Selections from Trella Romine's library at Terradise Nature Center
Ray Romine Poems
The garden’s under tons of ice;
The lawn rests under snow;
The pests, like mice, and bugs and lice
Sleep–so does the hoe.
My wife, though, sees (still I will pardon her)
That resting doesn’t reach the gardener.
by Ray Romine Thursday, August 17, 1950
I used to read my paper
With my breakfast every morn;
But now that I am married,
It’s a practice viewed with scorn,
For the girls have this in common,
Live they east, west, north or south:
They have no a.m. eye for news
When they possess a mouth!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 10, 1952
I personally abhor the guy who pulls his car out in
front o’ ya;
Then, when you beep at his idiocy, he looks injured as if
to say What have I dunta ya?
Talk about fools rushing in where angels fear to tread,
Why he’ll try to put an Eight-cylinder maroon paint-job
into a space that wouldn’t decently accomodate our
daughter’s trundle-bed.
And as for that wheeze about giving him an inch and he’ll take a yard–
He not only does, but has learned to do it with a Gangway,
it’s MY street, pard. Or should I say bard?
Lots of faith is what it takes:
HIS faith is a monstrous thing, considering the condition
of my brakes.
You may not agree but all the same
I think ‘higher’ education is to blame:
In present-day colleges,
Instead of absorbing knowledges,
Your student spends months mastering a game known as basketball,
in which the other side is wrecked
By his squeezing himself through holes you couldn’t push an ice-pick through, and being called a ‘forward’ for years, so what can you expect?
by Ray Romine Friday, January 28, 1944
My back-stroke went out years ago;
My crawl draws no attention;
The only kind of dives I know
Are those I shouldn’t mention.
I don’t look pretty in a suit;
Too much sun leaves me fagged;
I don’t comb beaches for the loot–
I go because I am dragged.
But though I manage to look gay,
And sometimes young and bold,
Goose-pimples give the show away:
This swimming leaves me cold!
by Ray Romine Friday, February 8, 1952
“Why not a book?” they’re asking.
I can’t face it, myself:
To find my brain-child basking
On the twenty-five-cent shelf.
I’ll stay unprinted, yes, before
I decorate a used-book store…
by Ray Romine Sunday, February 25, 1951
0 woe!–I let that book go by,
Sure I’d never need it.
If only I had bought it, I
Wouldn’t have to read it.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, February 20, 1945
The
The kitchen radiator was knocking and pounding and shouting
and swearing; but when I asked the plumber if the valve could be fixed, he sadly answered, “I don’t see how.”
His disgusted look said, “Don’t you know this CAN’T be
FIXED?–I’ll go now.”
And postoffice people look positively exasperated because I don’t know the amt. of postage necessary to send a pkg. weighing 4 lbs., 3 oz. to Nome, Alaska;
If there were any other way of finding out, dear, old p. o. clerk, would I aska?
Would I, if I could plumb, call a plumber?
And hafta clean up his mess, and repair the woodwork, and pay his price, besides wait on the job all summer?
If I were as smart as those people think I should be, and
see my way through the mist,
How could they exist?
I wouldn’t need to call a plumber or have a sad-eyed clerk weigh my’parcel;
A few deft twists with-a wrench for the one; and, for the other, save that walk to the p.o, and my instep and
metatarsal.
We all the other guy, because he is dumber than we are,
upbraid–
Then, in the next breath, expect him to know EVERYTHING
about every line and trade…
And I guess the fellow who first said “It’s a funny world”, must have been doing of it some studying–
And if I had been examining, or knew anything at all about poetry, would I be doing this kind of fuddy-duddying?
by Ray Romine Sunday, April 18, 1943
A man with the hook-worm from Britton
Was always forever just sittin’.
Til he got him a tack
In his nethermost back,
And now he ain’t sittin’, he’s flittin’
by Ray Romine Wednesday, August 4, 1948
Who thinks that marriage is for two
Will live to pitch a little rue.
Besides the Brave (I mean!) and Squaw,
There are the frowning Mothers-in-law.
Around the necks of both some nooses
Hang, in form much like papooses.
And one must pay or else one parries
The man who mkes the bow and arries.
Let’s not forget the buck whose palm
Demands the rent for his wigwam.
Yes, many are the folks who’ll swamp ’em
With their hands held out for wampum.
When one is hitched, the time for squawking
Is past–prepare for tomahawking.
by Ray Romine Monday, September 25, 1950
I don’t have a lot of talent,
And I own about a dime;
Still I’m not so full of envy,
For I ‘m rather glad I’m I’m.
You may wade in countless shekels,
Be content and witty too;
Yet I wouldn’t trade you places,
For– it’s obvious– you’re you.
I’ll not hide beneath the bushel–
Nor retire upon a shelf–
There is hope, and plenty of it,
If one sort of likes oneself!
by Ray Romine Monday, September 8, 1947