Tag Archives: poetry

I Cried for a Bird

The bird was dead in the morning
And I sobbed.

Though I hadn’t cried in weeks,
Not for my country,
Or Palestinians,
Or immigrants imprisoned,
Or the attack on the NEH that funds my life’s work.

But for a bird, I cried
For a grackle, who would have grown up to harass my ubiquity of sparrows.

I sobbed for that little black bird
As I buried her in the apple mint,
As I fed the dogs,
As I brewed my coffee,
I sobbed.

Though I hadn’t cried in weeks,
Not for my besieged government,
Or atrocities in Sudan,
Or the erasure of our history,
Or the politics of cruelty that threatens our democracy.

I cried for a bird.

The bird was dead in the morning,
And I sobbed.

The Bird by Stacy Lynn (mixed media)

Peace in War (or Ode to My Anger)

“Slow down” are the words I wrote in the front of my 2025 engagement calendar.

It was warm in October when I wrote those two aspirational words, after two years of writing and rewriting a book of history and my heart. Slow down, body and breath and mind. Yes, ssslllooowww dddooowwwnnn. Slow down, you tired old writing woman with stacks of novels waiting for you.

Slow down sounded so goddamned good.

Before the election.

Before November 6th when I woke before dawn in a panic.

Not good at all, slow down. Slow down? Never. Not now with a madman occupying Abraham Lincoln’s office.

There is no slow speed speed for a liberal political junkie when the people on the good side of good and evil are out of power and evil is destroying our government.

No down time, no do-nothing time. Not so many novels now that there is more political reading and doing and calling representatives and screaming. Not much chance of slowing down for this historian of American stories when America is in jeopardy and history is in crisis.

What now? What then, what words? What word? What theme for this new era of Nero? What aspiration when America burns and Republicans fiddle?

There may be no political peace this year or next year or, goddess help us, maybe never.

But personal peace is what I will need now more than ever.

Peace is my new word. Peace. Among family. Peace. In communion with friends and dogs, birds and soon with flowers. Peace. Of community. Peace. Inner peace. Peace. Peace. Just give me a little goddamned peace.

Peace of mind and peace of home will fortify my body for battle.

Peace is the word I rewrote in the front of my 2025 engagement calendar.

It was cold in January when I wrote that aspirational word, a new want, a better offering, after just one week of the political hellscape, America’s fading landscape, fear pressing its awful shadows against my body and breath and mind. Yes, peace. Pretty please, peace. You must seek peace wherever you can find it, you tired old warrior woman, because this is war and your country needs you.

Mary McDowell and Jane Addams weren’t fucking around in 1915, and neither am I in 2025.

Eight Birthdays

Eight birthdays throb in the marrow of my bones, the combined power of a birth and a death propelling the mallet that makes for such pounding.

I am a shell, standing in the sounding sea of sorrow, the pulsing all memory and ache and longing. Still…I…am…standing.

Great love means great grief, and my grit is that I know it. I will not release my death grip on the former and so I cannot forsake the life in my white knuckles.

How does a mother withstand the violent timbre of one birthday, or two birthdays, or eight fucking birthdays? How do I stand this booming echo, bone deep and crushing, I ask every morning of the sun.

To stand is enough, answers the warmth on my skin. To weather is to gain strength against the bitter winds.

Because, there is only beauty in the life we give and the love we know and there can be no death in that human truth.

I am alive, and she is alive. In my breath. In my veins. In the blood beating through a heart half hers.

Resting my mind’s eye on her face, her freckles can dance to the throbbing in my bones.

The dancing recalls her laughter, which composes its sweet symphony upon the painful pounding.

Her laughter is a joyful, infectious giggle,

Demanding…commanding…compelling

An answer. She always refused to laugh alone.

You are here, I whisper. I hear you. I feel your joyful life.

Sorrow is not the whole of me, my darling girl. Because of you, I know laughter, too.

Time

At 6:19 a.m., Sunday, September 7, 2014, Mack left St. Louis on a plane to Spain. It was the last time I saw her. Three years later, and those last moments with her at the airport are so clear and close in my mind and yet so foggy and far away, as well. Time plays its tricks, but time has lessened neither my love for Mack nor my longing for her. If I have learned anything at all from my sorrows, it is that time is no elixir, nor do I wish it to be. Some wounds are ours to bear for a lifetime, because they are the proof that we have lived.

Time

Who says time heals all wounds
does not know time.

Time heals not
the souls of grieving mothers.
Time fills no
holes in hearts, yearning for lost daughters.
Time rests never
for weary travelers on roads of grief.

Who says time heals all wounds
does not know time.

Time plays tricks
cruel and bitter on broken hearts;
Speeding forward,
no mercy for seekers of happy pasts;
Caring nothing
that some of us need to linger.

Who says time heals all wounds
does not know time,
nor grief, nor mothers and daughters, nor love.

 

 

Shut It Off

Anticipation of the impending two-year mark of my life without Mack has infiltrated my bones and made me unsteady on my feet these past days. In an effort to regain some balance and to face the grim week ahead, I need Mack to guide me. So I have taken yet another journey through Mack’s beautiful brain by spending time with the precious book that Mack’s adoring father assembled just months after we lost her. The spirit of our Mack dances (Irish jigs, actually) off of each of the priceless pages of Mack: Her Life & Words (http://mackmcd.yolasite.com/), reminding the reader of her quirky wit, her gracious and kind character, her uncompromising belief in equality and justice, her love for life, and her uncommon wisdom.

This morning, I was reading out loud her poetry. It is undisciplined, and it is raw. It is not the stuff of literary giants, but it has a beauty and a quiet wisdom that is uniquely Mack. One particular poem might in some ways now seem prophetic, but this morning as I repeated it half a dozen times or so, it was, very simply, pure and human truth. A sage epistle from my sweet girl. A gentle reminder to find the sun.

Shut it Off
By Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott

It’s all okay
The sun is out
But hidden behind generous clouds
On a lazy day
Soon to be replaced by lazy stars

Then all at once
The world collapses
The clouds turn mean
And the sun retreats
To mourn the ashes of kin
A touch is in order
Some simple relief from the gripping reality
As the world dims
But there’s a head on those shoulders
So give it all you’ve got
Then shut it off

Move quickly
And hold tight to false hope
Cling to the smallest of rocks in the stone
Just make sure you don’t look down
Because letting go is much harder than pretending

Shut it off
There’s much more pain that love can bring
Than just a body in a box
So shut it off

And then it’s almost okay
The sun is out
But hidden behind generous clouds
On a lazy day
Soon to be replaced by lazy stars
Shut it off
It’s not that hard

freckle

As I myself cling to the smallest of rocks in the stone, I can assure you all that under some of life’s cruel circumstances it is, actually, quite hard. But for my Mack, I will always try harder to find the sun.

I Miss My Macko

I weep for you every day;

My eyes with grief are swollen.

I yearn to change the heavy truth upon me that has fallen.

Some say time can ease my pain;

Some say time will bring me peace.

My heartbreak belies the promise, though, of any such release.

Your joyful soul to me endeared you;

Much good humor and laughter you shared.

And I am a better person, because for you I cared.

Cherished memories of your good life;

Keep pace with my sense of loss so deep.

Our time in life may be past, but your spirit forever I keep.