Author: Ray Romine

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A Letter To The Editor (not That It Does Any Good)

It’s known to me
No POETRY
Is published by the “Post” ;
But, by my purse,
You DO use VERSE,
(And quite enough for most.)
Some rhyme for Jack–
But mine come back–
As THESE ‘LL come back to me;
For they’ll come back,
Yes, they ALWAYS come back,
They always come back to ME!

“Oh, if at first
You are unversed”–
(The adage-coiners hymn it)
Why, try again.”
I DO, but then,
To trys there is a limit.
For rejection slips
I have no quips,
But send ’em along to me.
For they always come back,
Sure, they always come back
They always come back to ME!

An awful sight
Of verse I write:
It SOUNDS O. K. to ME–
How it would glint
Lined up in print
I’ll never even see?
I won’t be scared,
Or unprepared
When it comes back to me.
For it’ll be back,
It’s sure to be back–
It always comes baok to me!

By now I should
Know it’s no good,
And cease this waste of stamps:
Some other way
Keep wolf away
That on our doorstep camps.
Yet rather than mope,
It’s great to hope:
To hope is always free;
But it’ll be back,
Yes it’ll be back–
It always comes back to me.

I even abhor
The postman, for,
A-whistling merrily,
He is, I think,
The final link
In the chain from you to me.
Just say “No Sale”–
Get it in the mail–
And it’ll return to me.
For mail it back,
Or post it back,
It’s sure to return to me.

Ship or train,
Or ma-il plane,
I hate impartially.
At camels dense
I tskeoffence–
Some carry mail, you see.
Use road or track
To ship it back–
I’ll expect it back to me.
For, haul it back,
Or float it back,
It always comes back to me.

No need to crack
About the lack
Of mirth or comedy;
That it’s not good
Is understood
When it comes back to me.
To fill my cup.
The whole way up,
Just ship it back to me;
I’d on it planned,
You understand,
So send it back to me.

Now I don’t mean
To be obscene;
My verse: you will not buy it.
I just recall
That, most of all,
The CUSTOMER’S ALWAYS RIGH-IT !
If it you’ve scanned
(And maybe panned)
Why send it back to me;
Just bundle it up,
And I’ll give up
WHEN THIS COMES BACK TO ME!

by Ray Romine Friday, May 14, 1943

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A Handful Of Seeds

A little earth, and a handful of seeds,
Some rain, and the sunshine, are all the needs
Of my garden. Of course there is sweat in it too–
For every pleasure there’s work to do.
But, counting the miracles that spring:
The colors, the fragrance, the scissored charm
Of the blossoms; and the tongue-tempting sing
Of my own green eating from a backyard “farm”,
I can discount my labor as one of the needs;
Which leaves me God–and a handful of seeds.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, January 15, 1946

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A Fox on the Rabbit

There he squats upon his haunches
Til a fresh attack he launches
On the provender I water, weed and hoe.
He is not at all disdainful,
He is very uncomplainful,
Eating anything at all I try to grow.

He is pert and he is sassy;
He has ears designed Jaok-assy,
And he puts my temper out upon a limb;
To make him more terrific,
He was born to be prolific
(I suspect, sometimes, there’s eight or ten of him.)

He’s a devil, he’s a dog;
He’s a wild fur-bearing hog
Who stops eating when he’s fed, and that is never.
When he moves, he leaps and lunges,
And his acrobatic plunges
Are to show that cotton-tail he thinks is clever.

So, I’m getting out the rifle,
And I draw a bead a trifle
Back of where his watchful eye’s regarding me.
Then it is my wife and daughter
Save his blasted hide from slaughter:
“You’re a nasty man to shoot him–leave him be!”

Which is why, secure, he lunches
On my tender shoots in bunches
Without a thought of work, or thanks, or fee;
And so, helplessly, I stand
With my temper well in hand,
And watch him thumb his twinkling nose at me!

by Ray Romine Monday, July 10, 1950

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A Few Short Years

A few short years, I’ve ever said,
I have to claim ere I am dead:
A so-short span so all my own
To build a life with honor blown,
Or infamy perhaps, instead.

I have the choice to either wed;
I have a chance to make my bed,
To reap a harvest I’ll have sown
A few short years.

Years later: “How the time has flown.
I hear the ghastly overtone
Of Death. Keep down your hasty head;
Begone with your abortive tread.”
And the wind, or Death, do I hear moan–
“A few short years!”

by Ray Romine Monday, January 3, 1944

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A Face Turned From The Clod

That day is lost which brings no thrill
Beyond the drag of farm or mill,
That sees no flash, with ready eye,
Of wind-free visions fleeting by,
Monotony’ s brown husk to kill.

Whose soul jumps only at the spill
Of rival’s blood, or at the chill
Bright clink of coins, will come
“That day is lost.”

But he who, tingling, drinks his fill
Of blazoned skies, who has the will
To fight to hold his ideals high
Out of this muck, will never cry:
(However steep his rock-strewn hill)
“That day is lost.”

by Ray Romine Sunday, October 28, 1945

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A Christmas Thought

What picture paints your mind at once when Christmes time is mentioned?
What mem’ry looms from out the past, of effort well-intentioned?

Stores a-bulge with shopping folk, crowds of cheerful people?
Bells thet echo over town, rung from frosty steeple?
Smell of spruce tree freshly clean, awaiting noisy trimming?
Look on brother’s eager face–with good behavior brimming?
Stamp of snowy feet outside, “Merry Christmas!” shouted?
Stirring carols from the street, and dad from slumber routed?
Loads of cards that cheer us, though the postman’s getting cranky?
Gaily wrapped and ribboned gifts from cedar chest to hanky?
Glow of lights on baubles there, colors flung back dancing?
Santa’s never-failing charm–childhood’s dream enhancing?
Tinsel, holly, mistletoe, icey windows lighted?
Baby sleeping, high-chair-slumped, new toys feeling slighted?
Curve of snow-filled evergreens, synonym for beauty?
Turkey, mince pie, candy, nuts, fruit cake, tutti-frutti?

All these things ere proof enough that people still remember
Christmas for a week or two, the middle of December;
But do we pause end offer thanks for Him whose birth gave reason
To joyful be and celebrate the Happy Christmas season?

Though Chaos reigns in world today, and Hate from battle station
Directs the bloody slaughter there, with nation fighting nation,
Christ’s coming taught us Peace shall rule–a distant time foreseeing,
Keep we our faith, there’s comfort there for every human being.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, December 9, 1941