Category: Poetry

The poems he left unspoken,
The thoughts that he left unsaid,
Leave a silence forever unbroken–
My friend, the poet, is dead.

by Ray Romine Saturday, December 11, 1943

Verses running through my head–
Suppose they will be ’til I’m dead.
Crazy, lousy, witless verse
Doesn’t fatten up my purse;
Couplets, meter, feet and rhyme–
Awful how they take my time.
Still my mind will turn to verse
Ain’t it awful? Goodnight nurse!
Even do it in my sleep,
‘S’nough to make the devil weep.
Wifey thinks it’s some disease
Working on me at its ease.
Maybe so, for all I know
But don’t you think we all should go
To feeling sorry for my wife?
She’s doomed to hear it ALL HER LIFE!

by Ray Romine Thursday, January 25, 1934

Block upon block upon piece after part,
Fiction is set up as tall buildings start;
Poetry’s stuff is the beat of the heart.

Articles written are so cut-and-dried,
With well-chosen words that are frigid inside;
Poetry springs, like a wild ocean tide.

Ministers threats, while the good shekels roll,
Weekly pretend that to “Save” is their goal;
Poetry’s rhythm descends from the soul.

Orators’ words, with their texture of soap,
Still– for the truth–have to fumblingly grope;
Poetry’s words are humanity’s hope.

Mankind is narrow; his perfidy jars;
His is the seamy side; his are the scars;
Poetry’s scope is the swing of the stars.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 10, 1946

The setting’s swell: the time be June;
The fireflies about are strewn–
Hand me pencil: let me write
A serious, solemn verse tonight.
And so the neighbor’s hound begins–
I hope his income tax is twins.

Across the garden, moonlight falls
And spatters patterns on the walls:
I’ll take my fountain pen and start
A poem noble, handsome, smart.
There comes a car around the bend,
And puts the moonlight to an end.

I hear the crickets from the glade
A-hiding in the nook the’ve made;
The whip-poor-will calls from the copse:
I pause, and hope he never stops.
But hear that yodelling factory whistle?
Sign him up, I think the Swiss’ll.

Ah-h, now ’tis quiet, and the mind
Casts about, some peace to find,
Some modest part ot Nature grand
To help man her to understand.
But one more thing I’ve overlooked–
The 10:15–my Muse is cooked!!

It’s 2:00 a.m.–the world’s asleep–
At last my nature-tryst I’ll keep;
I steal from bed, my eyes a-gleam—
And rings out clear my dear wife’s scream:
“Come to bed–put out the light–
Art ill, or what’s afloat tonight?”

A healthy try I made; I swore
To write it serious, but NO MORE!
The dog, the car, the whistle’s pain,
My wife who blares above the train,
They all have shouted Nature down–
WHAT CHANCE A CORNY POET-CL0WN??

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 19, 1943

The money from these verses,
As George S. Kaufman said,
Goes to a needy family
Of which I am the head!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, July 9, 1952

I wonder why I write this stuff?
It ain’t for money–it must be luff!

A Lithuanian, or even a Slav
Would recognize it’s surely lav.

I sat me one day in a grove,
And wrote and wrote–but still for love.

Of course, if I had incentive enove,
I’d write for something more than love!

by Ray Romine Monday, October 14, 1946

Now it’s true I like my jingles
It’s an awful lot of fun,
And I write on any subject–
That is, all save only one.

For there’s one thing I can’t write on
Cannot contemplate with glee:
That’s the college lad or lassie,
For they’re castor oil to me!

I started with drawing pictures, and
Things went from bad to worse.
The drawings were bad, but Oh! how sad
When I drifted to writing verse.

by Ray Romine Saturday, April 1, 1933

Now when I began on this drawing stuff
I was only a wee small pup.
What a shame my pop with his razor strop
Didn’t wham me ’til I woke up.

Yes, the art was bad–still you couldn’t blame dad
For not halting me then, in time;
For he no doubt thought I’d amount to aught
As an artist along some line.
And I might have too, now I’m telling you
But for one thing that reared its head.
‘Twas the ugly curse of this writing verse–
NEED THERE ANYTHING ELSE BE SAID?

by Ray Romine Saturday, May 20, 1933

A verse a day
Puts your kids at bay,
Drives your friends away,
And your wife (to stay).

Even though you pray,
A verse a day
Will work this way.

So a verse a day drives folks away?
You’d try it, hey? Well, better nay–

For still the bill-collector comes,
The mailman, and sundry bums;
And neighbors, borrowing cups of stuff;
And others, but ain’t this enough?

No, these unwelcome ones verse won’t faze–
Or, at least, it works that way with Ray’s!

A verse s. day
Just doesn’t pay.
(I ain’t been paid YET!)

by Ray Romine Thursday, November 4, 1943

I shall hang some words together:
They may not exactly fit;
But if verse can sell a publisher ,
Why, that’s the most of it.

For, while I may think it’ s dreadful,
And you may decide it stinks,
Let us stifle our emotions:
It’s with cash the public thinks.

And the Bookstore clerk will gladly
All his own opinions smother,
As he holds his nose with one hand,
Making money with the other.

I shall hang some words together,
And regret them by-and-by;
But if they attract the shekels,
I shall not exactly cry.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 1, 1946