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About Mary McKSchmidt
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Blog postI do not know why he, a baseball cap beneath
his hard hat, silver-white beard, easy smile,
and wearing the lime-glow vest of construction,
stopped to tell me her story. I was lost in the fragrance
of the beach rose, savoring a sweet smell strong enough
to overpower the salty air of the ocean; a Japanese beauty
once treasured, now declared invasive. An outlaw.
Not on the top of the list, like the common reed
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Blog postA block away and still I notice your tousled hair,
rumpled overcoat too small to button, eyes riveted
on me. Seven decades of training chill the sweat
off my body and yet I continue jogging toward you,
a compass needle drawn to the magnetic meridian.
But imaginary you are not and my head automatically
turns to avoid eye contact, the palm of my hand raised,
a shield as I pass. I say “no” befor -
Blog postIt is during the spring, when the honeysuckle’s white sliver of petals showers the roadside with sweetness, that the last mile and a half of my morning jog seems less formidable. This morning I violated all jogging protocols and paused to smell the bush’s fragrance. I wondered if the honeysuckle blooms in Ukraine.
For months I have felt helpless as I watched, from afar, the slaughter of the Ukrainian -
Blog postA Mother/Daughter poem written by Jane McKinney and Mary McKSchmidt to “keep our wits about us” during a recent trip to the emergency room. Fortunately, all is well.
Why Am I Here?
Here in this dinky room
stripped to the waist,
given a shirt that opens
in the back, doesn’t button,
trapped in a bed with bars,
while people are scurrying
about like squirrels on attack?
You tell me keep a sense of humor.
Look a -
Blog postWhen I saw the effects COVID’s social isolation was having on my mother, the difficult physical and mental changes that occur with age, witnessed the deep sorrow lingering from the deaths of her husband and dog, and years later, from the death of her twin, I introduced the excitement of outdoor adventures into our weekly routine. Walking arm-in-arm through the city and county parks of Holland, we laughed, traded memories, discussed birds, flowers, wetlands, rivers, and lakes. But it was o
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Blog postA drop of dew
dribbles
down a stem,
lingering slightly
on each tiny hair
before continuing
to earth’s floor.
Gravity will not
be thwarted.
Nor will
the snowballing
effects
of time.
So, why,
on days,
is it so difficult
to find
the robin-egg blue
of the sky? -
Blog postThe morning of the moon’s passing,
she whispered the unthinkable;
that she had not the energy
to keep writing.
Like the tundra swans,
necks long and extended
stretching to reach the Carolinas
from their home in the Arctic,
it was all she could do to get by.
And then she chanced upon a note
written to her from a legendary poet,
picked up a pen and wrote a poem.
And then a -
Blog postAlongside ice mountains
created by the fury
of wind and waves
there is a silence
that stills
the heart’s agony
so that one might notice
the lone eagle gliding
overhead
and for that moment
be a child again
and fly
alongside. -
Blog postWith my one good hand
I type an email
to my Republican
congressman to thank him
for standing united
with the president
with Ukraine
with NATO
with all democracies
including ours
fighting to survive
an invasion
by a predator
so common
it is has become invisible
like the PFAS in our water
yet so debilitating
it threatens the health
and lives of all.
It is called
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Blog postSeven miles apart
phones in hands
a mother
in the flatlands
edging the city
daughter in the forest
of the dunes
swapping similes
to describe evening skies
like the blush of a magnolia
wings of a fluttering monarch
eggs in the nest of a robin
petals of a long-spur violet
spray of assorted marigolds
face of Annabelle’s blossom
gray of the morning fog.
They debate verbs
to describe clo
Titles By Mary McKSchmidt
$9.99
