Our postman was once full of whistles,
But I note he’s beginning to lag.
When the Big Brass began throwing missiles,
Guess who was left holding the bag?
by Ray Romine Tuesday, May 16, 1950
Category: Poems
Ray Romine Poems
Middle-age
Pull a chair against the fireplace;
Any book will nicely do;–
My more active days are over,
My young dancing days are through.
Yet, my tears shall be infrequent;
I’ll have time to patch the chinks
In the armor of my living:
Man must pause before he thinks.
by Ray Romine Monday, July 2, 1945
Metamorphosis Incomplete
Some of us deign to change our names,
Or part the old in brand-new places,
Which does exactly what for frames,
Knobby knees, and same old faces?
by Ray Romine Friday, January 19, 1951
Mess
Little daughter, scarcely six,
Gets herself in quite a fix-
When her bubble-gum explodes
Her map unconsciously erodes
Into a decent imitation
Of the global situation.
by Ray Romine Sunday, July 9, 1950
Menu Pain You?
Where grandma worked and slaved to cook,
Her daughter’s child has nerves
At just the thought of what, once bought,
She heats–or thaws–and serves!
by Ray Romine Monday, January 14, 1952
Memory Lessen
Man is the creature whom the Fates
Have truly misbegotten.
The things he should recall, but good,
Are very soon forgotten.
Yet, that which brings on ulcers,
Or which fractures or dismembers,
The silly goose, is he obtuse–
Doggedly remembers.
My personal goal, then, is some distance yet:
Knowing what to remember and when to forget.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 16, 1951
Melancholia
This year how barren is the sight
Of gently falling leaves;
For each is one more page of time
Escaped, to one who grieves.
“The summer gone–all hope is lost,”
Their rustling chorus chants;
This , too, the dirge within my heart ,
For I have lost–romance.
by Ray Romine Saturday, September 14, 1946
Meeting
Of all poor stuff
I’ve ever tasted!
Take it from me–
This evening’s wasted.
If you can sit
The whole thing through,
A medal merely
Is your due.
But if you stay
You’ll likely die.
I ought to know:
The program Is I.
by Ray Romine Thursday, June 18, 1953
Meaty Remarks
She cooks, in incomparable fashion,
A roast, or a large leg of lamb;
Or she brings to the guests who are drooling
A bird, or a beaut of a ham,
Which friend husband, with fervor unbounded,
Proceeds, as in chopping a tree,
To reduce, in methodical manner,
To a pile of the choicest debris.
No matter how firmly united
You stand today, husband and wife,
Have a care now, for what’s more dividing
Than a carelessly-used carving knife?
by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 1, 1953
Means To An End
A caterpillar on the walk
Is heading for a flower-stalk;
And though his bobbing head is down,
I sense his forehead wears a frown.
You’d hurry, too, like anything,
If you’d a Butterfly-date with spring!
by Ray Romine Thursday, October 24, 1946