Midlife Wife

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 Midlife Wife

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

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