Category: Poems

Ray Romine Poems

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Orchids To Herby

Hurrah for Herby–
Herby wasn’t such a hot student;
Herby was a dreamer.
But when the teacher asked,
“Herby, what is poetry?”
Herby said,
“It’s words that ain’t words
No more
When they’re in a pome.”
A little inelegant,
Perhaps.
But Herby had the soul of a poet.
Herby put his finger on it.
Herby, maybe, knew more than some sages,
When he said, albeit in his own way,
“Words lose their identity as such in poetry,
For poetry is a composite picture of every
beautiful living thing upon this earth
or near it.”
Not just words.
And that’s perhaps why I’m no poet
Like Herby was–
Or could have been.

My hat is off to Herby.

(In not over 7 minutes
at breakfast)

by Ray Romine Tuesday, February 1, 1944

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Oration by a Once Gay Dog

You struggle for–and get–attention
With more tricks than I’ve space to mention.
You nod, you wink, you smirk, you pose;
You pirouette on twinkling toes;
You play up dolly’s vaccination;
You monopolize the conversation.

Into my pride of you, small elf,
One saddened note intrudes itself:
Here sits your dad, ex-life-of-party,
Eclipsed by his three-year-old smarty!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 29, 1950

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Or: Maybe Both

Seeking wealth and adoration?
Here is true perpetuation:
Write a low, but lurid comma
Song like “Pistol-packin’ Mamma”!
Or, if you’d really public totter,
Learn to sing like Frank Sinatter!

by Ray Romine Saturday, October 30, 1943

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Or Is It?

“By the company he keeps a man is known”
Brings some relief to one. Gee–
It’s great to know it’s not B.O.
That causes folks to shun me!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, February 20, 1945

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Or Do They Do It In Bermuda?

Oh let’s take that trip to Bermuda,
And so get away from it all–
Especially that guy in the office
Who blats all day long of… BASEBALL.

For it’s baseball he plays at the cooler;
It’s baseball he’s at as he works;
It’s baseball he talks to the bosses,
With sly winks and nudges and smirks.

The first thing each morning, he’s at it,
Taking last evening’s shindy apart;
Until, when we dodge him at lunch-time,
All of us know it by heart.

He doesn’t walk in his sleep–he runs bases.
His mentality’s geared to the game:
“You shoulda seen Urgumwitz slug it,
And the pitchin’ by—uh—whut’s his name.

“That run we pulled off in the seventh;
That double we sprung in the third—“
And though I’m eleven desks from him,
I still catch his every word.

The afternoon wears away slowly–
I’m weary at four, but HIM? He’s
Tearing around in the outfield,
His tongue hanging down to his knees.

The players may call the game over;
The umpires their way homeward wend;
But Jamesy will keep the play going–
Day after day without end.

Yes, LET’S take that trip to Bermuda,
And LET’S get away from it all–
September; –baseball’s about over,
But YOU KNOW WHAT THEY PLAY IN THE FALL!!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 13, 1944

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Optimist

Wind-whipped tree and bowling cloud
Sing October’s praise aloud;
Every falling, colored leaf
Dances in unfeigned relief ,
October is a landscape-tinter
Without a touch of dread for winter!

by Ray Romine Sunday, October 13, 1946

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Optic Topic

I envy that section
Of the masses
That sees without
The aid of glasses.

More than I envy
A Sultan his harem
I envy him
Who doesn’t wear’em.

Sadder than he
Whose days are numbered
Is he whose nose
Is thus encumbered.

But happy is
The Doctor who
Hangs the blessed
Things on you.

And that’s not all
He hangs, you bet:
He hangs you for
The glass you get.

Unloved, and I
Should think unkissed,
Who ends up an
Optometrist!

by Ray Romine Friday, February 23, 1945

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Operation Afoot

Oh please, repair-man, come and fix
That dresser-drawer that always sticks,
I beg you, rush, for I’ve a yen
To appear on the street in socks again!

Dear Customer: I know you’ll hate
My saying you’re a little late,
But as for socks, you’re a twice-dead duck:
My tools are in a drawer that’s stuck.

by Ray Romine Monday, September 5, 1949

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Open Letter To All Politicians

Come pat my back and shake my hand;
Don’t criticize nor reprimand
Me. I’m the Backbone of the Nation;
All by myself I licked Inflation.
Commend me on my common sense;
Tell me I’m big; in fact, Immense.
Then, as my vigilance relaxes,
Promise to reduce my taxes.
Pour it on well; pull all the stops–
This year, the Common Man is tops.
I point with pride; in fact, I Quote:
I am the owner of a Vote!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, April 1, 1952