Author / Karen Hanson Percy

by Karen Hanson Percy

Where Does The Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it.

It’s frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
 
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven’t the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
April 26 April 25
 
Don’t call this world an explanation, or even an education.
 
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
 
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
 
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

Mary Oliver

by Karen Hanson Percy

Why Mother Let Us Play There

My mother never should have let us play

in the deep woods that spun and twisted behind our house.

Sometimes we wandered for miles

during that time of year

when the grizzlies sauntered from hibernation

sleepily impatient with hunger;

too close to where we collected things–

their fetid slyness heavy and unseen behind the waking evergreens of spring.

Once, I dropped an armful of dead branches

upon hearing the winter-induced intoxication of

the Mountain Queen herself.

She shuffled and heaved the unsteadiness of her trunk forward;

an eager cub followed inoffensively in her prints.

My brother and I left our bodies behind

we ran so hard.

And then other times,

the woods were silent for years.

Even the elegance of a buck tiptoeing on snow-dampened leaves

did nothing to disturb the stillness.

We were often found crouched by the rotted wood of an old corral

investigating petrified prints of worms and shells when our sister came to find us.

My sister was always beautiful when she was coming to find us;

the flush in her cheeks and the tangled urgency to the red weaves of her hair

brought human life into the world our imaginings allowed us to belong.

FB Road

by Karen Hanson Percy

O Pioneers!

Feb 23

“And now the old story has begun to write itself over there,” said Carl softly. “Isn’t it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes for thousands of years.”
― Willa Cather

by Karen Hanson Percy

The Ones Who Left Us

Feb 9 2

Going for a run

I jump off the side of the road when the cars come;

I am alone with this building now,

like I wanted.

The blur of speed stirs a loose shingle

and the ghost churns the leaves in a circle.

From the corner of my eye

there is a body darting from the slump of window.

I am certain of five fingers,

alabaster clinging loosely to the toothy edge

and then the creak of floorboards

where presently there are none.

Another car and whirl of wind;

field mice stir from oxidized walls

squeaking and flitting at my ankles—

from inside

someone, something

sighs and shifts its weight.

I am close enough to hold that ashen hand in mine,

familiar enough to ask

which one are you

save the impenetrable boundary between us.

feb 9 3

by Karen Hanson Percy

Greatness

January 11th

when cell phones have parted us

and factories and robots

and cars—

all those nice cars

and video games and grocery stores

and televisions

when it is hard to look you in the eye

and my fingers jerk

and my mind twitches

and my stomach searches

and computers—

all those expensive computers…

and i can’t sleep

and sometimes i sleep too much

and oh my God i’m twitching

it will be nice to look at this picture

and think about the barns.

the quiet barns

and the simple trees.

the calm farmer

the calloused hands.

the shoes, the clothes, the hair, the faces–

thinned out, not new.

the cock-crow light on the backs of chickens

the nimbus around the good milking cows.

the looks on their faces

as they pause for a long while

to survey all the greatness they’ve built…

by Karen Hanson Percy

Winter

dec 31 2

“Every winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into a vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay– Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses.”         Charles Kingsley