She’s not as genuine as cubic zirconia

or Christmas tree tinsel.

Her life may be one large web

littered with duty and lies.

But she smiles convincingly

and attends to the avoidable

and carries herself

as if all is well under the fragile façade.

Don’t ask her for honesty.

She could no more move the moon

than she could tell you the thing

you wouldn’t want to hear.

Don't think she doesn't grieve

when someone pulls at the scab of her reality.

There are, after all,

two sides to every story.

And if she wants to be a chameleon

in a changing, scary world
shouldn't we pretend like we can't see?

When I was young, my grandmother would tell me stories
about her grandparents.
There were stories about the origins of the universe.
Legends that connected me to my world.
Embedded in the stories were admonitions to live a worthy life.
Sometimes, when I walk out with my daughter to pick berries,
I think about those lessons . . .

Mama, we have to pick all the blackberries so the bugs don't get any . . .

There's plenty of berries for you, me, and the beetles, baby girl.

I don't like the beetles. See that one?

Where? Oh, look how beautiful and shiny his wings are. . . the beetle respects us. We should respect the beetle.

What about the birds? Do we have to share with them?

Plenty of berries for them, too.

But, why, mama?

Because we are supposed to share with others. Don't eat so many, there won't be any left in the bucket.

I only eat the ones I pick . . .

Alright, girl.

Mama. . . ?

Yes?

Do you want to pick blackberries by yourself now?

Are you wanting to go and play? Go on, then, baby girl.

"Let's go out to play,"
you say,
and, in a spirulina flash
I'm there
The madness of our tongues
clicking and spinning
as we leap onto the
                  pavement            
running fast, now,
               holding hands
we make a dash for the forest
bound through
           tree-shadows
and soar through
             piles of leaves
I don't need to speak
for you to understand
and you only need to look
into my eyes
to know how much
I see
We lock gazes
bathe in
the halo
of our
beaming faces
and then
         we are off again
sprinting through
                 the  wilds
getting lost
             quite on purpose
dancing in our
            private body language
mixing up those ancient
and modern tongues
as one

There is strength inside of pain
wisdom whispers soft and still
for I’ve learned to trust the rain.

Wild spirit trumps the brain
doctored by a solemn pill.
There is strength inside of pain.

Daily rushes done in vain
shout and tumble, push and spill.
I will listen for the rain.

Does it matter if I’m sane
labeled “crazy” “weak” or “ill”?
There is strength inside of pain.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained?
You may make your way with will;
I prefer to trust the rain.

Blizzards rise and breezes wane.
I fear neither drought nor chill.
Here is strength inside of pain;
Now I’ve learned to trust the rain.