Work Type: Ray Romine Poems

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The Monkey

Jocko’s forelegs have, almost,
As good a hand as child can boast;
And then his two back feet can clasp
On anything within his grasp.
How many creatures ever hope
To owm a tail that is a rope?
It must be nice to have all these
If, for a living, one climbs trees!

by Ray Romine Thursday, September 17, 1953

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The Little Things

Is it not fit that we should pray
Our thanks to Providence each day
For every blessing Freedom showers?
For this our Flag? This country, ours?
The thrill of dawn; the swooping hawk?
For moonlight spilled upon a walk?
A perfumed flower; a haunting song?
Our leisure hours; a Christmas throng?
The poignancy of backward looks;
For covers of familiar books?
For solace from wooded glade
In summer, patterned light and hade?
The tasks contented lives demand;
The warm clasp of friendly hand?
An Elm tree’s shape; October skies;
For longing trust in children’s eyes?

The poorest American can afford
Full all these things, who love the Lord;
Father, her us as we say,
“Thanks again”, Thanksgiving Day.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 4, 1944

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The Last Fly

The snow is here–the birds are gone,
But still the last fly lingers on.
He don’t-know when he’s licked at all:
He should have died away last fall,
But there he is, a-zooming still;
Swooping here and there at will,
With lazy, vicious, angry buzz–
As mean a sound as ever was.
He’s had a lot of narrow squeaks,
But he lives on for weeks and weeks.
Tried to starve him–can’t do that,
Through rigid diet, he grows fat!
Sprays and swatters, you’d perceive
Just make him titter up his sleeve;
I’ve tried to kill him every way,
But he’s in best of health today.
If he’d just hibernate ’til spring,
That would settle everything–
But he must dip, and zoom, and buzz,
Which simply can’t go on, becuz,
To use an old, old, oft-used line,
It’s GOT TO BE HIS LIFE OR MINE!!!!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 13, 1938

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The Laborer

Caught in life’s avalanche,
Always downhill,
Weary of mind ,
And deprived of a will,

Trading his body
For his share of bread,
He lives in a cosmos
Of misery and dread.

Always he dreams,
Through the sweat, of a day
He might ascend
And be King for a day

So he, from the heights,
With a newly-found vim,
May trod on the fingers
Of those below him.

by Ray Romine Saturday, December 1, 1945

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The Innocents

Who makes more noise than all our troops?
The country’s organized pressure-groups.
A pressure-group, kiddies (each member sing-songs)
Is a group to which somebody ELSE belongs.

by Ray Romine Friday, July 13, 1951

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The Hyena

Unpopular because, with skill,
He lives upon another’s kill,
Then laughs and laughs, I’ve noticed too,
As half his human brothers do.

by Ray Romine Sunday, January 14, 1951

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The Heat-wave Doth Make Cowards Of Us All

An instrument of glass and metal–
Which isn’t large–in fact, it’s letal–
When filled with red goo, slush. or such,
Tells us it’s hot, and just how much.

And this so-small man-made creation
Can give a human heat-prostration:
For just to KNOW how hot it be
Will multiply your misery.

For me, I know it’s hot enough
Without thermometers and stuff;
I’m MUCH more comfy not to know
It’s 90 in the shade, or so!

Walk up to it and take a look–
Right there, you REALLY start to cook!
I. too, would look if look I dared–
I tell you frankly: I am scared.

A fearful lack of sympathy
Have I for folks who say to me:
“If you’ve a second, my good sir,
We’ll look at my thermome-ter.”

Or, “Hot enough for you today?”
(The things I THINK that I don’t sayl)
Humidity escapes attention
If it the dear folk wouldn’t mention.

So let the temperature soar
To 99, or even more–
I won’t know how hot it is
If I close my trap, my neighbor his!
When sidewalks peel, and crack, and blister,
Please keep your old statistics, mister.

That “Ignorance is surely Bliss”
Applies, at least, on days like THIS l

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 5, 1943