Women of a certain age
might turn to God to vent their rage.
The rearing and the clearing done
they look to spirit, father, son.
Their love wells dry, their hearts so brittle
they need so much, yet ask so little.
Life passing by in gentle waves
ever onward to their graves.
Prisoners, they feel, of a love that binds
they listen to their fevered minds
that speak of sacrifice and pain
that point the finger, dole out blame
Seeking to fill their love lost wells
they look to the sound of chiming bells
Heady spires and priests will do
or gentle monks in orange hue.
Yoga mats in sunny climes,
memories of other times.
a course in miracles, might take them higher.
yet nothing meets their true desire.
To be seen once more, as precious bride
not harridan, that puffs and chides
to be seen once more, with eyes aglow,
as friend and lover, just to be known.
It’s earthly love their wells desire
with a furious passion, yet burnt out fire.
See me, touch me, make me whole
this life of love has took its toll
But when their wells remain bone dry
in desperate frustration they hue and cry.
Blaming, shaming, calling names
relationships go up in flames.
Yet some, may find, their seething rage
reveals the truer builder of their cage.
setting them free, while staying true
courageous with a broader view.
Now inner spirit drives them on
fills their wells in an endless dawn.
one phase ended a new begun
not ageing wife, but young fresh crone
The jail I thought my love did bind
is merely a figment of my mind.
This Mid-wife journey, this Mid-wife stage
revealed the true power, of my rage.
Nederhorst den Berg, 2014 copyright, Lysanne Sizoo