This raucous flying fishennan
Who wings by with so much to say
Is, like his human counterpart,
Describing those that got awrayl
by Ray Romine Thursday, June 4, 1953
Category: Poems
Ray Romine Poems
Killed In Four Courses
It’s not the fancy prices,
Nor surroundings, wrong or right;
It’s all the food I eat, perhaps,
That takes my appetite.
by Ray Romine Friday, August 5, 1949
Kill D’Bum
The umpire is a fellow who’s
Become inured to snarls and boo’s.
He isn’t fair; he’s off the beam;
He sides with the opposing team.
Instead of sympathy, derision
Is his lot for his lack of vision.
His life’s a thrill, though, wondering what’ll
Come his way next–bouquet or bottle.
by Ray Romine Thursday, June 22, 1950
Keys
Keys, I think, are pretty things;
Some are round and some are square;
Some are strung on chains or strings;
Each unlocks a door somewhere.
Hear the jingly sound they make
In a pocket no one sees!
They tell secrets as they shake–
Books too, daddy says, are keys.
by Ray Romine Saturday, August 25, 1951
Keinen Handelswert
From light inside I shield my eyes and peer
Through frost-pained glass to read just 5 degrees ,
The wind is dead; the disappointed trees
Must face the dawn with tense, unshuddered fear.
Like an old curtain, full of holes and sheer,
A patchwork snow blinks coldly, if you please,
At sun inadequate, which, rising, sees
A world of smoking chimneys, barren, sere.
But here beside the fire, with nervous care,
I peek into a box of butterflies
Just in from Germany; their beauty rare
Through all the troubled ages never dies.
I hold- -and is it hard for you to understand?
The soul and best of summer in my trembling hand!
by Ray Romine Sunday, January 30, 1949
Keeping Up
We race the Joneses,
Cent for cent,
Which leaves both houses
Rather spent.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, June 13, 1950
Kangaroo-hide
Although he’s noted for his leaps,
His wife’s fame’s wider-spread–by heaps:
She was the first to make a showing
Of filling a purse to overflowing.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 3, 1952
Juvenile Refueler
Ice cream cones are dangerous toys
In the hands of little boys;
Our own can drool a sticky trickle
From taffy-apple or popsicle,
And he enjoys a natural flair
For getting butter in the hair.
He’s almost always in the mood
For flipping, at the table, food.
He plays fast games, or loops-the-loop
With plain and fancy brands of soup;
Groceries, he hasn’t heard,
Are eaten, never throwm or stirred.
But as I watch him, this defeats me:
With what he’s lost, he still out-eats me!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, July 11, 1951
Juvenile Mystery
Why is it children can’t stand the stuff
When applied outside, close to collar or cuff,
And fight to drink pop when the weather is hotter,
Or anything else–excepting water;
And yet, when they’re safely in bed (you think)
They immediately yell for water to drink?
by Ray Romine Sunday, July 3, 1949
Just Say fur, Sir ( 2)
(Same News Note as above … )
I think, whoever takes the blame
(If you’ll excuse my meter)
A skunk by any other name
Would doubtless smell much sweeter.
by Ray Romine Saturday, August 25, 1951