Author: Ray Romine

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Average Man

My moisture content’s figured out;
They know my breathing rate,
How many hairs I have, about,
My stride, my pulse, my weight.

They’ve nosed into the soap I use,
The sort of books I read ,
What kinds of meats that I refuse,
Which stimulants I need.

They know what makes me fast or slow;
They’ve my corpuscles counted;
They’re sure which hurdles lay me low,
And which I have surmounted.

They’ve figured out how long that I
Shall decorate this earth;
They’ve gauged for junk, if I should die,
Exactly what I’m worth.

Yet, charted, indexed, analyzed,
For all the world depictable,
I’ve that last word so dearly prized,
By staying unpredictable.

by Ray Romine Friday, August 11, 1950

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Average

If there’s bad in all the best of us,
And good in all the worst,
This explains the mediocrity
With which we are accursed.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 20, 1949

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Autumn Leaves

O leaves that whisper from a wind tossed vine
Holding firm against autumn’s frowning gale,
Thy fate is sealed. Is awareness thine?
Canst thou know that thy strength shall shortly fail,
And thou shalt be rudely tossed to earth,
To be trampled and crushed into the dust?
“0 poet, O creature of higher berth–
Where’s thy faith? To a leaf our fate is just:
We dance, we sing–and our colors! …Red
And there’s yellow and orange, brighter darts
Than Summer brought; for it’s now to bed
To awaken next spring with stouter hearts!”

by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 1, 1941

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Autumn And Appetite

Oh there’s nothing like November,
And you’ll say, perhaps, I’m right,
For to make a fellow healthy
And to whet his appetite.

For with pumpkin pie and cider
And the frost that’s in the air,
It Just makes a fellow feel like
He could eat all day, for fair.

With those wheat cakes in the mornings,
Who can stay in bed past six?
With real butter on ’em sizzling,
That lush smell and sleep don’t mix.

And the last thing in the evening
‘Round the fire, you and the pup
Share a glass of milk and sandwich
Just to wind the whole day up.

Yes, November’s here to please us
With a menu hard to beat–
Which is sure to win her favor
With us folks who LIVE TO EAT!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 10, 1933

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Automatic Washer

No sign of washboard, no rub-a-dub-dub;
There’s nothing that even resembles a tub.
Gone is the motor that you could catch sight of;
So is the wringer that one lived in fright of.
Rinsing is built-in, and drying is done
By the clothes being heated, or treated, or spun.
The clotheslines that Peeping Toms had to beware of
Are passe as the shanty that plumbing took care of.
You just press a button; that’s all there is to it-
Beat it do,rntown, and let Science do it.
Advance in some other direction is slated–
Washday is all but eliminated.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 9, 1949

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Automatic Shift

A small boy won’t, the days disclose,
Wash his face, control a curl,
Clean his shoes, de-drip his nose
Half as well as will a girl;
But sister quells the urge to shake him–
In ten years or so, she knows,
Someone else’s sis will make him
Conscious of face, hair and clothes!

by Ray Romine Thursday, January 11, 1951

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Australian Crawl

If Harry Bridges gets the boot at last,
How’s this new high in tolls for pure expense?
One lesson Uncle Sam should learn, and fast:
The cost of crossing Bridges is immense!

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 24, 1950

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August Twilight

There shrills a lone cicada, singing late,
From somewhere down about the barnyard gate,
And sounding overhead the nighthawk’s rasp
Spells finish to the insects he can grasp.
The yellow stab of noon has turned into
The mellow sof tness of a sunset’s hue,
And in its light, with that of evening star,
Things Iose their glare to look like what they are.
The scene will change again, though, very soon:
An aura in the east foretells a moon.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 31, 1954