New Poems by Beth Paulson
The House
In the attic bedroom
of a
house built in 1905
two windows still face east
into
the perch of the morning sun
where my three young
granddaughters
lie
asleep under their puffy duvets
the color of summer sherbets.
One, the oldest, stirs and
turns,
first
to step out onto
the old hardwood
to
search for school clothes
in a closet under the eaves,
stoops
to fit under its doorway.
The youngest follows next,
looking for tights, her uniform,
chattering barefoot down
then
back up the creaky stairs.
Sunlight’s moved far as the
pillow
of
their sleepy sister who rouses
reluctant from an alcove nest,
head a
blonde tousle.
Who shared this room before
them?
Young
boys or taller ones in twin beds
who went off to war or those
luckier
to
universities? Other
bright-eyed
girls grown older now or gone to
graves,
their
faces in a brass-framed mirror
they shared braiding each
other’s hair?
One night I watched Blake at
fourteen
kneel
on her bed,
gently pull back one white
curtain
to look
at the new moon
through a big sycamore.
Same
moon, same window.
Magpies
Beside the house three magpies
dressed
in last night’s tuxedos
jump-step in the piled snow
beaks
down, heads bobbing
no delicacies cooked for them
by a
Ming empress here
they poke-pick under the feeder
at seed
pods breadcrumbs
a morning I woke with regrets
for
things I have done
and with certain unease
about
the state of the world
a morning I felt inside me a
chilled spirit
no hot tea or blanket could assuage
then my husband tells me in
China magpies
are
revered as bringers of joy
harbingers of hope and harmony
that once one built a bridge for
two lovers
another
saved a future emperor
and who am I not to accept this
gift
blessed
with long marriage, sons,
with friends beyond counting?
when at last the magpies lift
their black wings
and
tail-sail into the blue day
I show him where they left foot
tracks
brushstrokes
like xi and he
scribed in the whiteness.
Luminous
lu-mi-nous/ adj./
1. The quality
of light as the surface of a river
at dusk catches silver
from the sun’s leaving;
Luminous daylight reflected
on water/in motion on canyon walls/
fractalled into rainbows/waterfalls;
2. full of light; bright
as
a luminous sunset, or
even as
certain fish and plants are luminous;
of the full moon/was luminous
on the night river/its shadow
moving across the black cliffs;
3. shining by its
own light as a soul
or as the stars and planets are
luminous bodies in the night sky;
4.Figurative: easily
understood,
clear, enlightening or enlightened;
We who traveled/ on the river/
were changed/spirits made
for a brief time/luminous.
First printed in In Plein Air (Poetic License Press, 2017)
Wolf Sighting, Yellowstone
Just before dust I spotted one
pacing the snow-dusted field,
fur the hue of the gray day,
beside a grove of pines
not far from Old Faithful Inn--
maybe a lone descendant from
the Druid pack, Lamar Valley-bred?
I stood silent inside tall
windows
not yet lit, wondered at my nearness
to a wild creature never seen.
a second smaller wolf appeared.
Shadow or mate? Head held high
it sniffed the colder air, loped
to meet the first. Then on
strong-muscled legs they
crossed the field together
to a small hill they crested,
silhouettes I lost sight of in
snow, breath, clouds.
First printed in I-70 Review, 2021
Near Stonehenge
I once stood in a
circle of blue stones.
White sheep grazed in the grass between the stones.
Barns, houses, and
a church built of stone.
What secrets lie beneath a field of stones.
Into the Avon the
children cast smooth stones.
Water's music moved over the stones.
A path we took led
us among white stones.
Who cleared the land and stacked those walls of stone?
Night in the sky's
hand, the moon was a stone.
I wondered how men carried those great stones.
My love has been
keystone and corner stone.
He bought me beads of garnet, my birthstone.
First printed in Off the Coast, 2020.
Green Hearts
New leaves are spiking outside
my kitchen window,
pale, delicate, unfurling from a bare aspen like tiny scrolls.
Underneath it long fingers of
iris have pushed up
from bulbs hiding in the moist mystery of earth.
Another sign, yesterday I saw
yellow forsythia
sprung out from a tangle of branches in the garden.
At the sink I stand in awe, no
words for these gifts,
I who have also felt the broken will of the body,
been lost in the dark,
uncertain alleys of the mind.
Even in my unsteady hand, when I hold up
this clean glass to a beam of
light, it reflects back
through the window an offering of green hearts.
Forthcoming in Leaping Clear, 2018.