Layers

Layering,
building up of stuff.
Stuff that’s warped and ground and rough.

Bits and pieces piling
in uneven gallantry.
Mountains forming valleys as parts of She.

Terrain shifts,
rips with violent quakes.
Foretelling of eruptions coming day.

A living, growing orb.
Spewing pressures liquid rock.
Building high ranges, a guard against winds plot

As rocks form,
windward weather rages.
Jaded earth is watered, flourishes in stages.

Climb the crags,
find passes high.
Leading on to landwards slops brittle, bare and dry

Wonder past the grass lands
sheltering beneath.
Hear the whispered love songs riding on Her breeze.

Landscapes ever changing,
built by a liquid core.
Created for exploring while she lays one layer more.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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Hesitation

This heart has slowed,
longs to linger here,
where the past is distant,
the future unclear.

A hesitancy
to pick up life’s pace,
a straining to remain firmly in place.

Give me grace.

Unlike a crossroad
where choices must be made.
More like a settling,
a sinking in
of ways.

Smell the resignation
come wafting on the wind.
Stagnation that lingers
on boots,
and trouser hem.

Mix it with the drums.
Foreboding rhythms felt,
clashing with a heartbeat.
Wearied,
yet compelled.

Standing amid the street,
holding baggage fast.
Wondering
how long this lump in throat will last.

Change coming fast.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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Six Word Stories (12)

An artist can’t help but leave a part of themselves within their work, whatever form it takes. That is the beauty of art.

I also believe that of creation, and the laws the universe follows. The Creator leaves his fingerprints within every law, truth, and formation in the universe.

Have you ever really noticed the beauty of a frozen pond? Dance on the ice all you want. Chisel it, cut groves. Every frozen ripple tells a story.

But when it’s time, and the sun shines warm, the water will flow again. Is it aware of the imprints it once held?

Words represent ideas, and they flow like water. Their affects travel father then we might think. Be careful with them.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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The Wonder of Color

Have you ever wondered at the wonder of color? The bright, the bold, the muted and soft. The endless hues that make up the color wheel. The variations you get mixing them. The creativity, chemistry, and math. I wonder at the wonder of colors.

My favorite huge is forest green. The deepness of it. The peaceful emotions it evokes when I see it. The smell of crushed pine needles. What would the world be without forest green? What about yours?

Imagine if your favourite hue just disappeared.
I think I would weep.

Have you ever thought about the power colors have to influence your mood? Dose a sunny yellow brighten your day? Dose a deep blue calm you? How about a playful pink, or a shimmer of silver?

Color wouldn’t be without light. That electromagnetic radiation bouncing around our word, being absorbed or rejected by objects and our eyes. The way it all works together, or doesn’t, to give us the thing called color. Mesmerizing madness are the words that come when it’s all described. Magic! But also science, this wonder that is color.

I have dreamed of a world that lacked light before. A world of blackness, of touch, feel, smell, hesitation, question. A world where everything has a home, or it disappears. A world where the human senses are all enhanced by our blindness. What a different world ours would be without light, without color.

Colors tell stories. We know that red checks mean something. Fever? Cold? Embarrassment? A flush of Joy? Too much wine? Shades of red tell so many stories. Some beautiful, some uncomfortable, some painful. Red, the color of love, and blood.

Blue is the hue of cold. Dose it send chills down your spine? Or darken it to royal and it tells a story of lush luxury and poise. Darken in to navy and it reminds me of strength. Lighten it and its baby blue is like a child’s light-hearted giggle.

What color gives you warmth? Is it a burst of yellow? Yellow tells the story of present sunshine and wildflowers. The kiss of honey on bread, the smell of mead. In reverse it whispers of sickness, soiled garments, wasting age. All these are yellow, and yellows are these things.

Primary in their existence, the blues, the reds, the yellows. Mix them? The world explodes with color.

©Mary Grace van der Kroef 2020

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