Category / Poetry

by Karen Hanson Percy

School Bus Sestina

The school bus home found me somewhere in the middle
amidst the shuffling of shoes and sundry talk of in-between years.
There was comfort when we moved;
in the ripped vinyl seat, foam exposed;
in the hardened gum, wads of paper milled,
in the hum of wheels stirring the long highway north.
 
Like a fox facing north
not able to catch its prey turning circles in the middle,
I have had much time without direction, my own heart milled.
But yet I stand awake as an investor in those unadorned years
finding myself well-contented and exposed
only feeble without gates to breach a place where the cold air moves.
 
So too I hope, my beloved three will be moved
through an artery of their own, aiming north;
teenage secrets and falsehoods exposed–
not finding hope in the unyielding ground of middle,
but rather in the might that comes from many more upward years.
There they will stand like a mountain range, convinced and unmilled.
 
Oh to join them past the flaxen fields of alfalfa milled
the golden-sided microcosm of life still moving;
to sit next to three times my blood gazing across the years
only catching prey with the indication of north.
my eldest, my youngest, and my one in the middle;
the heat in their bellies surely rising with the shadows of prairie exposed.
 
And the cottony creek, the tress of transcendent clouds; exposed.
They will be tested and trodden–spirits hardened and milled.
They will spin and twist and contort and find themselves a part of the middle–
they will stand for nothing, too tired, too scared, too dizzy to move.
Yet still that yellowed envelope will creak and pull and circle north
delivering them home, year after year.
 
No matter how advanced my years
or weary my body–the excess of bad habits exposed,
my old, sightless eyes will still find the way North
towards youth and God; together milled,
happy with the knowledge that we will keep moving–
even the slow trees will rise away from the middle
 
as will the nest reveal its barren middle;
the airborne youth deciding which way to move.
Grateful like I, for the four wheels of life and the unfastened arms of a house unmilled.

November 1

by Karen Hanson Percy

A Poem About Dirt

All day I’ve watched the tractor from the center of my eyes.

She paces the field like a swimmer

and stays in her lane while taking much time to cross me again.

She sprays dirt into the waves of sun

gone too soon under the watery surface of dusk.

Her breathing stops with a decrescendo;

hitting the wall because no earth is moved after dark

(and so my connectivity to our greater world is paused).

I’ve never loved a farmer,

but I do love how his dirt spreads like sand,

deep brown and full-bodied in the grass.

I love his faith spelled in russet Braille

and that his boredom must be spurred by many things

save straight lines and loam–

not to mention the simple fact,

that he and his tractor are the only ones

who keep coming up for air.

by Karen Hanson Percy

The Prairie

At night

I try and understand

the two coyote voices

back and forth

back and forth

through the boorish grass.

Sometime in the middle of it all

I must have fallen asleep

because I can feel the silken edges of her shirt sleeves

hang into the shared space above my chest

as she draws back the curtains slowly

letting the light soften the things that need allay.

She pulls me towards her grassy smell;

billowy waves of breath promising the delay of rain and feverish skies

for first the lift of dew on her Bluestem body

and yes

some time for me to embrace

her womanliness.

May 20

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

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

Daughter

There is a sameness between

little girls and the arch of a horse’s back.

The effortless current of mane

where still the comb gets caught;

grace in the solid line that follows the rise and dip of mood.

stormy eyes

that crave grassland

on which to fly…

by Karen Hanson Percy

Fall

The day has come

when it is down to just one.

The stroller is light and I push the simple boy of my likeness

through the golden grasses

of a season unsurpassed.

His head turns from side to side

consuming the prairie dogs and the far off coyote.

We break to hear the notes of the creek,

hold our breath for sounds that cannot be imitated

even through the most sincere efforts of technology.

And this, the simple boy seems to know.

Funny how the day has come

when it is down to one

and the lighter stroller is not easier to push.

Soon

I will run alone.

And there will be no uncomplicated fervor for the seasons–

No little partner endorsing the intonations of creeks

and wind

and newness of life in the prairie.

And I will be forced

through memories of their transience

to see it  through my own eyes

again.

by Karen Hanson Percy

Tragedy in Colorado

While you were hating yourself,

my daughter had a cut-out dress that she decided to make into her Christmas outfit.

It had a gap in the top, so she fashioned to sew it with the only sewing string we have: sanguine and brilliant against the white sheet she formed over her body with a rudimentary belt.

She was careful with the needle as she wove it in and out and between the fabric–

so close to the bone-white virtuosity of her skin.

This is the first dress I have ever made

She was proud and swaying with the movement of the cloth,

fingering her long-standing loose tooth and looking down at her handi-work.

Her brothers stood around her in awe of what two hands can do; their wheels were turning.

And the little blue handles of their kid-safe scissors emerged so that

twenty minutes from that moment, they too could share their own creations:

a melee of scraps and un-useables into something that defined them,

while you were hating yourself.

And I am just so sorry,

that you have never known this kind of love.

by Karen Hanson Percy

Buying Our First House Together

Remember how big it seemed;

our living room ceiling like Wyoming sky.

We pulled out our sleeping bags,

threw down the blankets your mother sent

and flipped the switch for the gas fireplace

on and off

on and off

like we had just discovered electric windows

after rolling them up and down for years…