Selections from Trella Romine's library at Terradise Nature Center
Ray Romine Poems
I have a Little Conscience
That soars about with me
And keeps me in a state of flux
And much uncertainty.
I can’t have fun because of him–
He’s always there to say
“Huh- uh”, “No , no” , “I ‘m horrified”–
And “Oh you shouldn’t, Ray!”
0 Little Conscience, turn into
An ice-cream that melts;
Or take the air and hover
Over someone elts!
by Ray Romine Monday, September 8, 1947
A normal, healthy, curious tot
Will ask in any day a lot
Of earnest questions: “What is salt?”
“Why is a crack in earth a fault?”
“What makes sky blue?” “How long’s a year?”
“How do birds fly?” “What is a tear?”
“How close to Saturn does earth get?”
“And where, exactly, is Tibet?”
So, keep our old encyclopedia
In reach, with other knowledge media.
Kids learn by asking? Underscore:
Parents learn a whole lot more!
by Ray Romine Tuesday, January 15, 1952
Few of our lives are perfect, brothers,
Enough to let us rail at others,
And that’s why most admonishing
Is less effective than astonishing.
by Ray Romine Monday, August 27, 1951
Let’s treat it, dear, as though today
Were all there is before us;
And make each second count its share
Of love and living for us!
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 1, 1946
I saw a ship go out to sea:
It didn’t mean a thing to me.
I saw grapes wither on the vine:
What mattered it? They weren’t mine.
I read that children starved in Greece:
Not mine the fault; I’d lived in peace.
My brother, though, has gone to war:
I’m not indifferent anymore.
It’s none of ours, we’re positive,
Until it hits us where we live.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 17, 1943
“And I repeat, It Can’t Be Done?”
Valiantly he cried it.
He is, be sure, the self-same one
Who ‘s never even tried it?
by Ray Romine Monday, April 23, 1945
November is weeping her tears of regret,
The leaves in a mass are sodden and wet,
A year full of promise is waning in pain,
Her hope too far gone for her now to regain.
Oh where is the mirth of clear April air,
The fragrance of iris in June’s days too rare?
or August with harvest for those who prepared?
They’re gone! And November is dull when compared.
November! Your tears show you prudent and wise,
By instinct give respite to all growing lives.
Each leaf that has fallen leaves scars you can’t hide
But too there are buds–a dead leaf justified!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, November 5, 1947
November ‘s leaden sky of grey
Frowns through the mists of newborn day–
Illumination to depict
A summertime gone derelict.
Above a tangled tent of weeds
Stand sentinel the toughest seeds,
And overhead, like genteel folks
The dead leaves whisper from the oaks.
From where the river mopes along
A bird’s drab feathers match his song.
Prosaic November’s craft portrays
A mosaic done in browns and greys.
by Ray Romine Monday, July 26, 1954
0ne who’s smitten
With what he’s written.
by Ray Romine Friday, November 14, 1947
Laugh at the soul who is sick from the struggle;
Sneer at the blind man’s toupee;
Gibe at the honest, the just, and the righteous–
Nothing is sacred today!
Snicker at grandma’s and grandpa’s religion–
The suckers are suckers who pray;
Tear at the old institution of marriage–
Nothing is sacred today!
Laugh at the Scouts, and especially their leaders;
Chortle at ”Crime Doesn’t Pay”;
Yowl that the Bible was written for sissies–
Nothing is sacred today!
Scoff at the neighbor whose swearing is minus,
Who drinks not a drop, so they say;
Howl that his halo’s so tight that his head aches–
Nothing is sacred today!
Jeer at the heroes of yesterday’s battles;
Whose blood lubricated the way;
Gone and forgotten, so why do they matter?
Nothing is sacred today!
Laugh at the poems of Shakespeare and Robinson–
Poke fun at the POETS? –O.K.—-
For, they are the yokels who, mostly, we’re certain,
Think NOTHING IS SACRED TODAY!
by Ray Romine Saturday, January 15, 1944