Poem for a Tuesday

Jesus, Remember Us

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Sabbath Day Thoughts — “Jesus, Remember Us” Luke 23:33-43

The world has known many kings.

During Jesus’ earthly ministry, the Roman Emperor was Tiberias Julius Caesar Augustus. Born to an ancient Roman noble family, Tiberias rose to power as a military man. Under his leadership, the Roman armies extended the boundaries of the empire north, conquering the Germanic tribes and pushing all the way to the North Sea. Tiberias’s personal life was scandalous, marked by stories of sexual misconduct and excessive drinking. He succeeded his father-in-law Julius Caesar, inheriting a significant portion of the vast imperial treasury, a fortune that he multiplied twenty times over in his 24-year-reign. He held onto power by executing political rivals. Despite his power and riches, Pliny the elder described Tiberias as “the gloomiest of men.”

Herod Antipas was the Roman-appointed king of Galilee and Perea, east of the Jordan. Herod built an impressive capital city on the Sea of Galilee and named it Tiberias after his friend the emperor. In a world where most people lived in tiny two-room dry stone huts, Herod had no fewer than five opulent royal residences from the Roman-style palace at Tiberias to the mountaintop desert fortress of Machaerus, where Herod had John the Baptist imprisoned and beheaded.  In a time when the average daily wage was one denarius, Herod was paid the imperial sum of 1,200,000 denarii-a-year to rule on behalf of the Romans, collect taxes, and ruthlessly keep the peace. Like his mentor Tiberias, Herod’s personal life was marked by lavish parties and excessive drinking, as well as an incestuous marriage to Herodias, who was both his niece and his brother’s wife.

Kings continue to rule around the world. This week, the White House played host to the Saudi Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman, known to his friends as MBS. The Saudi crown prince is fabulously rich with a fortune estimated at $25 billion dollars, amassed from control of oil resources and a wide net of strategic investments. In a 2017 purge, MBS invited his political rivals to a lavish party at the Riyadh Ritz Carlton, where he arrested them all on charges of corruption. His luxury lifestyle includes a superyacht, the Serene, valued at $500 million and a French palace, the Chateau Louis IV, which rivals Versailles. It’s said that MBS has been an architect of the decade-long War in Yemen, which has left that nation in humanitarian crisis. He is also believed to have ordered the 2018 assassination of Washington Post journalist and Saudi dissident Jamal Khasoggi, who was detained, murdered, and dismembered with a bone saw at the king’s behest.

The watchwords of these earthly kings are power, wealth, and self-interest.

On this final Sunday of the church year, we are asked to ponder Christ the King. The Christ we encounter today has none of the absolute power of Tiberias or the imperial paycheck of Herod. He doesn’t own a superyacht or a French palace. Jesus was betrayed by one of his most trusted companions. His followers abandoned him. He was falsely accused and unjustly condemned of blasphemy and sedition. He was badly beaten and cruelly scourged. The bruised and bloody Jesus was paraded through the streets of the city behind a placard bearing the inscription “King of the Jews,” an example of what happens to those who threaten the authority of Tiberias and Herod. At the place they called The Skull, Jesus was stripped, nailed to a cross, and left to die as soldiers gambled and a crowd looked on. To ensure that Jesus was thoroughly humiliated, his executioners suspended him between two known criminals. And as Jesus hanged there, broken, bleeding, and dying, he was scoffed at, mocked, and derided. Even so, Jesus found the strength and the courage to rise above his pain, and seek a path that his royal contemporaries couldn’t begin to imagine. Jesus prayed for his executioners and persecutors, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” The first watchword in the court of the crucified king is forgiveness.

Three times the dying Jesus was taunted by those around him. The leaders, who orchestrated his execution, scoffed, ““He saved others; let him save himself.” The soldiers mocked, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” Even one of the thieves repeatedly derided Jesus, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the salvation that Jesus offers our world takes place through the cross and not apart from it. Jesus chooses death on a cross because he would sooner save us than save himself. Jesus dies so that we might live, so that we might see that God would sooner die than be parted from us. The second watchword in the court of the crucified king is self-giving love.

Only one person on Golgotha that fateful day saw who Jesus truly was. Luke doesn’t give the repentant criminal dying on the cross next to Jesus a name, but tradition says that he was called Dismas. Although we don’t have a list of his criminal acts, in the 4th century, John Chrysostom taught that Dismas was a desert bandit, who robbed and killed unwary travelers. In the 5th century, Gregory the Great said that Dismas was both thief and murderer, guilty of killing his brother.  By his own admission, Dismas was no saint. “We have been condemned justly,” he called out to his criminal colleague who derided Jesus, “We are getting what we deserve for our deeds.” The dying Dismas saw his shattered life for what it was and knew that he was fast approaching an awful, irredeemable end. Even as his breath grew ragged and his vision dimmed, Dismas dared to hope that Jesus, this different kind of king, could work a miracle for him. Half prayer, half gallows plea, Dismas asked “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”

The dying king turned to his reprobate neighbor. Even though the selfish, sinful actions of Dismas’ long criminal career were abundantly self-evident, Jesus looked into all the broken bits of Dismas’ life and found the grace to love him and extend God’s mercy. “Truly, I tell you,” Jesus promised, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”  I imagine that Dismas wept to learn that in Jesus’ kingdom no life is so broken that it cannot be held and healed, loved and redeemed. We are not desert bandits, but there is a little bit of Dismas in each of us. We know the broken bits of our life, the bad choices, the harsh words, the failures to love. In the mercy that Dismas finds, we dare to hope that there is mercy for us. The third watchword in the court of the crucified king is mercy.

The world has known many kings. On this final Sunday of the church year, we are challenged to affirm who our king is. Whose watchwords will we embrace and put into practice? Will we pursue the way of Tiberias, Herod, MBS, and much of the world, prioritizing power, wealth, and our own selfish interest? Or will we take our place in the court of the crucified king? Will we follow Jesus and practice forgiveness, self-giving love, and mercy?

After the death of his son Drusus under mysterious circumstances, Tiberias left Rome and reigned from the Isle of Capri. There he became increasingly depressed and paranoid. When Tiberius’s righthand man Sejanus was caught in a plot to usurp him, Tiberias cleaned house, executing many who were implicated in the scheme. According to Tacitus, “There lay, singly or in heaps, the unnumbered dead, of every age and sex, the illustrious with the obscure. Kinsfolk and friends were not allowed to be near them, to weep over them, or even to gaze on them too long.” Tiberius died in the year 37, at the age of 78. Seneca wrote that the emperor died of natural causes, but rumors flew that he had been poisoned by his successor Caligula, starved, and smothered with a pillow. Tiberias was so loathed by the people that, after his death, mobs filled the streets of Rome yelling, “To the Tiber with Tiberius!”— a fate reserved for criminals were thrown into the river and denied burial or cremation.

Herod Antipas’s hold on power began to slip in the year 36 after an expensive and failed war with the neighboring kingdom of the Nabateans. When his patron Tiberias died and Caligula rose to power, Herod found himself out of favor with the imperial family. Caligula accused Herod of plotting with the Persian King Artibanus to throw off the yoke of the empire. In the summer of the year 39, Herod Antipas was stripped of his title, wealth, and territory. He was exiled to Gaul on the western frontier where he died the same year. The historian Cassius Dio believed that Caligula had him killed.

We don’t know what the future holds for the Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman. We can trust that if his political rivals or the abject poor of his kingdom or the Yemeni rebels or the Iranians have anything to do with it, it won’t be pretty.

On the third day, the crucified king rose from tomb. God’s love conquered the powers of sin and death. God’s Kingdom overcame the earthly principalities of Herod and Tiberias. Of Jesus’ reign, there shall be no end. He has 2.3 billion followers in the world today. His rule is honored and his name is glorified whenever we go forth to live by his watchwords of forgiveness, self-giving love, and mercy. Jesus, remember us.

Resources

Kendra A. Mohn. “Commentary on Luke 23:33-43” in Preach This Week, Nov. 23, 2025. Accessed online at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christ-the-king-3/commentary-on-luke-2333-43-6

Gilberto Ruiz. “Commentary on Luke 23:33-43” in Preach This Week, Nov. 20, 2016. Accessed online at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christ-the-king-3/commentary-on-luke-2333-43-2

Patrick J. Willson. “Homiletical Perspective on Luke 23:33-43” in Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 4. Westminster John Knox Press, 2013.

Nancy Lynne Westfield. “Pastoral Perspective on Luke 23:33-43” in Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 4. Westminster John Knox Press, 2013.

“Herod Antipas” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, Vol. 3. New York: Doubleday, 1992.

“Tiberias” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, Vol. 6. New York: Doubleday, 1992.

“Mohammad bin Salman: royal power, oil, money, and a controversial legacy” in Finance Monthly, https://www.finance-monthly.com/mohammed-bin-salmans-net-worth-2025-royal-power-oil-money-and-a-controversial-legacy/

Luke 23:33-43

33 When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. [[34 Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”]] And they cast lots to divide his clothing. 35 And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” 36 The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine 37 and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” 38 There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” 39 One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding[e] him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” 40 But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? 41 And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” 42 Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in[g] your kingdom.” 43 He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

Christmas Bells

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Poem for a Tuesday — “Christmas Bells” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
    “For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

in A Christmas Treasury of Yuletide Stories and Poems, ed. James Charlton and Barbara Gilson (New York: Guild America Books, 1976), pp. 302-303.

Luke 2:14

“Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was the most popular poet of his day. Born in Portland in 1807, his grandfather was the congressman and Revolutionary War hero General Peleg Wadsworth. His father Stephen Longfellow was a lawyer and founder of Bowdoin College, where Henry studied, met his lifelong friend Nathaniel Hawthorn, and graduated in 1825. Henry taught at Bowdoin and later at Harvard College. He was such an admired figure during his life that his seventieth birthday in 1877 was celebrated across the nation with parades, speeches, and the reading of his poetry. “Christmas Bells,” written in 1863, reflects Longfellow’s grief over the Civil War and the death of his wife Frances “Fanny” Appleton.

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Not Only the Eskimos

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Poem for a Tuesday — “Not Only the Eskimos” by Lisel Mueller

We have only one noun

but as many different kinds:

the grainy snow of the Puritans

and snow of soft, fat flakes,

guerrilla snow, which comes in the night

and changes the world by morning,

rabbinical snow, a permanent skullcap

on the highest mountains,

snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger,

riding hard from out of the West,

surreal snow in the Dakotas,

when you can’t find your house, your street,

though you are not in a dream

or a science-fiction movie,

snow that tastes good to the sun

when it licks black tree limbs,

leaving us only one white stripe,

a replica of a skunk,

unbelievable snows:

the blizzard that strikes on the tenth of April,

the false snow before Indian summer,

the Big Snow on Mozart’s birthday,

when Chicago became the Elysian Fields

and strangers spoke to each other,

paper snow, cut and taped,

to the inside of grade-school windows,

in an old tale, the snow

that covers a nest of strawberries,

small hearts, ripe and sweet,

the special snow that goes with Christmas,

whether it falls or not,

the Russian snow we remember

along with the warmth and smell of furs,

though we have never traveled

to Russia or worn furs,

Villon’s snows of yesteryear,

lost with ladies gone out like matches,

the snow in Joyce’s “The Dead,”

the silent, secret snow

in a story by Conrad Aiken,

which is the snow of first love,

the snowfall between the child

and the spacewoman on TV,

snow as idea of whiteness,

as in snowdrop, snow goose, snowball bush,

the snow that puts stars in your hair,

and your hair, which has turned to snow,

the snow Elinor Wylie walked

in in velvet shoes,

the snow before her footprints

and the snow after,

the snow in the back of our heads,

whiter than white, which has to do

with childhood again each year.

Lisel Mueller emigrated to the United States from Germany in 1939 at the age of fifteen. Her father Fritz C. Neumann was an early, outspoken critic of the National Socialist Party. Arrested and interrogated by the Gestapo in 1935, he fled to Italy before being granted asylum in America. Lisel began writing poetry following her mother’s death in 1953. She received the National Book Award for Poetry in 1981 for The Need to Hold Still and the Pulitzer Prize in 1997 for Alive Together: New & Selected Poems. Lisel’s work probed questions of history and identity, sometimes with a lyrical – or even humorous – sensibility. She once said of her craft, “I write a lot of poems that have tension between what is going on now in society and what has always been there. My poems are much concerned with history. The message is obvious. My family went through terrible times. In Europe no one has had a private life not affected by history. I’m constantly aware of how privileged we (Americans) are.”

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The Hermit

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Poem for a Tuesday — “The Hermit” by Jane Kenyon

The meeting ran needlessly late,
and while yawns were suppressed around the room
the river swelled until it spilled.
When the speaker finished, I made for the car
and home as fast as fog would allow —
until I came upon a barricade: beyond,
black pools eddied over the road. Detour.
The last familiar thing I saw: the steaming
heaps of bark beside the lumber mill.

No other cars on the narrow, icy lane; no house
or barn for miles, until the lights of a Christmas tree
shone from the small windows of a trailer.
And then I knew I couldn’t be far
from the East Village and the main road.
I was terribly wide awake. . . .

To calm myself I thought of drinking water
at the kitchen sink, in the circle of light
the little red lamp makes in the evening. . .
of half-filling a second glass
and splashing it into the dish of white narcissus
growing on the sill. In China
this flower is called the hermit,
and people greet the turning of the year
with bowls of freshly-opened blossoms.

in Claiming the Spirit Within, ed. Marilyn Sewell. (Boston: Beacon Press, 1996) p. 312.

Jane Kenyon (1947-1995) grew up in Michigan but settled as a young adult in New Hampshire at the family farm of her husband, the poet and academic Donald Hall. Jane published four books of poetry in her too-short life. Her work is celebrated for her exploration of rural life, nature, and living with depression. She received the prestigious Hopwood Award at the University of Michigan and the PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry. At the time of her death from leukemia in 1995, Kenyon was the Poet Laureate of New Hampshire.

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She Who Reconciles

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Poem for a Tuesday — “She Who Reconciles” by Rainer Maria Rilke

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads

of her life, and weaves them gratefully

into a single cloth —

it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall

and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.

In the softness of evening

it’s you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,

the unspeaking center of her monologues.

With each disclosure you encompass more

and she stretches beyond what limits her,

to hold you.

— from Rilke’s Book of Hours, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy. Riverhead Books: New York, 1996, I 17, p. 64.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was a Bohemian-Austrian poet and novelist. He was the only son of an unhappy marriage. His mother mourned the death of an earlier daughter. During Rilke’s early years, she sought to recover the lost girl through the boy. According to Rilke, he had to wear “fine clothes” and “was a plaything [for his mother], like a big doll.” He attended military school and trade school before studying literature, art history, and philosophy in Prague and Munich. He was a mystic, proto-modernist, and early proponent of psychoanalysis. He traveled extensively throughout Europe and Russia before settling in Switzerland. At the time of his death from leukemia, his work was largely unknown to the reading public, but his posthumous followers have been many. He is now considered the most lyrical and influential of the German early modernists.

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This Morning

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Poem for a Tuesday — “This Morning” Raymond Carver

This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk — determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong — duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I’ve trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn’t know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.

in Ploughshares, vol. 11, no. 4, 1985.

Raymond Carver was best known for his sublime short stories. He had working class roots, growing up in rural Washington where his hard-drinking father worked in a sawmill and his mother waited tables. At age nineteen, while working in a California sawmill, he met and married sixteen-year-old Maryann Burk. His interest in writing was stoked by undergraduate work at Chico State University, where he was mentored by John Gardner and Richard Cortez Day. Carver supported his family as a delivery man, janitor, and library assistant, often rushing to complete his tasks so that he could spend time writing. Carver struggled with alcohol addiction, quipping once that he gave up writing and took to full-time drinking. He mastered his addiction with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous. His first short story collection, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?, was published in 1976. It was shortlisted for the National Book Award. He died of lung cancer at the age of fifty.

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Applesauce

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Poem for a Tuesday — “Applesauce” by Ted Kooser

I liked how the starry blue lid

of that saucepan lifted and puffed,

then settled back on a thin

hotpad of steam, and the way

her kitchen filled with the warm,

wet breath of apples, as if all

the apples were talking at once,

as if they’d come cold and sour

from chores in the orchard,

and were trying to shoulder in

close to the fire. She was too busy

to put in her two cents’ worth

talking to apples. Squeezing

her dentures with wrinkly lips,

she had to jingle and stack

the bright brass coins of the lids

and thoughtfully count out

the red rubber rings, then hold

each jar, to see if it was clean,

to a window that looked out

through her back yard into Iowa.

And with every third or fourth jar

she wiped steam from her glasses,

using the hem of her apron,

printed with tiny red sailboats

that dipped along with leaf-green

banners snapping, under puffs

or pale applesauce clouds

scented with cinnamon and cloves,

the only boats under sail

for at least two thousand miles.

in Ted Kooser, Delights and Shadows, Port Townsend: Copper Canyon Press, 2004.

Ted Kooser is a poet, editor, publisher, and winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. He depicts everyday images from rural life that serve as extended metaphors for the human condition. Kooser taught high school English before pursuing a career in insurance. He wrote for an hour and a half before work every morning. By the time he retired, he had published seven books of poetry. Poet Edward Hirsch once wrote, “There is a sense of quiet amazement at the core of all Kooser’s work.”

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All Hallows

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Poem for a Tuesday — “All Hallows” by Louise Gluck

Even now this landscape is assembling.

The hills darken. The oxen

sleep in their blue yoke,

the fields having been

picked clean, the sheaves

bound evenly and piled at the roadside

among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness

of harvest or pestilence.

And the wife leaning out the window

with her hand extended, as in payment,

and the seeds

distinct, gold, calling

Come here

Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

in Louise Gluck. The First Four Books of Poems. (New York: Harper Collins, 1995).

Poet and essayist Louise Gluck was born in New York City in 1943. She suffered from anorexia nervosa as a girl and her early work lyrically reflected the struggle to live with trauma, failed love, family dysfunction, and despair. She graduated from Columbia University and supported herself as a secretary until the publication of her critically acclaimed first collection of poems Firstborn. She went on to publish eleven more works of poetry and three collections of essays. Gluck taught at Goddard College, Williams College, and served as the Rosencrantz Writer in Residence at Yale University. In 2003, she was named the twelfth US Poet Laureate. In 2020, she became the first American woman poet to win the Nobel Literature Prize for her overall contribution to literature. Louise Gluck died earlier this month at her home in Cambridge at the age of eighty.

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Morning Poem

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Poem for a Tuesday — “Morning Poem” by Mary Oliver

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches–

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead–

if it’s all you can do

to keep on trudging–

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted–

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

in Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems. Boston: Beacon Press, 1992, pp. 106-107

The late Mary Oliver had a singular ability to attend to the natural world and, with the sparest of words, plumb truths that speak to the heart. She won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. Raised in a midwestern Christian home, she attended Sunday school but struggled to accept the doctrine of the resurrection and opted out of confirmation. She was deeply spiritual and spent a lifetime in pursuit of the holy. Oliver said, “I know that a life is much richer with a spiritual part to it. And I also think nothing is more interesting. So I cling to it.”

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Friendship Days at Akwesasne

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Poem for a Tuesday — “Friendship Days at Akwesasne”

by Maurice Kenny

For Francis

Humid afternoon by the St. Lawrence,

women canoe-races paddle the river;

full of fry-bread, soda and hot

strawberry-rhubarb pie

I stumble under the cedar arbor

to listen to the drum and singing.

Outfitted Mohawks circle a “stomp dance.”

I take a place on a bench near

an elder woman who asks in Mohawk,

what do I do? Tote bag slung over my

left shoulder I figure I should own up.

“I’m a writer”. . . in smiles.

“What kind?” she asked, really curious.

“A poet,” I replied proudly . . .

to which she offered a grunt,

got up from the bench and huffed off.

Well, maybe she was right.

in Maurice Kenny. Humors and/or Not So Humorous, Buffalo: Swift Kick #7/8, 1988.

Maurice Kenny drew on the lifeways and perspectives of his Mohawk tribal heritage. Kenny understood animal and natural life as part of an essential continuum of consciousness in which we are embedded. He lived for years in Brooklyn where he worked as an editor, publisher, and poet. During the 1970s and early 1980s, Kenny was increasingly active in Native American activism, having undergone an awakening to the extent and significance of his own Mohawk identity in the wake of the Occupation of Alcatraz in 1969. He eventually returned to his Mohawk homeland, settling in Saranac Lake. He taught at North Country Community College, Paul Smiths College, and SUNY Potsdam. Kenny once wrote, “Let it be known I love this America on Turtle’s back…the mountains and skies and all between. I have crossed its beauty hundreds of times and celebrate all happiness and greenness.” In 2002, he received the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas.

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