The Late Bloom

The Late Bloom

A Poem by Butch Decatoria



1.
Remember the puppet that you were

who thought himself
a real boy
still only just a boy

remember
like perusal of hate mail
their postal telepathy
as though flipping through cellophane
photo albums of many nameless
faces

distant / detached / unmarred

Remember how you had
not known them then
floating on airs
ignorant / clueless / willful
still constantly fair

like May flowers
in pebbled gardens

Self sacrificed fool
still only just a boy
and like all in their youth
selfishly optimistic
a wide bellow
for the wide world
and untoward
night

Yet this life / its tangled strings
(tug & pulling)
with Geppetto's fermented footing

precariously
curious and nimble

such as
and / that boy was
quite...
agreeable to a fault

happy to oblige a fly

But something else
also had its gravity
(pride for tiger stripes)
taunt
there within : an invisible string

to keep true
be mindful
be cool
(nimble thimbles cool)
searching but not so...

"you will know when you find it
you, a perpetual student"

open
as pouring rain
always in awe of it
all
dismissive of the drowning
barely afloat in city-scape

And now a real boy
living / colors / the lessons
of life
a dance
(Kick ball change)

carrying its rhythmic weight with
a style & a smile
always in all ways / in awe

Boy refusing to grow up
who's dreams are tall
Inside a lotus waits to open

Brown Eyes
like quiet ripples

A dragonfly
on the pond

in our pebbled garden.


2.
Smooth stones
pave a path for bare feet
there's no use or need for dirt
on our way toward
peace.

no ripples on the pond
dragonfly wings - like glass...
clear of mind
tend to the life and health of our garden
that is the duty of Earth's wardens
a light to shed the night...

although the lotus may bloom
out of season, arriving late,
it is the wisest of all flora
knows to wait for the rain,

so here we are late bloomer
Lion of the southern gate of Men,
looking for you ...

The circumference of every pond
is only valued by how deep
it quenches
the thirst
Not those who drink...

my hands are empty
and what falls from heaven I will cup
Love my gift, overflowing, honest, open

Falling
up.

© 2018 Butch Decatoria


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Added on January 12, 2018
Last Updated on January 12, 2018

Author

Butch Decatoria
Butch Decatoria

Las Vegas, NV



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