WHITE HORSE (IRELAND)

A white horse on a green hill,
And all around me the land of Gael.

The world's garden, the world's garland,
Ireland, Ireland.

Name Poem 2

Here's to George López, the professional clown,
Now, in addition, professionally Brown.



This post is a reaction to the blatant racism of Lopez's
short-lived variety show.

THOSE COLD NOVEMBER NIGHTS

Those cold November nights so long ago,
My family would walk outside and hear
The wild geese calling softly overhead—
Invisible formations in the black, transparent air.
And, guessing at origins and destinations,
My elders would conjecture how
The geese knew when to go, and where—then stay
To name faint constellations: the Great Bear,
And slant Orion's Belt and fire-tipped Bow,
And Cassiopeia's tilted starry Chair.
I didn't know, back then, as now I do,
There was, there is, no husbandry in heaven:
Their lights are all on, but nobody's home.

These days, I turn to you, who wouldn't know
The North Star from red Mars or Venus trembling near the moon
—Whose darker constellations I can't see,
But know are there—and you are always home.
You are home.