Psalm 121 Interpretted

I will lift my eyes to the hills

before the light appears–

the light which rises in the east,

and radiates from Jerusalem.

I will lift my eyes,

my heart, my hopes

from the depths of my sorrow,

from pain that clouds my senses,

from feelings of isolation.

To the hills I will reach out for solace–

to upward currents of Spirit,

to the greenness of Life

I will lift my eyes to the hills

to the One

who never fails to appear.


Beware of mangos

and all such beautiful, sweet things

your hands may mold themselves around

as if abandoning their humanness.

Thought is the shape that shapes

each object to itself. Informs

the formless what to be– syllables

that smoke,

and fog,

and seem to disappear–

pragmatic as poetry.

Translating everything

to metaphor.

Mangos and such,

into the face of a child held

in your hands.

What Difference?

Okay, I forgot.

I’m sixty years old,

and I forgot Helen Keller was deaf.

You laughed.

I laughed.

And for a moment, I was confused.

But really,

what’s the difference?

It doesn’t change anything,

doesn’t insult anyone,

or disrupt world economics.

It’s actually a compliment.

I didn’t forget Keller’s brilliance,

the way she advocated for blind folks around the world,

her eloquent use of words.

I didn’t forget Keller knew German,

French and Greek, appreciated

the ocean, Socialism, and Beethoven.

Deafness, and blindness

for that matter, were sudden cliffs

Keller navigated throughout her life,

the shocking scenery,

and heartstopping challenges

most people find too distracting

to go on living.

That’s the difference—

Helen Kelller lived.

My Turn Comes

My turn comes,

gimmey talk–painful

goodbyes, dreams found

and lost, love,

and hate, death,

struggle, laughter, tears.

Talk, real talk.

My turn comes,

gimmey touch–hand

to hand to cheek

lips, hair, arms


kissing, feeling, being.

Touch, real touch.

My turn comes

gimmey life–memory

told and retold,

tears without end,

life, real life.

Like Spectres

Like shadows in the firelight,

Like smoke upon the air,

Like spectres we are dancing

–is no one there?

Ephemeral and timeless

Colors flicker, bright

As dreams of sleepless dreamers

Who pass the weary night

Yearning for another’s touch

–to know themselves alive,

A word to build a world upon,

Yet something to believe.

At Ankenny Wildlife Refuge (cont’d)


Queen Anne wears lace

and waves at me

as I embrace

wild Ankenny.

She waves at me,

a royal friend

at Ankenny.

I humbly bend,

and would embrace

her, but I see

upon white lace,

her ladies three.

At Ankenny,

eight ducklings wait–

she waves at me,

I hesitate,

Queen Anne, where’s lace?”

I whisper low.

“In your embrace

of Nature’s show.”

She waves past me,

sweeps green and blue,

“All Ankenny

is lace for you.”

“In Life’s embrace

you feel God’s breath,

like lace-

threads, weaving life and death.”

“Wild Ankenny

breathes Spirit’s call,

weaves you with me,

and us with All.”

Queen Anne wears lace

and waves at me

as I embrace

wild Ankenny.