Category: Poems

Ray Romine Poems

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Off To War (untitled)

Soft, this younger generation –
Grandpap’s said it oft before;
We’ll soon know, because his grandson
Is a-goin’ off to war!

We will take Gran ‘pappy with us,
Since he always loved to fight,
And regarded us as sissies
From the hoarse depths of his might.

We will show him what we moderns
With his Civil War have done,
For we know that back in his day
They were knocked off one by- one!

We will show him mass-production
Of our planes and guns and tanks
(And, I’ve no doubt, have to show him
Which are Rebels, which are Yanks)

We will brag of the Bazooka,
Of block-busters, and our jeeps;
And I’ll bet our fighter-pilots
Give him forty kinds of creeps.

But

When I have him half-convinced, he’ll
See our ‘WAVES and SPARS and WACS;
Then I’ll know I’ve lost the battle:
“HOLD IT, GRANDSON, JUST RELAX !

“Had me sold upon the notion
That you boys today are tough –
And the WOMEN do your FIGHTIN’ !
Too much, sonny, is ENOUGH!”

by Ray Romine Tuesday, December 28, 1943

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Off Balance

For every kiss you’ve given me;
For every moment’s ecstacy;
For all the happy hours we’ve known;
For the gentle way our love has grown;
For hands that catch and clasp and twine;
For your heart whispering to mine;
For your lips poised in mild surprise;
For what I see deep in your eyes–
I owe you, dear. But how repay
A debt that’s growing every day?

by Ray Romine Saturday, August 20, 1949

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Of Meals And Men

When he’s hungry you simply can’t steer him
Away from the subject of food;
He orates on the matter of oysters
Be they fried, on the half-shell, or stewed.
Forgotten are politics, golfing,
Gridirons, and business-meeting.
He has gone sour on the things of the hour
With the single exception of eating.

When he’s well-stuffed, the story is different:
As I drag him to market with me,
He vacantly stares at the shelves full of wares,
And suggests maybe napkins or tea.
Or at home when I ‘m planning the menus
And I ask for suggestions, please, pet,
“Oh, what the fates bring–just any old thing,”
Is the kind of an answer I get.

And when filled to his ears, another vicious
Habit of his is ignoring the dishes.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, July 11, 1950

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Of Course You’ve All Met!

I wonder, as I scan the room,
Just whom to introduce to whom.
“Miss Lugg, may I present Sir Jay?”
Or is it just the other way?
Which reason is, more than another,
Why I assume you know each other.

by Ray Romine Monday, October 2, 1950

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Ode To, Perhaps, Malacosoma Americana

I think that I shall never see
What caterpillars do to a beautiful tree,
That I don’t ask, between you and me,
Why God eyer bothered to make the tree.

Poems by me get louder and sillier,
But only God builds the caterpilliar.
Be that as it may, I find me wishin’
That He never has any competition!

by Ray Romine Monday, August 9, 1943

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Ode To The Postman

With Apologies to Dud Fisher, from whom the idea
(albeit concerning artists), and verse-form were “stolen”..

A mailman’s life is a life ot ease,
With his days a continual song.
We’ll give you an inkling of what it’s like;
Just shout if you think we’re wrong.

Now we’re set for life on this job, and they
Cannot can us no matter what–
We just stick our tongue in the P.M. ‘s face,
And invite him to sit and rot.

Sure, the pay’s superb and the hours are short
As a banker’s, Just about;
As a rule we see him a-heading for lunch
When we’re through and all rung out.

But the easy ,way that we earn our dough
Is the sweetest part of all– ,
Bend an ear: we’ll take you around a day
That’s a crime we’re paid for at all:

To be sure, a beautiful day in spring
Is the kind we’ll choose, for when
It is rainy or cold or just ornery out
We have subs who take it then.

After ringing in around 8 or 9
We can read, play cards, or knit,
While the clerks sort mail and tie it out
So we can deliver it!

Then we take our sack and we saunter out,
And we whistle a tune the while,
And we nod and bow at the pretty girls
Who give us the eye, and smile.

So between the times when we stop and talk–
Or we loaf at Gene’s or Al’s–
(We might have a coke at Harry’s place,
Or a piece of pie at Sal’s)–

We drop a letter in a box or two…
What’s that about parcel post?
Oh, the freight, the junk, and the magazines,
They’re trucked, from coast to coast.

Yes, of course, there’s Christmas, Election times,
Easter, and count & weigh;
But we stack the letters and leave ’em set–
For there’s always another day.

Now the dogs won’t bite us, but even if’
One forgets and grabs jus’t in fun–
What’s a little thing like a leg to us?
We ean still do this with just onel

And when we trot home after work is through
Just a-rarin’, we surmise
If the family wants us to step, O.K.–
What’s a little exercise??

Now of course this isn’t quite all the truth,
And we know we shouldn’t mislead;
But it sounds, this way, like a scad of fun,
And it’s what YOU THINK, you’ll concede!

by Ray Romine Monday, January 1, 1940

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Ode To The P. O. Folks

Here’s to the people who handle the mail-
We’ve no Johnsons or Jones, but still have a Fail.
Two Romines related as father and son
Who look not alike, but sticketh as one,
We also have Cole, but not by the ton.
Also, two Laymans; a father and son.
A Heinz who carries letters; and also the nane
Of the 57 varieties like the pickles of fame.
We too have a Goff who works with a song,
And a nice “little” fellow by the nane of E. Long,
A Bechtle; a Corbin, a Hosey, none tall-
But we have a slim Miller with stature for all.
I almost forgot our big boy Dillinger,
And Miss Stull who says the work’s killinger.
A Roby, a James, a Smith and a Fetter-
And a Ladies’ man Smithson who ought to know better.
A Myers and a Canp, fighting in heat and cold
For us other codgers who are getting too old.
Also,a Gandee, who crosses many a lawn,
And often takes a bath with his overshoes on.
Now, last but not least, we have a Dale Schwaderer,
But the first of December you’ll have no more Sautter-er

Cloyd Nelson Sautter.
Nov. 16, 1943.
.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, November 16, 1943