Category: Seasons

A wheeling, brown-black butterfly
Was dropping shadows blossom-high,
As, joyful wings against the sun,
He dodged a flower, chose that one,
And, finding it quite sweet and prime,
He sipped, and tasted summertime.

September authored this display
Which was, however, yesterday.

Today, September wears a frown.
The clouds, all brooding, gray and brown,
Are threatening, ferocious brows
Above a puckered mouth that vows,
With gusty breath, to frost each wing,
Each bud, each leaf, each summer thing.

The green and gold of Summer’s crown
Dissolves before September’s frown.

by Ray Romine Thursday, September 25, 1947

The curves in a quiet landscape
When the last snowflake is down;
The song of the trees when the wind-king
Puckers his fiercest frown;
The flick’ring warmth from a fire-place
On the coldest night of the year-
We never look forward to Winter,
But it isn’t too bad–once here.

The moon through a crystal window
When the stars are cold and dim;
The creak of the snow crunched underfoot;
The snap of a shivering limb;
Your frozen breath on the silent
Frost-cleansed biting air–
Who stops and looks and listens
Finds winter a jewel rare.

by Ray Romine Thursday, January 9, 1947

August brings sun and flies and heat,
Picnics–awful things to eat;
Chiggers, skeeters, all the spawn
From Hell ‘s own tract infest the lawn.
The grass turns brown; the garbage smells:
The garden’s dead; the ice bill swells.
The water’s warm as chili soup–
My collars wilt, my neckties droop.
Cold drinks, sodas, ice cream cones
Still don’t chill my torrid bones.
The butterfly, the bug, the bee
Are giving up–what chance have we?
We prayed for summer time to come–
But it ain’t so hot, SO HOT, by guml

by Ray Romine Saturday, August 31, 1935

My description of summer
When it’s 90 above,
I fear must suffer
Along without “love”.

by Ray Romine Monday, December 11, 1950

The summer has slid gently into fall
With little fuss and no fanfare at all
Beyond some mornings touched with frost,
And leaves a brighter hue, or gently lost.
Now southward bound, a handsome butterfly
Beats browm and black against a turquoise sky
In search of southern scene, some warmer clime–
Homesick already for the summertime!

by Ray Romine Friday, June 25, 1954

These fragile faces peering up at me,
Pale in the dusk, and so sincerely shy,
Are blooms of May that herald, quietly,
The gems to flower in the midnight sky.

by Ray Romine Saturday, November 15, 1952

The spring time turns its gentle face
On things undone around the place:
There’s puttying; the spouting’s clanging;
The screens need cleaning up and hanging;
With winter’s dirt the pool is brimming;
The grape vines and the trees need trimming;
The fence’s face requires a lifting;
Two evergreens I’d planned on shifting;
It’s early; maybe later on
I’ll find the time to roll the lawn;
The garden wall is all asunder;
Our winter rye needs spading under…
And mother, in a Voice of Doom,
Says, “Gander at that Living Room!”

Bears notwithstanding, hear me sing:
I’d rather hibernate in SPRING!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, March 25, 1952

An April day: the sun cracks through a rift
In stubborn clouds and lays a sudden hand
Upon the wind, which warms in turn the land
So every bud can feel the coming shift
To summer’s reign. And what a buoying lift,
In seeing April gain the upper hand,
To us, who tire of March and March’s brand
Of winter.–But quickly gone is April’s gift:
A smartly scudding cloud Just overran
The sun, and–br-r-r-~we have our March again!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 12, 1944

Now summer to me is a wonderful thing,
While the winter I find hard to stand;
And fall isn’t bad–I could even stand spring
Were it not for the month now at hand.

For March is the month that gets under my hair,
For It’s summer–then winter and sneeze;
And I never could stand for the versatile guy
Who was trying to be the whole cheese.

by Ray Romine Thursday, March 23, 1933

Who’s the hero of September?
The guy who lugs the ball?
The fans on the sides may say so,
But it isn’t him at all.

Who’s the big shot of September?
The coach who steers the team?
Is it end or back or tackle?
Just skim-milk; who’s the cream?

Who’s the star of old September?
The co-ed with her smile,
Doggy coat and ritzy dresses?
No–our hero knows no style.

For the hero of September
Is the chap who foots the bill;
It’s dad and his dear old check-book
Who runs the college mill!

by Ray Romine Monday, September 7, 1936