Selections from Trella Romine's library at Terradise Nature Center
Ray Romine Poems
April showers are s’posed to bring
Flowers in May and everything
But raining every day this way
Is gumming up the works, I’d say.
Flowers can’t stand this spring at all
Unless they’ve learned to swim since fall.
by Ray Romine Saturday, April 15, 1933
My wife likes to grow ’em,
So long as I hoe ’em.
by Ray Romine Sunday, June 20, 1943
His overalls display a patch
And sometimes, holes that show.
His neighborsr clothes he cannot match–
His soul is “whole-err” though…
by Ray Romine Thursday, November 22, 1951
I see him, calm, unhurried. planting seeds
Of marigolds, calendulas and pinks.
With care he drops each miracle, and thinks
Of tender greening shoots; and later, heeds
With rarest pleasure each one’s fussy needs.
He straightens from hand weeding. His back kinks
Are vanished quickly, for his mind’s eye links
Imposing beauty to the toil and weeds.
Still later, when some visitor exclaims
At all the loveliness his work-play reaps;
At his green thumb and growing secrets here,
He smilingly and earnestly disclaims
Such help. His flowers nod. Their secret keeps;
They thrive in his contented atmosphere.
by Ray Romine Thursday, November 22, 1951
The chap who shouts to win an argument
Should really be shown the light:
a point proclaimed in manner reverent– – DON’T ARGUE! —I KNOW I’M RIGHT!!
by Ray Romine Sunday, May 13, 1945
“It may be corny, or sloppy, sonny,
But can the serious, and write it funny;
Call it slapstick or call it hammy–
That’s just the way it appeals to mammy!
We cry at the foul deals life can hand us,
We sob at the snob while the rich command us;
We rain tears at parting, and cloud up at meeting;
Our hearts break down under work’s dull beating.
So write it, dear fellow, and keep it amusing:
We’ve enough of these tears and emotion-abusing.
Worthless trash, they’ll call it, but if it IS truckle,
Who can measure. the worth of a smile or a chuckle?”
by Ray Romine Sunday, May 16, 1943
The goldenrod’s bright yellows indicate,
With ironweed’s purple, quite a gaudy type,
And August is. Beyond the pasture gate
There is a watermelon thumping-ripe.
As every ear-worm spawned by Satan knows,
The fields are full of red and yellow corn,
And small now, down between the husky rows,
A pumpkin-face is waiting to be born.
A Monarch butterfly in richest sheen
Stops on a zinnia, and sits embossed
In priceless art. Let August paint the scene-
Too soon she hands the brush to old Jack Frost!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 31, 1954
The dipper handle this month is our guide:
We round its curve to reach Arcturus’ glare,
The light by which Bootes I mighty stride
Tries futilely to catch a Polar bear.
The curve continues on to Spica where
The jewelled Virgin sits, serene and sage.
Her diamonds sparkle vlhile she probes this flair
For antics in a man Bootes’ age!
by Ray Romine Saturday, November 15, 1952
As you’ve possibly detected,
Movies have slipped; last night’s thriller
Found the guy whom I suspected
Turning out to be the killer.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, June 14, 1950
There would be nothing quite so satisfying
From a prejudiced parent’s point of view
As watching a child learn independence,
If it weren’t his first step away from you.
by Ray Romine Friday, September 2, 1949