People exist all over the place –
painters, writers, astronauts in space.
They grow as a seed in the smallest of spots.
Their character forms designs on their pots.

They sprout limbs, eyes, brains, and feelings.
Their organs operate without getting a teaching.
Emotions stir until they get their way.
They analyze, conceptualize, and fret about their day.

Somewhere in the desert in a canyon made of granite,
crackly creatures coalesce in crevices with currents.
Their feet move like peppercorns falling on pavement.
Their hair runs ratty, long, tangled, and impatient.

These creatures start out as tiny dewdrops,
within years they stretch wider and taller than treetops.
Their noses stick up straight, their bellies out large.
Their lips stay as frowns, their eyes bulge like a barge.

These are the Donnies, and although they frighten,
they’ve never been given the love to enlighten.
Cowering in thick shells, seeking the crown,
the Donnies express with anger and put downs.
Alas, it is simply not their fault, you see,
they’ve not been conditioned to feel very free.

The Donnies only know hate, strife, and madness,
confusion, anxiety, pride, inner sadness.
They believe if they stepped on faces of others,
they’d climb to the top, get applause from their mothers.
They set out for the backwoods to seize and conquer,
the Donnies packed lightly, with only their armor.

But in another corner a sweet stink did rise,
as the Dillies watched the Donnies with tears in their eyes.
For they were raised by love and good humor.
They laughed to heal wounds, they sang as they labored,
they ziplined through canyons, their fears of heights falling
into the deep burrows, their confidence rising.

The Dillies acted with intention and heart,
they softened their tempers with small acts of art,
they handmade their clothing, they discussed how to cook,
they worked as a team, they co-wrote this book.
They understood that time, tact, and talent
can all go to waste if you leave it in solace.
You have to step back to the time and the place,
and see the kid in the room with “the look” on their face.
That determined look of getting somewhere.
The diligence, discipline, vulnerability to share.

Some Dillies started out as Donnies, you see,
They were pushed in the canyon and out fled their glee.
Life was much easier to move without kindness
To yell and insult and resort to harshness
Hate was accessible, anger within reach.
No accountability, no practicing the preached,
Books seemed too lengthy, thinking hurt their hooves.
It was easier to follow and be told the next move.

A handful of Dillies climbed out in the night.
Overthrowing the normal, igniting the light
of love, trust, equality, unity, and hope,
of giving, understanding, of helping to cope
through differences and dynamics tough and raw;
the Dillies neither bit nor sharpened their claws.
Instead they asked questions, their curiosity spread,
eyes lit up when new facts hit their heads.

Think for yourself, who do you want to be?
A carer, a follower, a prover of things?
A kind one, a bored one, a blooming flower so free?
A free thinker, a stinker, a cutter of trees?
Beware of the Donnies who force you to care
about nonsense, materials, concealing the bare.
Think twice when you dis art and sad poetry.
Am I a Donnie, a Dilly, or maybe just me?