshire Poet Laureate, written while dying of cancer.

sin

Posted on by
1

numbers one as to sin i’m usually all in
help another out sorry no doubt
you’ve heard i’m too busy for that route
…
help a neighbor that’s way too much labor
when i need a hand please understand
i’ll expect you to drop what you planned
…
i always take care of number one
you it’s true are always number two
don’t you wonder i have your number

-Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, April 10, 2013