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Triptych of a Dream by Ron Tobey

CABIN ON A HILL YEATS’ LAKE ISLE


I would a cabin on a hill

in Jefferson build,

view through its picture window

down the farmer’s field

granite rock fences

for his dairy cows,

across Cherry Pond

to the Presidentials beyond.


Working in a hardware and lumber store

after school at sixteen,

I sketch schematic outlines,

grid lined paper, freehand,

guided by product brochures,

talk with licensed contractors,

published floor plans.


On Sonotube pillars of Sakrete

the cabin would float,

a pier of 2x6 planks,

plates, and headers,

anchored by grade A325 1/2” bolts,


joists to frame the floor drum

support framed walls of 2x4 studs,

all wrapped in a Tyvek envelope

under a pitched shed roof,


heat by an iron wood-burning stove

with chrome handles and feet

set on an apron of yellow firebricks,


furnish with a bench bed,

storage drawers underneath,

a flush door laid on metal sawhorses,

Formica covered for kitchen prep and my desk,

with my Smith-Corona portable typewriter,

fountain pen, reams of 18-pound paper.


I would eat farmer’s cheese

made by the Intervale Dairy,

firm wedges of sharp white cheddar

cut from a glass covered wheel,

small batch bread baked by a farmwife,

sold at Jefferson crossroads general store.


In late summer I would watch the migrating geese

wade in Pondicherry National Wildlife Refuge,

in winter follow, on snowshoes, deer trails

to remote forest deer yards and birthing grounds,

in spring, watch the snow melt fill

beaver dams on Pricilla Brook.


There would be no “I”

in this cabin riding the wind,

poetry would sound itself out

with every moan of timber, creak of frame,

every hiss and squeak of cured firewood

burning in the stove.


I would write, journal by day, poems at night,

by Propane hurricane gas lanterns’ light.


If I would need to call,

I could walk to my aunt’s old two-story home

rooms to rent in the village,

use her wall-mounted crank phone

with party line in the hall,

to ring the Littleton exchange for outside numbers.


When my time came to live far away,

office, suburb, car commuting,

asphalt pavement, freeways,

my cabin is home for you,

lover and muse, holding my trust

until I return, as I must.



A BROOK OF OUR OWN

JOYCE’S PORTRAIT


In the college library reading room

metal stacks display periodicals on sloping shelves

daily newspapers announce the latest apocalypse above the fold

current popular magazines seek attention with flashy covers

scholarly journals hide behind old maid colors

you and I are often the only students here Saturday evenings

at school with most believing minds

digging treasure out of Architectural Digest and Country Life

how we will live

we take long walks on dirt third-class New Hampshire roads

not gravel even connecting dispersed subsistence farms

perhaps roads that Frost walked or drove a buggy down

taught at the Normal School that year

hills generate freshets and year-round creeks

one winter we trace a brook running under snow and ice across farm fields

we are lost

tramp to a farm house

stamp snow off our boots at the door

“do you have a phone we may use” they do wall mounted

insulated copper wire precariously slung between slender poles

to the exchange in the village

where the familiar voice of an operator assists us

they are amused to see us dressed in student clothes

dressed up from their farm labor perspective

we inquire about nearby rundown barns

several shelter a milk cow or two a horse chickens

rusted plow harrow harvester outside

and dilapidated barns piled with waste hay brittle yellow

hosting spider holes and webs and barn swallows

then pasture side ruins fallen into a granite block foundation

rotted 4x4 roof rafters

once shelter farm draft horses with 12 foot high stalls

plank floor boards bolted to 6x6 floor joists


we know at once we want to rehabilitate a barn

nurse it to health re-purpose it

a house of two stories that open up inside a cathedral

founded on immortal quarried granite blocks

with bore holes and chisel marks on their sides

bedroom in loft above chancel

kitchen in the choir

a table at the communion rail

picture windows overlooking fields and hills

stained glasses amid modern double hung windows

functional wood shutters to close against winter storms

bedrooms in chapels

cavernous stone fireplace with cooking hooks

ringed by a bronze two-pipe fence to keep out small children

running through the middle of our home

a real brook

a check pool with adjustable spillway for fish

water year round to nourish indoor plantings


furnish with Shaker styled tables chairs benches

New York Public Library reading lamps with green shades sconces hanging ceiling lights

alcoves with cushioned seats to read by natural light


garden plots of memory

to grow love’s flowers

antique faded photographs with frozen faces rigid poses

aunts uncles cousins and second-cousins saved from obscurity

black and whites of grandmother brides in lace gowns holding bouquets with no color no name

grandfathers and fathers at last sufficiently prosperous to afford wedding suits

trunks packed with quilts duvets coverlets afghan throws shawls

reproduction tapestry scenes from the captive unicorn story framed on walls

mirrored cases storing heirloom jewelry and necklaces

armoires to hang antique dresses


in late spring at our picnic spot on Sugar Hill

we hear from distant cities

shrieks and screams on the breeze

gunning up the wind in the white pine woods

we watch storm rain lash fields of orchard grass into waves

old barns break upon piers of high ground



OFF A HIGHWAY ROUTE

HALL’S EAGLE POND FARM


I feel faint

viewing the housing projects

from the cross-Bronx expressway

stacked lives

sunlight never reaches inside

cordwood

a concrete funeral pyre


nearly all my friends are dead

I choose in denial to have nothing

I would not have a name

but as I forget what it is I can’t not have it

I live in a small winter cabin

on Tater Tots Scotch whiskey goat’s milk

ground beef three times a week

a clearing in Appalachian forest

unplugged

a cold wind rises

the night with secret snow fills

there is no one to ask my name

far from cell phone service

my hands are laced with cuts from handling ice

numb

I use a pseudonym

too painful to hold a pen

my arthritic fingers bleed as I type on a keyboard

rejection letters drop out of the sky

turkey vultures claw crows tear

at the corpses of my poems

I wait for spring to resurrect drafts


Originally published by Cult of Clio 2022

Ron Tobey grew up in north New Hampshire, USA, and attended the University of New

Hampshire, Durham. He lives in West Virginia, where he and his wife raise cattle and keep

goats and horses. He is an imagist poet, writing haiku, storytelling poems, and

spokenpoetry, and produces videopoetry. His Twitter handle is @Turin54024117


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