Softly settling snowflakes
Are pointed icy quips
Coined and then discarded
By happy Angel lips.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, November 28, 1950
Selections from Trella Romine's library at Terradise Nature Center
Softly settling snowflakes
Are pointed icy quips
Coined and then discarded
By happy Angel lips.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, November 28, 1950
Clouds roll across the sky of blue,
The way kids roller-skating do;
And, just like children, after all,
Clouds that skate will sometimes fall.
The thunder is their crash, it’s plain;
The tears they’re dropping bring us rain.
by Ray Romine Sunday, February 10, 1952
This weather–please take it and drive on–
Fills some folk with vigor and zest;
But the same thing which other guys thrive on
Just gives me a cold in my chest,
And a sore throat besides, and a sniffle,
Which is all quite annoying as heck–
Yet all this is merely a riffle
To the fact it’s a PAIN IN THE NECK!
2-12-44, and first half “written”
while walking to work in 6″ of
snow, and 2 above zero.
by Ray Romine Saturday, February 12, 1944
If the weatherman’s a human cuss,
I expect he’d like to shoot us–
When it was “dry” we crabbed–we wanted beer,
Now it’s here, it’s too “wet” to suit us.
When it was dry we crabbed & howled,
And stormed & griped & cussed & scowle’d;
But now it’s wet & beer is here,
We’re sore ’cause it’s rained every day this year.
by Ray Romine Saturday, April 1, 1933
No weather prophet, normally,
I predict, sans hesitation,
The summer’s coldest week will be
The one of my vacation.
by Ray Romine Friday, April 28, 1950
Flake on flake, the falling white
Climbs the disappearing posts;
Sifting through the silent night
Drops the friendliest of ghosts.
The snow stops; then the lightly fanned
Drifts begin to shift and blow.
The wind provides the writing hand
That autographs the restless snow.
by Ray Romine Thursday, April 29, 1954
Though it was such a lovely week,
It rained to spoil our fun day.
But have no fear; tonight is clear:
Tomorrow will be Monday.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, June 20, 1951
Immature and wholly free,
Rather than sleep he would embark
Upon an aimless shooting spree,
Taking potshots in the dark.
His guns echo and thunder back
Cross the flash-lit bay
Until he tires, and yawns, and packs
His armament away.
by Ray Romine Thursday, August 12, 1954
It’s too hot for working
(The mercury’s baking),
But just right for shirking,
And alibi-making.
It’s too hot for hoeing;
It’s too warm for weeding;
It’s splendid for going
Or staying–and reading.
I could work on the form
Of my golf; I could fish too,
For it’s NEVER too warm
To do those things I wish to!
by Ray Romine Thursday, June 26, 1952
If there’s one thing I could do without, it
Is the folks who talk about it.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 29, 1950