Lansana's poems span the American landscape, from the gritty streets of Chicago; to the soulless shopping malls of a Rustbelt un-digesting history with pork rinds and crème puffs; to the foothills of Oklahoma; and all points in between. These poems tell the story of one man's experience spoken through the ancestors' tongue. In "Patchwork," Lansana reflects on the casualty of lost dreams with "my sistas clutch forgotten rainbows/more of my brothers holding black steel/do we continue to tear the fabric/or with umoja/piece the fragments together." In "Birth of an Ancestor," a poem written on the occasion of the birth of his first son, he sees the "gentle elder" who knows "yesterday. today. all/about us." Lansana witnesses, he advises, he gently instructs. He is not afraid to give words to the voiceless. More importantly, in poems such as "Learning to Swim," "Hyphen" and "Our Sons," he does not hesitate to expose those who speak from un-earned pulpits.
This is solid, inspiring work, neither overbearing nor overly verbose. Lansana proves his ample ability as a master craftsman of metaphor, and a gifted student of the traditional and non-traditional form. He delivers his images in the common language of poetry, unity, and redemption. His is the story of some of us. His is the story of all of us.