Work Type: Ray Romine Poems

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Infectious

When all I see today is back to dust
Along with me, and mine; when all I’ve earned
Is spent, and what it bought decayed or burned,
Or waiting out the years in silent rust;
When my ambitions die, as die they must;
When lessons of today are all unlearned;
When intellect has flickered out; when spurned
Are all life’s details over which we fussed,

Oh will this smile of yours I love be, too,
Concealed; all locked within one grain of sand
That moves in fright each time the winds shall blow?
Your smile a waste?–This love of mine for you
Sees flowers blooming in that distant land
All sweeter, for their having you to know.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, November 28, 1945

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Inexpensive

“Congratulations on that baby-girl,”
I said, and saw his fore-head lines uncurl.
The world a little of its worry lost–
A kind word does so much for all the cost!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 22, 1946

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Inevitable

The summer’s passing should provoke’ no tears:
Some progress lives within the worst of fears.
Summer constantly, would, after all,
In spite of its perfection, surely pall.
The change, the sharp-drawn contrast is the thing
That makes all nature welcome back the spring.
And so the earth, whose whirling never ends,
Turns on to winter as the snow descends.

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 26, 1954

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Indirect Enlightening

Don’t tell me I am clever;
Don’t brag me to the skies;
Don’t say my wit is ever
Twice some other guy’s.

Your earnest voice that bellows
My praises, PLEASE! Don’t shout
My dazzle to my fellows–
Let’s let ’em find it out.

by Ray Romine Saturday, August 25, 1951

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Indirect Approach

Her teacher told my little girl,
“Go home and wash your ears!”
Exhibiting a singular
Lack of tact, one fears.
This teacher doesn’t know her kids,
Nor how, indeed, to win ’em,
Or she’d have said, “My dear, your ears–
We’ll plant petunias in ’em!”

by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 7, 1951

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Indelible

Of the spankings with which I was served
When younger, those which were deserved
Deter me still, as still they should–
They marked me, as it were, for good.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 11, 1951

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Inconstant Month

Sultry noon, a burning sun;
Drooping leaves, their courses run;
Whirring insects from the mass
Of dead or dying leaves and grass;
Just a breath of careless breeze;
Butterflies that loop and tease–
September days are made of these.

But at dusk, horizon’s haze
Quickly quenches summer’s blaze;
In the air a sudden chill
Paralyzes chlorophyl,
Makes the moon a huge embossed
Cube of ice, its corners lost–
September nights are made of frost.

by Ray Romine Friday, September 6, 1946

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Incompatible

They’re almost a Russian obsession,
The innocent word and expression;
But the record that stands
And the blood on the hands
(But the screw and the rack
And the knife in the back … )
Don’t fit so well with “Non-agression”.

by Ray Romine Friday, August 25, 1950