The Weight of Me

As the weight of me grew,
I found myself stepping
On dreams
Braking them to shards.
Dancing on the glittering
Fragments
Of loss.
 
They couldn’t support me anymore.
 
As the weight of me grew,
I found I could push,
Pull,
Cary,
Loads that dwarfed others.
 
I didn’t always need help.
 
As the weight of me grew,
I gained,
I lost,
I changed,
Paying the cost of filling.
 
Often hungry for more.
 
As the weight if me grew,
I knew I would burst.
Self saturation
Dragging me down.
Stagnant strength.
 
I was lost in my own veins.
 
As the weight of me grew,
Swollen limbs restricted.
Forced to sit still
In filth
Unsated want.
 
I had, had enough of self.
 
As the weight if me dripped,
I raged.
Sweating,
Cursing,
Hurling up bits.
 
They had turned to poison.
 
As the weight of me balanced,
I was shame.
Until it rained,
Washing clean my ruin.
Revealing empty skin.
 
Hunger lingered on.
 
Longing to fill sagging emptiness.
Hunting purpose.
Seeking strength I once owned.
Still,
Leery of gorging on self.
 
I still remember that slow poison.
 
Then you took my hand
And the weight of me
Felt weak.
So,
You gave me a drink.
 
Homely soup for my soul.
 
It satisfied
And I shared myself too.
With crumbs of words,
A sprinkle of laughter,
We nourished each other.
 
And the weight of me found peace.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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Six Word Story (76)

They are a comfort. They tell us someone took the time to fix us up. Sometimes, they come with a kiss.

Bandaid, we wish they could fix everything, don’t we? We run around slapping them on every scrap and bruise like a three-year-old. But in reality, they are not always enough. They can hide the real problem.

Don’t let a bandaid fix keep you from healing. But also, hold dear every kiss they come with.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Photo sourced from unsplash.com


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​Gleaning

Tonight I gather,
picking fruits from other’s words.

Gleaning,
as I watch, wait, and learn.

Picking of experience
to stow,
safe in pockets.

Like berries on a bush,
tiniest of fruits.

Some are bitter, some are sweet,
all with bursting flavors greet.

Many is the harvest if
one will glean
the moment’s gift.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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Six Word Story (75)

How thirsty the earth is in drought.

But that thirst is only quenched when dark clouds form, and sprinkle us with tears.

Futile regions know a healthy share of gloom. Still, they are lush, despite the lack.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Photo sourced from unsplash.com


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Breath’s Imprint

Give a pause for breath,
Another for death.
Wait for ringing bells,
Listen for crashing swells,
And in that in-between,
Lean in.

Anticipate change,
While greeting the mundane.
Support
and spur on,
Knowing none have long
To impact.
Yet we all do.

On other’s,
On time,
Pulling threads of the sublime
To earth.

Even if only one soul remembers
The sparkle
Behind eyes.
It lives forever,
As lessons pass on to
Generations.

Futures
Of shared breaths
That swell to winds,
Ringing bells,
Rippling the swells,
Of life.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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Layers of Years

I am privileged
To watch youth fade.

I am blessed,
To count the whispers of gray
That wave.

May I be privileged
To taste the wisdom on temples,
Hold the gentleness
Of fingers,
Love the layers of years
Within you.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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Six Word Story (72)

Interruptions. Changing of plans. We rarely look for those things, but if you know anything about river adventures, you know that a portage is often unavoidable. What do you do when you find a proverbial canoe on your shoulders, instead of in the water where it belongs?

Keep walking, carry a good compass, bring a friend along to help with the load.

These are things easier said than done. When your legs ache, when you’re tired and it’s dark and you can’t read your compass, when you and your partner find verbal combat easier than carrying a canoe… In the middle of at a portage doesn’t always seem like an adventure, but that’s life. We don’t always recognise the adventures we are on when we are standing in the middle of them.

Perspective. This is my reminder to remember and check my perspective.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Photo sourced from unsplash.com.


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Butternut Squash Soup

Thankful for tears
as I chop onions.
Release,
I didn’t know I needed.

Raw bitterness
dumped
atop sweet
orange flesh.

Juice
flows past my firmest grip.
Gentleness,
mixed with curry spice.

Squash and pear.
present with sadness.
Stewed together
then blended smooth.

A prosses,
as the bubbles rise.
God met me here.

The soup is done.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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Lovers Getaway

The joy of wriggling feet in wet sand as waves tease toes with cool kisses, one after the other in the rhythmic love of touch.
Whet sand sticks to heals. Tinny particles embedded in natural valleys of skin, playing as if they lived there when it’s vacation day.
The sand paper feel of brushing particles of rocks from flesh, and finding them attached to palm and fingers and hiding in, in between places.
Better to walk the shores barefoot, letting the warmth of sun and wind do their work? Watch the dark sands lighten to dry dust.
Brush hands together to cast tinny stones aside. Now ankles can be cleared of minuscule boulders, only the finest of glittering flecks remain as reminders of earth and skins dalliance.
Sandals laced. Only a stone here and there, stealing a peck from human follicles. Goodbye, kisses. Reluctantly brushed aside.

“Tomorrow.”

We whisper to the waves as the beach house light beckons. The courtship of human hearts and beach lasts only a day.
In the morning waves crash and clouds weep their farewell as a drizzle, on our last beach walk.

We can hear the gulls cry, “Don’t leave!” The salty breeze seals love like heartache to our memory with scent we won’t forget.
He holds the suitcase as I hold him.

“We’ll come back someday.”

The sand hiding in spaces between sandal leather and sole won’t let me forget this promise.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Lovers Getaway was originally published in Dwelling Literary Issue 8: BEACH HOUSE.


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Aracknid Atrist

Silken strands strung stunningly,
a woven web of artistry.
Secretions from innovations soul,
yet born to place each strand,
just so.
Elegant economic pattern,
drops of diamond dew bespattered.
Stops one dead in tracks this morn.
Now to face arachnid
scorn.
To such a masterpiece destroy…
A humbled apology employ.
Hours spent on spinning threads,
a masterpiece of newness
spreads.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Arachnid Artist was originally published in The Dwelling Issue 7: BUGS UNDER THE RUG.


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