Category: Poems

On reading of their distance and their size,
Of countless years that they have rushed about,
And of the speeds at which they move, one tries
To fit hard fact to what his senses shout.
For, shower-freshened by the touch of May,
They hang just out of reach above the trees
And laugh at science in their gentle way
For such cold truth on such wann friends as these!

by Ray Romine Monday, November 17, 1952

This month, when Mother Nature nods
Above her quilted white endeavor
Designed to winter what is God’s,
I ask, what lives, this season, ever?
Til early darkness, when the eye
Picks out that spangled, armed newcomer:
Orion, turning all the sky
To compensate for lack of summer.

by Ray Romine Sunday, July 2, 1950

“What’s a star, daddy?”
“A Sun,” he replied,
“Like our day-sun, much larger,
With gases inside–“
I’m afraid that I covered
An impolite yawn
And wished I hadn’t asked,
But when he went on:
“Each sun may have planets,
With houses and trees
And toy stores and street-lights,
And autos and seas,
With boys and girls on them,
About like the earth,”
I stood still and listened
For all I was worth!

by Ray Romine Sunday, February 3, 1952

Now that September skies have reared aloft
Aquarius, pouring water to the Fish,
And Capricornus, shaped more like a dish
(Or anything but goat), my hat is doffed
To this rare season. Who has scoffed
Because the summer ends its feverish
Mad dance, should look around. For who could wish
Days finer, when the winds contribute soft
Haze curtains through which nightly all the stars
Peek out in autumn modesty for those
Who deign to look beyond our earthly bars
To where the messengers of space repose.
Though talk of wars and man-made woes increase,
The star-imbedded heavens speak of peace.

by Ray Romine Sunday, February 18, 1951

The bright elusive Fomalhaut,
Her colors flaming high,
Austerely crosses, on tiptoe,
Her empty stretch of sky.

Her regal bearing shows disdain
For small stars which in awe
Behold her go far south to reign
When summer days withdraw.

The princess struts; we pay the cost:
Her cold aloofness leaves us frost.

by Ray Romine Sunday, January 14, 1951