Poem Hunter
(1926 / Prescott, Arizona)


Poem By Franklin J. Warren

Today I think of days long gone.
With no one to call my own,
Those wonderful days of the past,
Linger on and last and last.

Days of youthful expectations,
Blissful days full of sensations,
Sunny days all too short,
Rainy days in which to cavort.

Swimming in the old swimming hole,
Youthful days without any goal,
The smell of new mown hay,
To feed the animals on a winter day.

Each new day is a wonder of new things.
We have yet to know mankinds stings,
Lazy days of doing nothing, just pure bliss,
That no one should ever miss.

Bountiful living from the land,
Varied pleasures from each stand,
Of food source bushes and trees,
Mayhaws abound among cypress knees.

Riding horses, roping things, all a thrill,
Bulldogging calves as a cowboy will,
All these things of great joy,
From my days as a boy.

Swinging on vines across a creek,
For youth is never meek,
Wild grapes on which to dine,
Wonderful days that were mine.

Those days were sixty and more years ago,
And still today more precious than you know,
These days linger on in my memory,
And return to me in my reverie.

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