Selections from Trella Romine's library at Terradise Nature Center
Ray Romine Poems
I would sell, and at a bargain,
All my teen-age daughter’s jargon;
For little of it I have scanned
Is possible to understand.
Now, as a fast example: nay, it
Is out,-of-date before I say it.
If she must talk like this, I’ll let ‘er–
But I think I like English better.
by Ray Romine Thursday, September 18, 1952
Proof, if you need it, that clearly discloses
That a gal’s mind’s at work while her mate-to-be’s dozesl
by Ray Romine Friday, August 29, 1952
April’s sky, clear, in the main,
Manages to bring us rain.
Is that sky a hoax, a fake–
In truth a clear inverted lake
With stars holes in the midnight blue
Punched to let the water through?
by Ray Romine Monday, August 27, 1951
Some girls get notices, my guess is,
For sporting very low cut dresses,
While others find it much less trouble
To swap the dress for fan or bubble.
The papers seldom feature prudes–
No nudes, I guess, is not good news.
by Ray Romine Friday, February 29, 1952
Since so many less muscles
Are needed to place
A smile, it’s apparent
is simpler to “face.”
by Ray Romine Friday, October 12, 1951
Only a poet is wholly free:
Gardens are made by fools like me.
by Ray Romine Saturday, December 15, 1951
Pleasures are many and varied and hidden-
And ninety-five percent forbidden.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, May 17, 1950
There lived a young gourmet at Stow
Who ate at the Smorgasbord so
Much that he busted;
And his friends, disgusted,
Wrote above him: “He couldn’ t say ‘Whoa!'”
by Ray Romine Wednesday, August 4, 1948
I stand enthralled
Upon the heights
To watch the bald
Bright harbor lights.
The fireflies,
Winking, loom
Like cheerful eyes
To part the gloom.
Above, benign,
The stars smile down
And, smug, outshine
The lamps of town.
But brightest flame
I ever knew
My heart can blame
On love–and you!
by Ray Romine Saturday, May 13, 1950
Immature and wholly free,
Rather than sleep he would embark
Upon an aimless shooting spree,
Taking potshots in the dark.
His guns echo and thunder back
Cross the flash-lit bay
Until he tires, and yawns, and packs
His armament away.
by Ray Romine Thursday, August 12, 1954