Dreams crossing a field of yellow flowers
Names falling out of them as they pass…
Where the footprints of migrants…
Are etched in dried mud of human misery….
Between each word sung or spoken….
Screamed or begging….
A sacredness resounds
In the minuscule….
It’s rounded motion….
Speaking in its spirit voice….
Toward our inward yearning….
Where the immigres toil in 100 degree temperatures
Pierced the universe with the beak of a woodpecker
The warmth of its circumferring flowing through
The sage beneath me into the earths tremoring face….
Tasting its shadow in the shallow of a still river….
Knelt on my knees in the middle of a street…
Looking into the eye of a dead sparrow
The eye clouding in grey gathering ringclouds of farewell….
Held an eagle wing toward the enemies of the earth
Blowing from the wingtip the ashes
Carried the bones of Mistah….
The marrow of ghosts buried deep in its cavernous memory….
Of dog soldier prayers….
And Cheyenne fires that have no flame….
From the stronghold
16 May 19
In the rain just now
The smallest stones on the shoreline light their lamps….
Every morning the same songs unsung
Hang from the trees where the owls sleep….
Soft songs melting through the leaves
The fragile leaves….
Hiding among the death masks
The still open hands….
Over which a song I have dreamt all my life
no longer a theme park
now a killing field
if you are
august 16, 2014
are scented cedar
who guards the sacred seed
keep us strong
to meet the coming
for the cheyenne
11 april 2014
©2014 Lance Henson
I see you
who are flying with them
arriving in flowers of ice
fallen through the mist
whole in the dawn
September 27, 2013
©2013 Lance Henson
these ones have been
on their roughened hands…
foggia, southern Italy
august 11, 2013
©2013 Lance Henson (poem)
©2013 Barbara Bartlett (images)