Tresses

Tips bright with borrowed light.
Soaked every strand,
took command.

Roots show through in ashen huge
whisper of years demands,
open hands.

Wisps array
as standing troops,
gently falling into loops.

Crowning character.
Grounding finger,
through tresses linger.

Catching thoughts
in webs
of morning knots.

Pulled and furled,
twist or braid,
spreading gray is unafraid.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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Spring Thaw Collection

  • Once perfect white hills,
    trap particles in spring thaw.
    Speckled remnants glare.

  • Sweat from sun’s new glare.
    Chilled in shade’s guard dome.
    Canada’s spring sings.

  • Muddied crystals strewn,
    rippled ground tormented mix.
    Soon the soak will drain.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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Inhale Prayer

Fragile breath
a prayer tonight.

Shallow fighting for life.

Colorless gas,
absent of mass.

Until compressed inside vessels of glass.

Fragile vessels that never last.

Breathing in prayer.
Forcing out air.

Living worship,
existing praise,
humbled awe in gasps are raised.

All fragile breath,
never owned.

Revitalizing flesh and bone.
A gift,
on loan.

Incense sweet before the Throne.
Breaths are prayers,
all on their own.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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Look Beyond

Look into the eyes of difference and see beauty.

Look into the face of change to see hope.

Look beyond normal and find promise.

Face the eyes of beyond and find a new bond.

A bond, unafraid to go beyond.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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Birth

Arms around me,
holding tight.
Eyes over shoulders,
breaths just right.

Seconds as hours.
“Focus on me!”
Pain with purpose,
a family of three.

Seconds blurred,
moments etched.
My mother’s heart,
pulled, stretched.

“Little one, it’s just
you and me.
We can do this.” Push!
One, two, three.

Gush of ending,
purple and blue.
Rubbed til pink,
each breath it grew.

Birthing a miracle,
forming a bond.
Skin to skin,
suckle, respond.

Heart stopping love,
eyes shimmer true.
Drowning myself
in him, me, and you.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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The Day I Prayed to Die

The day I prayed to die,
I didn’t need any more why’s.
Wasn’t looking for reply’s,
there were no tears left to cry.

The day I prayed to die.

I wasn’t seeking heaven’s gate,
didn’t know if hell would be my fate.
Just knew I couldn’t longer wait,
to reach the end of livings state.

The day I prayed to die.

Question it a selfish prayer?
Of others, I was keenly aware.
But my pain just didn’t care,
it had become too much to bare.

The day I prayed to die.

No longer worth the constant strain,
exhaustion was my daily chain.
I knew I could no longer feign,
on others, I was now a drain.

The day I prayed to die.

Better just to cease to be,
everyone would then be free.
Grieve then moved away from me,
was my unstable inner plea.

The day I prayed to die.

I got no answer on that day.
Silent heaven wouldn’t life betray.
A barred path to its doorway.
Hell also couldn’t let me pay.

The day I prayed to die.

That day passed into the next,
continuation left me vexed.
I was blinded and perplexed.
“God, please, no more checks.”

Again, I prayed to die.

With no end and no relief,
exhaustion now pared with grief.
Greif was growing disbelief,
my prayer demanded a debrief.

Yes, I prayed to die.

Anger at the silent space,
God’s hand, I couldn’t trace.
Left me reeling, self disgrace,
numb to mercy’s embrace.

Still, I prayed to die.

Yet, God’s grace held true.
By degrees, it ever grew.
Working on my tainted view.
Willing to pull me through.

Even though I prayed to die.

See, my God will have his way.
His hand carry’s every day.
Promises will ever stay,
when his child walks astray,

or even prays to die.

Slowly life changing me,
life I wished I could flee.
Locked to earth by God’s decree.
Not my life, but his, you see.

He wouldn’t let me die.

Here I am, still in the mix.
God knows, I’m no easy fix.
Though I’m still one, he picks,
whatever life inflicts.

Steady prayers still fly,
though none ask to die.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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Hosanna Joy

Her lips were purple,
her face a powder white.
I knew my baby sister wasn’t right.

“She’s now in heaven,”
said a mother torn in grief.
“For the first time she knows relief.”

An unfinished pine box,
made by my father’s hands.
Everyone in a daze of funeral plans.

“Goodbye baby sister,
there are few as strong as you.
We won’t forget battles you fought through.”

Holding tight the ribbon,
my balloon dark maroon.
Let it go. Watch the crowd disperse too soon.

Just a memory
in a five year olds mind.
Deepened with my seasons and outlined.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Photo of Hosanna Joy and Mary Grace.

Bubble Hunting

A sheet of ice that spans the street, black like darkest slate.
From underneath water seeps, through clogged and rusting grate.
Bubbles trapped under ice dance despite the cold,
as little boots sliding fast can find no proper hold.

Back and forth, ghost like in sheen, the bubbles bounce and bob.
Weight is shifted up above. Stomp! That did the job.
One bubble popped. White rings are left to mark the impact’s crack.
How many can be caught and taught with a well aimed mighty thwack?

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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The Blue Drip

“I didn’t put you there!”
“But I found a drop of water and just couldn’t resist.”
The painter scowled while her bit of Blue blushed and mixed with its cousin Brown.
“Well now, we look like mud, and it’s all your fault.” If Brown had had arms, it would have folded them over each other, while holding a scowl on its face.
Blue just twittered and slipped farther down the page, touching Green and making the artist see spots.
“Oh, the possibilities!” It sung as it fingered out over each water drop touched. “Look, I am just a little happy blue. Can you catch me?”
The stop was abrupt at the edge of the page. Blue hung onto jagged fibres.
“Now blue, get back over here before you fall.”
“Fall? Oh, but to fall!” And fall Blue did, right off the paper on to Artists apron.
“Serves it right.” Muttered Brown as it dried and combined with the paper’s elements.
“How will I ever learn when the colours never get long?”
“Don’t worry,” Whispered Paintbrush. “They will all mature with you. Give them, and yourself time.”

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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