A plant may be more apropos
At such a time, but, even so,
A flower will fade, despite endeavor;
A book will last, almost, forever!
by Ray Romine Saturday, January 27, 1945
Author: Ray Romine
Boats
My aunt lives on the river,
And the smartly painted boats
Go sliding by her garden,
Whistling merry little notes.
They don’t look at all like autos,
Though they give out smoke and squeals;
Like ducks, flat upon the river,
They use water for their wheels!
by Ray Romine Saturday, April 18, 1953
Bluebird
The Master Painter did this one
In Midday Sky and Setting Sun
by Ray Romine Thursday, February 4, 1954
Bluebird
I saw him flash his different blue
Where the white-starred dogwood grew;
I watched him take turns with his mate
Feeding from the pasture gate.
Today he dominates the scene
Where the river bank is green.
Such treasured spots know his bright hue,
A bluebird must love beauty too.
by Ray Romine Thursday, April 23, 1953
Blue Jay
This feathered Seltzer bottle is
Furious. I know why:
Because that blatant blue of his
Can’t outdo the sky!
by Ray Romine Thursday, November 15, 1951
Blow-up
October’s wind expressed some doubt
That it could hold together
Beyond at most a week or two
Of such sun-perfect weather.
But Indian Summer ends–remember?
Too suddenly, it’s gray November ….
by Ray Romine Friday, October 19, 1951
Blow Horn For Bank Messenger
Though times were tough away ‘way back
In 1933,
At least, then, overeating
Was a possibility.
In ’51, though, markets
Have a boy for every bin
Not to carry groceries, but
To tote your dollars in.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, June 20, 1951
Bliss
I’m one who very much prefers
You shoo from me philosophers
And others who are on the brink
Of making me, of all things, think;
For of the two, considered dumbness
Is rather worse, I think, than numbness.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 11, 1951
Blare And Warmer
His ideas spring from thin air, he says.
Gentlemen, kindly be seated,
And we shall all know, as the air starts to blow,
It isn’t so much thin as heated!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, February 6, 1952
Birth Of A Season
Footsteps stir September’s leaves;
Ants point the air and hurry home;
The wind incontinently grieves
Beneath the sky’s forbidding dome.
Dried flower heads bow low in fear;
Dust rises in a giddy spin;
The clouds eke out one small tight sear
For summer–and the rains begin.
by Ray Romine Monday, September 10, 1951