three poems
by Ron Tobey
The Collect
Spring begins a poor beggar
clothes torn, thread-bare
bruised, scabbed skin
hungry, unhealthy, thin
though ambitious.
Saint George’s Episcopal Church
heated only 30 degrees above freezing
most of the University year
never is locked
I sneak there when it is empty
lights off, quiet
to have some company
alone in the colored dimness
below the stained glass windows
on a back pew I stare at the vaulting
how
I am sure the Rector knows
he does not intrude
a moment of refuge—
peril conjured by dreams.
In the tall grass of full flush spring
a deer grazes head down
a shadow of brown
slowly plowing waves of green
when I bring the horses in
Eventide
they freeze, nostrils flare, alert
shake their heads nervously
their genetic solution of flight
from mountain lions stalking
on Savannah or pampas or Great Plains
a meal of equine neck and haunch.
It's all right, it’s all right, I say
gently as I tug lead ropes
it’s just a deer
nothing to fear
we’re almost in the barn.
AN INDIAN SUMMER TO REMEMBER
La Niña drives Indian Summer upon us
as Grace Metalious in New Hampshire wrought
casual in blue jeans at her portable typewriter
the year troops come home
smelling of their drying blood
while leaves change color to burnt umber
die and oxidize
colors crinkle burn up the woods smolder
musk of rot wafting from fermenting mast
when the last page rolls off the platen
the age of indulgent normality snickers knowingly
so long ago we forget
something there is that craves disorder.
Father. Father.
Tell me
the storm brings rain. Only rain.
Tell me
the patter is not feet marching on distant soil.
Father?
Father?
Do you hear the bridges fall
derricks groan to raise stones onto walls
barge excavators dredge and widen moats
do you smell agreements and treaties
burning in embassy garbage cans
swords rattling?
Eternity is as fragile as teens racing fast
their tricked and tattooed pickups
on the slalom curves and inverse grades
Dawson-Springdale hill’s rock carved road
as distant chainsaws whine falsetto
cutting firewood for stern winter’s furnace
18-wheelers drone on I64 hills
12 cylinders strain with classified freight
locked and bonded
acorns plummet onto steel roofs of farm sheds
with the sharp pings of overheated ball bearings
cracking in the wheel’s metal race
steering collapses chains break
careen left careen right swing back
can we keep the truck on the road?
The autumn you always remember
is before the great war changes everything
when women are compelled as well as men
to register in emergency military draft
when carefree boys hardly out of high school
wait for steady jobs to repay their truck loans
and girls prowl Facebook with marital hopes
their friends’ follower lists
dreams
dreams put on hold in basic training camps.
College students discover that majors in poetry
don’t get deferments as do chicken farmers in Maine
and all the woke girls try to get pregnant
to disqualify from combat in the new equity army
painful lessons
how history returns—
ripe, hot, and fickle.
DRIVING BLIND
I taste fresh blood splash my mouth
with shards of metal and glass
and pus seeps from my fractured jaw
around teeth battered and loose
smell the acrid aroma of roasting flesh
from cauterizing metal
slammed against the deep wounds on hands and feet
shoes are ripped off
lost how
found ten yards away on the road
my tongue swells in the back of my throat
suffocation begins
a hand washes with vinegar the cuts
who does this so with crude disregard
clots sew pain into knots in my skin
my heart pulses thud erratically against my chest
life slows with the jerk of a manual transmission
gearing down
I drive blind this evening
touch typing the old truck’s break pedal
fumble with its shift lever
dash lights blink off
darkness swallows me whole
slow as a funeral procession
through the emptiness of finality
Roads misbehave
can’t recover memory of the way home
no road maps for this
shed gravel and asphalt
pulling around curves’ centrifugal force
and common sense lost
over bumps and potholes
suspension rebounds like a trampoline
tree branches darken the road
when I pass a landmark dwelling
the familiar route appears unknown
I steer the truck along loose threads of confusion
your holiday gift sweater unravels
After bread and wine
after evening service
and after then
the family’s festive midnight dinner
blinking red and green lights across the table strung
broiled salmon white bean soup champagne
you announce
going to vet school across the country
toasts to the new life
your soft eyes
your kiss murmurs prayer on my lips
I cannot forget
or regret
Christmas
Photo of Ron Tobey
BIO: Ron Tobey grew up in north New Hampshire, USA, and attended the University of New Hampshire, Durham. He farms in West Virginia. He writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. As an imagist poet, he expresses experiences and moods in concrete descriptions in haiku, free verse storytelling, audio poetry, and in filmic interpretation. He was a finalist in Cleaver Magazine 40th Anniversary Flash Fiction Contest. Ron is active on X @Turin54024117