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    Lady Waiting
    Lady Waiting
    Lady Waiting
    Ebook137 pages1 hour

    Lady Waiting

    By Christine Secretan

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    About this ebook

    Lady Waiting is a treasure chest of precious poems, reminiscences and meditations from the pen, or more precisely the heart, of Christine Secretan. You will find no camouflaged messages, carefully concealed and hidden away in this volume of writings. On the contrary, in Lady Waiting Christine bares her soul and brings us into her personal, private world in a most intimate fashion. Through her journal-like recollections she shares not only her joys and victories, but also her struggles, disappointments, fears and forebodings.

    Christine has discovered the healing balm known as honesty and it is this precious gift she passes on to her readers. But she doesn’t stop there. Christine is no pessimistic poet leaving us in depression and despair. Throughout her writings there is woven the wonderful theme of hope, that is the product of faith.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChristine Secretan
    Release dateNov 13, 2014
    ISBN9781311909701
    Lady Waiting
    Author

    Christine Secretan

    Christine Secretan is a Christian author with a call to write and publish. She currently lives in Mt Morgan, Queensland, Australia. She is a committed Christian, and a mother of 6, and a grandmother of 13.

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      Book preview

      Lady Waiting - Christine Secretan

      Introduction

      From a chicken came courage for God had spoken.

      The chicken (a four month old leghorn-cross pullet) had been missing for over a week; marauding dogs meant hope seemed foolish. Then, there it was, pacing the old picket fence that formed one wall of the run. When I opened the gate it ran straight to the feed troughs. It appeared perfectly well. I thanked God. A voice, the voice of all knowing urged me to inspect my young charge. Panic replaced my jubilation. The water it was drinking was streaming from tubes that protruded from its body. Turning the fowl over I discovered a scant covering of feathers concealed a ghastly sight...Gangrenous flesh alive with maggots.

      I prayed. I prayed for the nerve to carry out the job I knew had to be done. Again I was spoken to. What right was mine? Its life had been preserved thus far - through wandering, against assault, and now my condemnation. Penitent I saw myself in that chicken and remembered how for me too God had intervened. I treated its wound as best as I could, placed it in a wooden box and prayed. Not so much for its healing (this I felt had already been proven) but a prayer of thanks for the lesson I had learned.

      The pullet’s recovery and restoration to a life productive and valued closed the parable; one that spoke of the heart and wisdom of God. God had spoken. With urging I had listened. When years later his voice called me to speak I determined not only would God open my mouth; there would be ears to listen.

      1 No signs on the road

      So many roads

      By the side of the road I stop;

      A traveller in need of a rest I relax;

      A soul desiring companionship

      I strike up a chat…

      Urged on by the clock

      I reluctantly return to the track,

      But which way should I go?

      There are so many forks, so many roads.

      At the end of my road

      Is my destination; this much I know.

      But will I arrive there tomorrow

      Or get lost en route?

      Shall I go directly as planned?

      Or detour and look around?

      Will I have fine weather,

      Or find myself flood bound?

      Shall I listen to advice,

      Or leave their opinion their own?

      Shall I walk with the familiar,

      Or be challenged by the unknown?

      Shall I travel with company

      Or go it alone?

      If every question is a junction

      Where are all the signs?

      Many a pot of tea

      The cackles,

      The groans,

      The feelings outpoured

      As we sit chatting

      Over another pot of tea.

      My grandparents,

      My mum,

      Dad joins on a break from work,

      And I sit listening intently

      As an elixir of heart-warming yarns is poured for me.

      Memories...

      Of fun

      As through seasons they’ve walked:

      Stories of autumn leaves, snow, spring flowers

      And berry picking; all ended with a tale of a funfair by the sea.

      History...

      When Vikings crossed;

      Family talks complete with ghosts of course;

      Neighbours, friends, the houses lived in, And genetic strands that like arms hold me to each scene.

      Tragedy...

      What was lost

      When the country was at war.

      The bonding. The terror. The sirens and bombings.

      Duty, pride and fear recalled - Granddad served in the Navy.

      Reflecting

      They make a fresh pot.

      Talk swings to a new shore -

      Australia. The land of my birth.

      What struggles, what laughs they’ve had since landing here.

      While sipping

      They chat. I think a lot,

      Wondering if I’ll ever get to answer the call -

      To return to this land of ancestors and beginnings,

      To return to these origins that beckon me still.

      Diaspora

      Diaspora,

      Historians’ delight;

      Banishment,

      Beginning of night.

      Ostracism,

      The hunted in flight;

      Exile,

      The bearers of light.

      Seclusion,

      All buried like gems;

      Separation,

      Now trophies of men.

      Expatriation,

      Surviving in blends;

      Diaspora, In reconciliation it ends.

      On the edge

      Perched high on the precipice,

      This rock face,

      This ledge

      I abandon all reason and sit facing the edge.

      Looking out

      I see nothing, not even clouds.

      No burdens.

      No crowds.

      No pressures.

      No persons who are loud.

      Nothing - and I have no desire

      To be returned to reality’s ground.

      Here the air is fresh

      And breathing deep

      Its purity purges me of all that once set me on edge.

      This fortress is my rock;

      I come here to sit, to take stock.

      But when the book is read

      The statement declares a shortfall of strength.

      Bound to this life I must accept

      That often, I will be found here,

      Sitting on the edge.

      A trophy if I win

      In the beginning

      My desire is to win.

      In the beginning

      There is something worth believing in.

      I endure the training,

      It is worth the pain.

      I see in the training

      The vision of what will be gained.

      Beginning with eagerness, self-confidence,

      Expectation and smiles;

      Enduring the failure, disappointment,

      Frustration and cries.

      Beginning

      Initiates the training.

      Training

      Arrives at the start of the race.

      In the beginning

      I run hard with the pack.

      I think at the beginning:

      My training earned me a place on this track.

      In agony I keep running,

      I won’t be shamed;

      Only those who keep running

      Are remembered at the end of the day.

      The race over,

      What has been gained?

      The finish is a beginning:

      Of reflections,

      Of training,

      Of a new goal to be prized.

      My melancholy mood

      ‘One day’ – words glibly tossed around.

      Words that mean never when the world has let you down.

      One day! is how the mockers taunt you

      When all you need is someone to extend a hand.

      ‘One day’, like that soulful sound of bass

      Holds the power to sink me, to bond me to its tone.

      But ‘One day’ is the rainbow’s promised gold,

      Yes, ‘One day’ is the song I sing while walking in the rain.

      Two-way street

      He goes his way. I go mine.

      She’s into music; I like to cast a line.

      He. She. Her. Him. Accusations abound.

      He. She. Her. Him. On the roundabout again.

      "I’ve done my bit. I’m not trying anymore.

      It’s a two-way street this marriage scene.

      Is the catchword of the war.

      A pedestrian am I, a witness to the flow,

      To all the horns and honking with misery their tone.

      A driver am I, caught up in the flow All the horns and honking play the song we moan:

      "Two-way streets it is known have not unity in mind.

      "The purpose of the two way street

      Ensures no two vehicles ever meet.

      "They’re good at keeping traffic flowing,

      "Keeping each one in their lane;

      "Paths may cross, yes that is fine but never ever must they be

      "Allowed to travel side by side.

      Paths may cross, but should they meet…

      It’s a two-way street this marriage scene.

      Is the catchword of the war.

      Played for kicks

      Singles,

      Doubles or mixed,

      Social tennis

      Is just played for kicks.

      Player A serves

      And the game’s begun:

      With a pun -

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