Dreams crossing a field of yellow flowers

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….

Lesina, Italy
Where the immigres toil in 100 degree temperatures
Picking tomatoes.


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….

Watched raven….
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
Of cedar….
And resistance….

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….

But life….

From the stronghold
16 May 19

In the rain just now

In the rain just now
Before dusk…

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

Is sounding….

The songs
Foggia italy
April 27.19

impression of peyote song

whose wings
are scented cedar

who guards the sacred seed

keep us strong

to meet the coming


for the cheyenne
11 april 2014

©2014 Lance Henson



these ones have been

                                             here before
double eyelids

burnt light

                    on their roughened hands…

fingernail moon
foggia, southern Italy
august 11, 2013


©2013 Lance Henson (poem)

©2013 Barbara Bartlett (images)