Category: Seasons

Howl strongly in your fiercest mood!
The three short milder seasons
Sit back and moan in tones subdued,
And dream up various reasons
Why they no longer are the rage,
But–turn about. And so,
Toot your horn well while you’re on stage,
And when it’s your turn, BLOW!

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 11, 1951

I hate the wind–
The cold and bitter wind,
The winter wind
That shakes the house’s foundations,
That cuts like a piece of paper edgewise,
And chaps the hands.
The winter wind disturbs my soul;
The winter wind makes me want to fling myself at it
And get even.

It is just the thought
That winter wind
Provides the impetus
To the seasons–
That it is bowling April back to me–
That gives it an excuse for being.
I can endure it.

by Ray Romine Thursday, January 31, 1946

Ah March! The greening grass is spelling
Winter’s end. A robin’s telling
Of his recent southern trip;
Buds are straining at the tip;
March winds hum a merry tune:
“April, May–hurray for June!”
Yet just north of our garage
Lies some of last week’s wild barrage-Reminding
us, those snowy traces,
That winter hangs around in places.

by Ray Romine Sunday, March 2, 1952

Have the cock begin his crowing:
Some splurge May this morn is throwing!
Far cry, this, from winter’s snowing;
All the world is lush, green,–growing
Much TOO fast–the lawn needs mowing;
Dandelions their seeds are sowing,
Each its share of grief a-towing.
Garden weeds are skyward going,
Green and healthy they are glowing;
Time to start their weekly hoeing.
Screens need hoisting–flies are showing:
Some are silent–some are blowing.
Whole dang place is over-growing,
Under-cleaned and overflowing.
But I for one am easy-going:
I had rather boat be rowing
To a shady spot I’m knowing,
Where the current’s gently flowing;
Hear the cattle’s lowly lowing?
But I hear the wife helloing:
“Come on, Shakespeare, let’s be stowing
All that guff–you’re on me slowing;
To the world a debt you’ re owing;
WORK comes first, and THEN sea-going!”
Yes,
Lovely is spring, and high I’d rate it,
Had I the time to appreciate it.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, May 26, 1943

Doubtless June and Heaven aren’t
Kade from self-same recipe;
Though June be a bit inferior,
It’s a fair facsimile.

Some folk, being from Missouri,
Can’t believe unless they’re shown;
Another’s eyes are not sufficient:
They scarcely dare to trust their own–

“Prove your Jesus and your Bible”–
Until they’re shown, they’ll stay aloof.
Try as you will, you can’t convince them;
LIVING IT is final proof.

Heaven, though, ‘s another matter:
With this June we’re living through,
I can hardly put a limit
To the thinga my God can do.

June, to me, says there’s a Heaven;
Some there are who’ll disagree–
Doubt you may the gift of Heaven:
June is proof enough for ME!

by Ray Romine Sunday, June 20, 1943

The trees, disturbed, sigh softly there;
The cricket’s rasp is everywhere;
The screeeh-owl’s weird and eerie dare,
The June-bug’s mad, erratic tear,
Say June is back.

The moth’s bright wings but briefly seen;
His cushioned thump against the screen;
The night-bird’s cry, so high and keen,
All make complete-the summer scene,
For June is back.

Two stars together part the haze,
And scan the earth with winking gaze.
Their fierce but chastely virgin blaze
Makes lamps at night for summer days,
Since June is back.

The stars, though, fade and turn aside
Before the slow moon’s upward glide,
Whose light reveals where iris hide,
Stately, solemn, dignified.
The pansies, fresh and eager-eyed,
The Oriental Poppies chide:
Such blatant flare they can’t abide,
When June is back.

The dream, O June, of nights with you
Has helped us live the winter through;
No word We say, or thing we do
Can quite express our thanks who knew
June would be back!

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 12, 1943

Some months are not so subtle. May,
As an example, flaunts her bloom;
October’s dress is over-gay;
December wears a Christmas plume.

But nature’s fairest, free of crowds,
Has never learned to gild real worth–
Beneath the fleeciest of clouds,
June wears the softest green on earth.

by Ray Romine Monday, January 4, 1954

Another white-hot angry dawn
Is marching up the sky
To enhance the reputation
Of a whiter-hot July.

And the mists across the lowland
In the fan-rays read their end,
As the weeds, relieved of dew-drops
Imperceptibly unbend.

The scarecrow holds one arm across
His unprotected eyes,
And stares in fascination
At the light-stirred, vicious flies.

One more ferocious brassy dawn
Goes striding up the sky
To pour a molten section
For the structure that’s July.

by Ray Romine Friday, July 6, 1945

The heat, a live thing, grows each day,
Hiding in some sidewalk crack
By night, until its parent sun
At dawn alerts a fresh attack.

Yet animated though it is,
Impossibly and fiercely stout,
Heat oddly is not tangible
Enough to do a thing about.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 6, 1954

Ah summer-time!.
How warm, how right.
How tough it is
To sleep at night.
How hard to dodge
What’s passing by:
July sale ad,
Mosquito, fly.
How to evade
All picnic food;
How ever find.
A working mood.
I find I am
A bit dismayed for
The summer which
All year I prayed for.
It’s true, it seems,
I like it hot
In January
When it’s not.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 23, 1952