A six year boy wrapped in gauze stares from one eye into An abyss As a child 100 years ago.... As a child 500 years ago.... A native child desperately runs from a school where priests and nuns Piously maim and rape In their gods name that screams more more From the abyss An abyss where a wind of horror screams long after the bones have dried Where a book burning with bloodied demons Whispers Of the last child who held it.... Where sorrow and rain is the cold soup of death... Abyss.... Gaza.... Canada…. America…. July 18 Lesina marina Italy © 2021 Lance Henson
Two of Lance's recent poems have been published online in the Love in the Time of Covid Chronicle. https://loveinthetimeofcovidchronicle.com/about/ Below is a link to the poems:
He also recites the poems in YouTube recordings hosted by the editors (links below)
A six year boy wrapped in gauze stares from one eye into An abyss As a child 200 years ago.... As a child 500 years ago.... An abyss where a wind of horror screams long after the bones have dried Where a book burning with bloodied words Whispers Of the last child who held it.... Where sorrow and rain is the cold soup of death... Abyss.... Gaza.... May18.21 Lesina marina Italy © 2021 Lance Henson
Snow filling ravens tracks
Near a fence row
Where the wind fell down….
Dripping wax inside the rain
Something weeping inside this wall
Silence and memory aching here….
In a winter wind storm near the woodshed
On a piece of wood where
Old ones passed….
Ghosted dreams fall out of our dreamtime
to sit among us….
© 2021 Lance Henson
Let us celebrate not what is human within us But the other Sister bee folding its flowers away from us To live Brother hawk watching us in its snowfall whitened feathers On our window ledge Grandmother moon holding us within herself Over a still river Grandfather wind whispering to our dreams outside our locked and frightened windows Let us celebrate not what is human within us But the other.... Tasoom. Tsistsistas word for shadow and soul. Derived from Hematasoomao - immortal spiritual potential. © 2021 Lance Henson
night suite 1 the only sound is night i walk around inside a dream touching the small faces of things the heating stove in the living room lifts up its eyes looking for winter 2 madrugada another name for dawn along a thin wafer of horizon it begins there is no erasure of night it is the timeless opening and closing of a single hand 3 she was dreaming of water a small butterfly she flew along the surface her wings touching softly the quiet water wingdust and water mingling in air stained by the moon © lance henson 1987
Henson, Lance. Another Song for America. Point Riders Press, 1991.
walking through this half light toward what never goes away.... a glass rain untouched in a mourning jungle The scent of burning hair And dying ethos Smoldering at the side of a hollowed forgotten passageway Where love in its latency Whispers for the dreamer to awaken....
Posted from the stronghold Lesina Marina, Italy © 2021 Lance Henson
Hear the bells in their tiniest voices Dripping as water.... Embracing you We love you... Its sound sings.... We are you.... Where human dreams of freedom are a river That cannot die.... Irrawaddy Washita... We are you.... We are you.... Its sound sings.... For Kyal Sin, known as Angel Young activist killed by Burmese police Irrawaddy, Burmese river © 2021 Lance Henson
Wuksin hamstuts eyo hasts
Flame of wood
Flame of bones that have lost
Where farewell floats in its
Wit ano I yohe…….
From the continuing series.
Everything that makes light….
River of tongues….
© 2021 Lance Henson
these are the ones who enfold light
causing it to strike the earth
the ones who
their older sister
the ones that hover over
the wintering water
the ones who spin
their angry eye upon us
the ones who gather above us
as we dream
these are the ones who unfurl
the grown moon...
*vo’e: Cheyenne for clouds
© 2021 Lance Henson