Selections from Trella Romine's library at Terradise Nature Center
Ray Romine Poems
Howl strongly in your fiercest mood!
The three short milder seasons
Sit back and moan in tones subdued,
And dream up various reasons
Why they no longer are the rage,
But–turn about. And so,
Toot your horn well while you’re on stage,
And when it’s your turn, BLOW!
by Ray Romine Thursday, October 11, 1951
Pardon, I said “Build!”–
Not guild…
by Ray Romine Tuesday, February 3, 1953
I loved the cunning things you say:
I loved the way you say them;
I loved your frills. As for your bills,
Let my successor pay them.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 8, 1948
If the reason you are always late
Is that you fear you’ll have to wait
Should YOU be on time, I’ll take a shellfish
Over you, old oaf; you’re downright selfish.
by Ray Romine Saturday, September 10, 1949
Trusting little eyes of blue,
Pudgy hands–and gooey, too;
Little mouth that’s always yiping,
With a smile that’s needing wiping;
Darling, sniffly, runny nose;
Cutest (once-clean) well-cut clothes;
Little eyebrows, so well-loamed;
Yellow hair thats never combed;
Shapely ears, with remnants glued on
Of whatever last you chewed on;
How could you get any wetter?
(The less said here, perhaps, the better)
I’d trade you for a nice, clean Bison–
God, I’m glad you aren’t mison!
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 15, 1946
At risk of your calling me fuddy-duddy,
I’ll ask you to sit up when you study.
I’ll excuse you, though, on one condition:
Show me how you got in that position!
by Ray Romine Thursday, June 3, 1954
Fly, your antics quickly pall:
Kindly go elsewhere and crawl.
Take your loudly buzzing wings
Where the Rappahannock sings.
While you have them still unfurled,
Take off, varmint, see the world.
Visit Congo; meet the Lap–
I, my germy friend, would nap.
Ps-st–I know where not a class
But a SUNDAY SCHOOL picnics en masse.
Nothing, their motto says, can daunt ’em.
Why don’t you, old pest, go haunt ’em?
by Ray Romine Tuesday, February 16, 1954
Life’s finer gems- -its precious flakes–
Are there among the sand
For him who’ll spare the time it takes
To Just–hold out his hand.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, August 8, 1945
How happily the Postman smiles–
He seems a man of no care;
He walks so doggoned many miles
And goes exactly nowhere!
by Ray Romine Friday, September 27, 1946
0 Hound that bays obeisance to the moon,
I would suggest, if you will pardon me,
You do your talking to the sun at noon,
Or else prepare for living dangerously.
Laugh at my markmanship? Best save your breath–
At this range I can SCARE you half to death
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 16, 1951