Category: Children

What makes the switch and reprimand
So very hard to understand
Is, children are young adults who
But try those things their elders do.

by Ray Romine Thursday, September 13, 1951

My son’s requests for something new
Are rational and very few.
They almost never are expensive
Enough to make me apprehensive;
Yet, when he mentions some small trinket,
I must confess I do not think it
Too unusual that I quake.
How many Box-tops will it take?

by Ray Romine Saturday, March 22, 1952

All the heavy concentration
In the world is weak and fickle
Placed beside the cerebration
Of a small boy with a nickel.

by Ray Romine Sunday, December 3, 1950

As for your art instruction, son,
Daddy doesn’t care
Half so much how you draw
As WHERE!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 24, 1951

Kids who mis-park roller skates
Or wagons, time discloses,
Aren’t worse than, or as bad as,
Grown-ups with their hoses.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 4, 1951

I heard her call me: “Monie!”
And the hollow echoes beat
From house to house, and past our
Narrow playground in the street.

I let her go unanswered
‘Til she changed my name, at last,
For when Mommie calls “Ramona!”
Then I tear for home– and fast!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 12, 1945

If at any time he isn’t crying,
It’s just because he isn’t trying.

by Ray Romine Monday, October 11, 1948

The stool receives his jacket,
And his cap hangs on the floor.
His comic books are stepping stones
That stretch from door to door.

But when we dump his pockets
It proves he is really neat —
He picks up every single thing
He sees upon the street!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, June 16, 1953

He makes what seems to be a flying leap
Upon his trusty steed of paint and steel;
Stands hard upon the pedals then, to reel
Across the tovm, for energy is cheap.
How many years have passed I hardly dare
Remember, since I had his careless air….

by Ray Romine Saturday, March 10, 1951

Booted, capped, he enters
Our south woods on his ovm.
He’s a sturdy Independent–
But he isn’t all alone.

For the tall weeds in the bottom
Are Knighthood’s really great,
And behind each shagbark hickory
An Indian lies in wait.

The sycamore that’s hollow
Is sea-going–man the pumps!
Or he is a carefree cowboy
Herding scattered stumps.

The birds and squirrels chatter.
To a fellow not-quite grown;
For a woods is full of secrets,
And you’re never all alone!

by Ray Romine Sunday, April 4, 1954