Triptych of a Dream - 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