Bare Feet and Feathers

You seethe and you breathe And you breathe and you seethe. You are piled upon and buried. Your well of mercy is emptied. There might be peace, peace in fear Peace on a bullet, peace within a tear. Peace in blood, peace that seeps Won by that which hatred could reap. You are a coward and a hero You found the middle path to zero You didn’t pull the trigger. Your infection can only grow bigger. Will you die a bitter man? Poisoned by regret to the end? Wondering that if you killed It just might be a better world? You made room for God And secretly doubt the whole façade Kneeling and praying in good motion Desperately seeking divine devotion. You are confused and sad Little things make you mad Small child, grow up and ignore Earth’s few things that abhor. Keep walking among the ferns Write your poetry, admire God’s patterns Unclench your fist not so slowly Accept your place no matter how lowly. There is peace in love And only in love is there peace Find

The muscle of Connecticut Sleeps beneath my fingernails. The breath of Connecticut Dances between the sun and my neck. The sweat of Connecticut Leaks from a garden tomato And envelops my tongue. The tears of Connecticut Melt from a snowflake streaking my cheek. The blood of Connecticut sings Like a thousand church bells It is the voice of everyone I love. The blood of Connecticut is my mirror. Connecticut sounds like machinery. It is a chunk and a clunk of a deafening history. Its hats can whisper in brassy voices. Connecticut conspires to revolt. It dresses in blue and ivory. It kills scarlet. It liberates. Connecticut is as metallic as an oyster And as modern as corn. It is the vinegar on a fiddlehead fern. Connecticut drapes over your shoulders like a sweater. It is in the pleat of your pants. Connecticut is somewhere between Huck Finn and a page. It is between an actor’s sole and the stage. It hangs with the pollen drifting over Goodspeed. Patrick H. Gan