Author: Ray Romine

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Camera Bug

The camera he Is using
Is the very latest out,
With many more attachments
Than a hiking Eagle Scout;

His tripod and extension tubes,
His case and his light meter
Are spanking new, and make his
Hobby MUCH completer.

He has a new projector, too–
A Super-duper job;
A ritzy screen, and room to seat,
In his new home, a mob.

But all this newness, one reflects,
Is but the outside wrapper.
He is, I think as he shows slides,
The same old shutter-snapper!

by Ray Romine Friday, April 17, 1953

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Caller

A grasshopper hopped upon my hand;
Looked up at me, and said, “My land!
You’re so BIG, my friend, and so very tall
I had quite a jump to get up here at all!
You don’t resemble the other plants .
Are you a mountain, by any chance?
Or a church? Or a barn? Or a thingumajig?
Bless me, yes, but you are BIG!”

I didn’t want to tell him (so was quiet as a mouse)
That I’m called “Little” in my own house!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 30, 1952

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Call The Wagon

I wonder why I write this stuff?
It ain’t for money–it must be luff!

A Lithuanian, or even a Slav
Would recognize it’s surely lav.

I sat me one day in a grove,
And wrote and wrote–but still for love.

Of course, if I had incentive enove,
I’d write for something more than love!

by Ray Romine Monday, October 14, 1946

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Call the Copse

Ah, this peaceful woodland glade,
Full of shadows, full of shade;
Ah, the birds in every bough
Soothe my cares, and smooth my brow.

Then little boys with axes come
And little boys with knives;
Now, all is devastation,
And nothing survives.

Gone are all the birdies wee;
Gone, the trees, heart-rendingly;
Gone, that is, except one sapling
With a noble mission grappling:

Here must he stand, and grow to be
A tree of worthy spunk,
That kids may practice whittle-ry
Upon his ancient trunk!

by Ray Romine Sunday, April 29, 1945

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Call Me Selfish

If post-war plans we hear about
Are any indication,
The Yank returned from overseas
Won’t recognize his nation.

With what we’ve lend-leased: U.S. tools,
Our plans, our beef, our shoes, too,
He’ll have to move abroad to find
The sort of life he’s used to!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 13, 1944

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Call

Softly, when the Summer blows
Scented breath across the rose,
Long-lashed clouds with modest eyes
Sing from friendly aqua skies:

Come out, Man, out!
Petals are falling;
Meadows are sprawling;
Woodlands are calling:
Come out…

Or when darkling frown-clouds mass,
Dropping gems against the glass,
Can be heard above the rain
Gently, faintly, this retrain:

Come out, Man, out!
Branches are squeaking;
Moist earth is reeking;
Wet steps are creaking,
Come out….

When the Chewink, hid from view,
Scratches wildly; and the hue
Of a startled Thrasher’s blur
Beguiles you, hear the Wren-song whir:

Come out, Man, out!
Trees are embracing;
Butterflies racing;
Squirrels are chasing;
Come out….

Where old-fashioned Queen Anne’s Lace
Bows and smiles with charming grace,
From behind a Goldenrod
Sounds the gentle Voice ot God:

Come out, man, out!
Leave pomp and riches
And fame in their niches;
The out-doors bewitches–
Come out!

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 15, 1948

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Caledonia Patch

The wind blows bleakly autmnn from the west
To send late leaves to their cold winter’s nest;
Our bare brown woods contains one sturdy oak
That blushes hotly for less modest folk.

A goldfinch clinging to a swaying weed
Pries lustily to crack a stubborn seed;
His song, as he loops gracefully away,
Mocks gently at this “melancholy” day.

by Ray Romine Friday, October 31, 1952