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?

This
Those
These
That
Stick your tongue
Between the slat
Of your teeth
Those pearly whites,
Say it, spray it,
Cling your tongue tight,

Then push it against
The top of those teeth,
Get the thick tongue
Up off its seat.

If you shove
Your tongue enough,
It might knock
Your head back some,
That’s okay,
You’ve got the knack,
Keep practicing
‘Til it’s down pat.

Say these sentences
With a friend
Down a path
Where you both blend.

Through the woods,
Then the creek
Thistles won’t tickle you
On the cheek,

They would rather,
Think and gather,
By those knees,
Thick as thieves.

They bathe me in
Fake thorns so thin.
I thanked my brother,
For calling our mother.

Say it now and say it proud,
These and those
They and thou,
The and there
Then and how
Did we do it
In three seconds flat?
Or was it just a fifth of that?
I think my math needs a little hat,
Or how about a thinking cap?

Here’s another one for you
A clever little ditty-doo.

I wonder if the moth beneath
Is stealthy enough to fly so free.

That then, there,
I think this thought
Is bathing in
The Earth’s big pot
Of truth and birth,
A frothy broth.
Oh finally, finally,
We freed the sloth.

If thou hath bathed
The filth from thee,
Then thou must oath
To doeth the deed
Of working on the T-H sound,
To talk clear to others
That hang around.

Each night a snail gets ahold of my mail,
She reads to the extent her heart is content
She mellows and stews about daily past news
And when she is through she spews from the blues.

This fanciful snail is called Gale Ishmael,
She comes from a land full of mountains and sand
The snow comes aplenty, but never the rain,
And when she gets cold, she crawls over to Spain.
Never by foot that would be quite a toot,
But only by clinging to backpacks and tails.

Gale’s shell is made of a common bite,
She once dreamt of decorating it like a flamboyant kite,
She clung to her quest when she discovered a nest,
Full of pencils, earth’s treasures, and flowers pressed.
A little girl’s once, abandoned from time,
She rubbed against a perfect stick, the color of lime.

The shades dazzled her more than they meant to doom
Gale whisked the utensils over, under, and through,
Until she felt covered enough to cut ties
With the pencils that fell in her lap from the skies.

Now whenever Gale is out and about
She hears chirps on her frills and dredges up clout,
For not many snails have intricate scales,
She cheers to the sky while her oddities wail. 

One day she was scooting her way into town,
Her pal mantis stalked by, wearing a frown,
Said snail to mantis, “What aches you old buddy?”
Said mantis to snail, “My feet are all muddy. 
I traversed through the forest instead of the air,
My coat is filthy; other creatures, they stare.”

“Do you think they glare because they look down?”
Said the snail to the sobbing, green lad with a frown.
“From my point of view, they seek to know more,
Our skills, our strategies. Don’t underscore.
Like how did we get the patterns just right?
My friend, they are wanting to be shown the light.

Instead of drooping and walking acrook,
Think of the lessons you’ve gained from the looks,
Transfer the energy to something ahead,
Like a new set of tricks or a talk with a friend.
We all have a soul to feed and elate
It’s up to you to levitate.
Show the world you’ve got the magic,
Most of all, show yourself you have it.”

The mantis was stunned, still sad but intrigued
He’d never been told to change a darn thing. 
He thought he was fine, just floating along,
But a mantis is nothing without their true song
Not singing of course, they never crone long
But their style, profile, their deterrent from wrong.
They sit, they sway, pondering life in itself,
They bring luck, they bring wonder, they tighten their belt.

The mantis thought deeply about the snail’s words
Then he hopped on a leaf and sailed to a world
Of a not so distant future where he planted the seed
In a tree where a snail would find an imminent need
To take on the world no matter what they say,
For today is the day to go the right way.

What if people returned as trees?
Their hair color matching the hues of the leaves.
Pine, poplar, redwood, and bonsai,
Now Penny, Patricia, Remington, and Sly.
Their personality coming through the stems and the crooks
Of the branches they climbed as young fools with looks.
Twisted and stretched to match their jest
Knicks, knobs, or knocks showed changes and rest.

What if trees came back as people?
Callused toes rooted, brains so fruitful.
The Hollies, Willows, Ashes, and Oaks,
Would have no need to modify cloaks.
Previously bathing in dirt and flower,
Now craving control and rapacious for power,
Dirt patch once sat in, now rushed with a flood
Of new sensations racing as blood.

What if trees and people were one?
Hugging, swaying, and dancing among.
Choices made based on love and peace,
Giving would flourish, stealing would cease,
Trees grow together, diverse and unique,
Collaborating, understanding, a volcano of Think.
The soft forest floor and the clear air so thin.
What if the outside was always within?
If people and trees were on the same level
Would we grow like weeds or live to be civil?

An excerpt from Spill Your Guts, my future collection of fun poems about body parts for both children and adults to enjoy, but mostly for children.

(Read this to your kids, gather their comments, and fling them back to me like a booger.)

I pick my nose when the lights are off,
That’s when there’s less people to scorn and scoff,
I love the crispy slats of mucus
That pull up from the walls like shiny discs.
The boulder-sized boogers are also goodies,
Glued to my finger and jiggling like loogies.
Let’s not forget the coats of slime,
That trap the bugs and viruses that pine
To enter my body and tackle me down,
At least I get snuggles, couch time, and Charlie Brown.

Noses can be a point of contention,
Like when wearing a mask or gaining attention,
Noses, like people, are changing, contorting,
Snips can modify the sound of the snorting.
But keep in mind your nose is your leader,
It helps you find popcorn when you’re at the theater.
If you think you’re too lazy or need meditation,
Follow your nose, inhale your vibration.
Take the time to smell and sniff,
It takes one whiff to dive off that cliff
And sink into what you’ve been for all along,
Come with me, Nose, let’s find our true song.