Mr. Shenton's Marbles

A Poem for the great Social Worker, Brother Shenton.

Mr. Shenton’s Marbles

Mr. Shenton’s lost his marbles
Or so it seems to be,
But there’s something to his marbles
We don’t seem to see.

Each Saturday he steps outside
And throws one in the sky.
Sometimes as it hits the earth
I swear I see him cry.

It couldn’t be the polished glass
Smooth, simple, bright,
That tugs at him within his heart
At mid-morning’s light.

I have pondered as I’ve seen
Marbles dot his land,
And I’m convinced that marbles mean
Much more in Shenton’s hand.

For in his hand he holds the lives
Of people poor and cold,
Set aside like ragged shoes
Dirty, damp, and old.

Some people choose to pass them by
With a stinging stare,
While others just ignore their eyes
As if there’s no one there.

But Mr. Shenton lends a hand
And sees within their eyes
Stories untold by winter’s cold
And pain’s cringed cries.

Week after week, he sets out
To live a Christian creed,
Clothe the naked, feed the poor,
And care for those in need.

And when he wakes each Saturday,
A marble in his hand,
He thinks of all he’s done that week
To help his fellow man.

He sees their faces in each marble,
Dirty, cold, and poor,
And wonders with his marble lost,
"What could I do more?"

Then he lets his marble fly.
It falls to the earth,
And he returns to his busy life
Remembering its worth.

Mr. Shenton’s lost his marbles
You may choose to say,
But we are all losing marbles
Every Saturday.

Do we think to use our marbles
To help those in need?
Clothe the naked, feed the poor,
And live a Christian creed?

Or do we choose to lose our marbles,
Every Saturday,
Lift our eyes and ignore the lives
We pass along the way?

                                            Jack Shirley