Poems by Franklin McCoy

Ode to Pen and Paper

a poem by

Franklin McCoy

Though thee; I freely speak,
My thoughts, words, deeds
I enumerate.
This last resort of mine, how immortal!
Most divine form of expression,
This foremost cerebral substitute;
A rapture for tears, echo of the past, angel of pristine blithe.
The seed, the fruit; food for immaculate thought.

In monochrome; I pen, I plan,
The wild, the sad, the nostalgic, the future.
A spectrum I cast; most perfect replica of my days,
Adrenalizing by sight,
It is nothing but my life, my hope,
This evergreen tree of black dropping leaves;
Which with every drop; I kindle, I gain
That great art; powerful art to writ.

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Age of Innocence

a poem by

Franklin McCoy

This is but the age of innocence,
Adversities friend; though your unfair resonance,
What have you spoken and what had you meant,
All the child of an unreflecting moment,
Grown up and come, clothed in flesh and blood-like truth;
To dip your dreams in blackened soot.
So why guise yourself in tenuous gaiety,
Controversial undertow in seas of frailty;
Why this penance; why this pain,
On unfound reason you stake your claim,
The truth is in your age;no guise,
At later stage your heart will rise,
To meet the mirror visage of reality,
Of unforeseen pain; figment in your sanity,
And through the line of difference,
Between the feckless fast and your onus presence,
You speak the language of the heart,
From the scroll of your senses,on this tearful part,
Though every union a type of heaven,
The memories of parting; a successive seven,
Is only a milestone on your road to pain,
Yet no! in the book of life; ‘tis but a silver chain;
On the very first page of experience writ,
These fatuous and faulty notes in your musical script,
Will teach you lessons for a golden age;
In the spirit of the hearts forage,
From that day of innocence to this day of dawn,
Mark these words for another thorn,
In the middle of your heart, your soul, by rage,
Your fulminate rage;
Of an innocent age.

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