Auburn tressed,
( though I'm no
Shannon or Colleen)
circumstances
have made my home
the desert...
arid,
though never
barren
I have learned
of its
bounty...
Still,
this is no
Emerald Isle-
there's no verdant lushness
here,
only rocky sierras
and wind.
And water is scarce,
no lakes
like at Innisfree,
no cabin of wattles made
to retreat to.
Looking at me,
my coloration
I can understand how
I'm mistaken
for Gaelic
and though I'm not,
I've the fire
that sass of a contender-
the fight of the
Irish.
And I've know of
resistance
and revolution
Hungarian,
it flows in my veins...
Though I never developed
a taste
for ale,
( some call it grog)
never downed a
Guinness...
it is the grape,
sweet wine
I once
craved.
Poet,
I share the
sentiments
of those bards
of yore-
Oh, Irish poets,
I know you'd understand
how I can picture
myself
green-gowned
astride a white steed
hair as flame,
trailing
behind me.

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