Lady Waiting

by Christine Secretan

  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 - an ace.

  Such fun.

  Game one.

  Service number two.

  A wink...

  And a rally ensues.

  With style the game is won.

  The onlookers agree

  Such sport’s a treat so they encourage

  This match of repartee.

  To keep things light

  A drinks break is called

  But sips and words are balls to them still

  Because players they are on or off court.

  “Game. Set. Match.”

  The umpire calls - She is player A’s wife.

  Her presence reminds them where the boundaries are.

  She leads them off court and cannot help smile.

  Yes, social tennis

  Is always such fun

  Because everybody knows There’ll be no scoring done.

  Pendulum

  Standing on a bridge spanning a chasm of fears -

  Paralysed. Stricken. Mute.

  Haunted by the trail behind me

  Yet I cannot go forward - this bridge has been damaged.

  There seems no time for repairs,

  Yet if I stop any longer I will drown in my tears.

  Please stop the pendulum from swinging,

  Halt the time it is bringing.

  Put an end to the ticking,

  This beat of constant bickering.

  Don’t let another hour strike,

  I’ve not the strength for one more fight.

  Just stop the pendulum from swinging…

  Motion without feeling…

  The pendulum from swinging,

  Walking without moving...

  The pendulum from swinging…

  I cry and how these tears burn.

  Tears of loneliness so I cry them on my own.

  I cry (acid tears cut deep and cruel)

  Tears of bitterness: “Why have I been such a fool?”

  I cry, and realise my well is growing deep

  With tears of endurance - the life spring of those who’re weak.

  An audience with him

  Yet again it’s being said

  “His guitar cries. His guitar sings.”

  All such comments lead to one:

  “His guitar is his real voice.”

  I understand the masses;

  Critics and afficionados alike

  Are bound to agree, verbally at least,

  For the man himself has often said

  He doesn’t consider he can sing.

  I watch him;

  With just fingers and six strings

  He closes my eyes and with song asks my heart to listen.

  Riding high on his guitar we soar like birds;

  Together we share his peaks of joy.

  Like an evening storm he changes tune;

  We fall, helpless drops of rain.

  Tugged at, swamped like corks

  We fear we’ll die in a sea of moonless pain.

  With the last note faded

  My eyes once again are opened;

  This is not simply talent speaking.

  His music is his soul transposed,

  And I have been in audience with him.

  I cannot play a note nor claim to sing;

  I cannot live my life muted.

  My heart feels on the verge of bursting.

  In acknowledgement I turn to him;

  He can free the voice that lives within.

  With just his heart a serenade he sings for me.

  His guitar may cry and it may sing

  But more than fingers do his talking.

  As if my very thoughts he knows

  He pens this chorus before he leaves:

  ‘Never be afraid to let your feelings show

  Cos Baby, your music must have soul.’

  History

  Searching,

  Yearning,

  For what will ease my pain.

  Grasping,

  Hoping,

  Only to lose everything again. Into a crater

  Dug of my own emptiness

  I am fed by this craving

  And oh what a mess.

  Emerging,

  Focusing

  On a new thought in mind.

  Believing,

  Entreating

  Love will one day be mine.

  Straight from the glory box

  Of love’s pleasurable things

  Comes one to declare:

  “All else is history.

  Resolution Street

  Locked doors, curtains,

  Shutters and blinds -

  Behind them the world beyond does not matter at all.

  Each morning I awaken in this confidence

  Yet each morn the truth is revealed with the opening of my door.

  There on the street they stand -

  Some clustered together, others waiting alone.

  They make no attempt to move nor do they block my path

  But how can I venture toward them and believe

  They can’t or won’t interfere in any way?

  There on the street I am confronted by my fears,

  Lingering like ghostly pieces awaiting my move.

  They are real and I must face them

  For out there on the street beside them

  Are the spaces,

  The choices I must make

  If my destination I’m to reach.

  The traveller’s prayer

  Pausing at the mountain’s base,

  I gaze at its towering peak.

  Contemplating the path ahead

  Words come to pave a way:

  “Lord, take my little faith;

  “I don’t want faltering feet.

  “Uplift me with songs to sing;

  “Yes your words are rhythm to my feet.

  “I want to enjoy and complete this journey;

  “For this, I ask you walk with me.”

  Sight for the blind

  “Please pray for my Bible.” Says one lady, dismayed.

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” another voice says.

  “It’s missing.” comes the reply,

  “I don’t think merely misplaced.”

  “Where’d you have it last?” inquires her friend.

  “About a week ago. I was reading in bed.”

  “Well,” her friend suggests, “Perhaps the dog took it

  “Like it does your shoes and has given it to someone

  “More in need of it than you.”

  Clear comes this thought, so I repeat it with a smile:

  “What a splendid new definition of Guide Dogs for the Blind.”

  Bridging the realms

  Dust. Clay. Night. Day.

  Such are the blocks daily played.

  With hopes and dreams our plans are made;

  Doubt brings dusk and we watch them crumble then fade.

  Hopes and prayers with heavenward aim,

  With these God paves our way.

  A step in faith is all it takes

  To cross the bridge between promise and claim.

  Trust in the Lord

  Some only see what their eyes perceive;

  True vision is what the heart believes.

  God offers healing; offers sight to the blind:

  “Come, be made whole.

  “Come, receive my gift of sight.”

  A smooth road in life is guaranteed

  Not by the lack of hardship we�
��ve seen,

  Or by how few mistakes we’ve made.

  It’s found in the Lord’s peace -

  In knowing his plan.

  The Servant’s creed

  We are not called to prove what good people we are,

  But to show others how valued they are;

  So they too can know God loves them whoever, wherever they are.

  We are not called to preach as though in sin we’ve never been,

  But to live our life as God’s redeemed;

  So others can know God’s forgiveness is life – yes a heart set free.

  When we say we’ve climbed a mountain, and beam our victor’s smile;

  Or claim we’ve achieved something and take relish in our prize;

  It’s not because we’re boasting in self-deserving pride.

  For written deep within a humbled heart, imprinted on our mind

  Is the phrase that is missing from our every word and line;

  Yes “with God’s help” is in parenthesis; he’s our unseen faithful guide.

  Just the preacher

  I am the preacher, a vessel of God, a bearer of light.

  Traversing the darkness - a star in the night.

  I call to the weary; I seek those burdened in life.

  Hear ye Christ’s message, let his words be your guide:

 

  “You are the branches - I am the vine.

  “In order to fruit, in me you must abide.

  “You are the creatures - I, the bread, the wine.

  “In order to live you must partake of my life.

  “Be filled with my Spirit - the life of the vine.

  “As old vessels you can’t be filled with new wine...

  “If for this purpose you give up your life

  “You first must be transformed heart, soul and mind.

  “Turn from the darkness, seek ye the light.

  “Shine bright in my glory. Bear fruit in the vine.

  “Servants of my love go forth in the night.

  “Greater the harvest the more souls you find.”

  I am the preacher - a branch of the vine.

  I extend his comfort to those fallen, those tired.

  For we who accept it, great peace is the prize;

  Life’s burdens are lifted for Christ’s yoke is light.

  I am the preacher - a bearer of light.

  I offer light’s message to the darkness inside.

  For those who accept it there is truth to find:

  Our way is illumined for through us God shines.

  In this moment of clarity some seek my advice.

  Aware of my frailty a thought leaps from my mind:

  “I’m just the preacher; I can’t fix up your life.

  “I’m where I am because God’s Spirit is my guide.

  “I can turn to the Scriptures, state it’s worthy to read.

  “I can quote its message but you must be willing to heed.

  “I can share in your joy as my Saviour you meet

  “And witness your steps as a new creature you leave.

  “I can’t remove the foes who’ll crave your defeat.

  “I can’t expunge the anger of some you’re likely to meet.

  “I can’t guarantee it’s only blue skies you’ll see

  “I can walk with you when encouragement you need.

  “I am just the preacher - God’s beacon I shine.

  “I hold forth God’s light to those lost in the night.

  “For those who accept, life is the reward;

  “Eternal life with our Saviour, Jesus our Lord.”

  2Vagabonds

  Facing face

  Losing face.

  Saving face.

  By these, every move is measured.

  Face in hands.

  Face tear streaked.

  Face lifted high.

  Pretty face.

  Ugly face.

  By this self-worth is judged, even scored.

  Smiling faces... how good these make me feel.

  Radiant faces... these take me higher still.

  Distorted faces... What does their message mean?

  What is it you read in my face?

  Just a face

  Or someone’s face?

  Is it someone special that you see?

  Wild thing

  ‘Uncontrollable’

  Is the word the policeman is using.

  ‘Uncontrollable’

  Is the word he plans to use against her in court.

  He doesn’t know her -

  Only that she lives fast, she lives hard.

  An aversion to suffering steers her to a swift end.

  He doesn’t know her at all.

  He turns his back…

  Through an open window she leaps -

  She knows she’ll not survive if caged.

  With a label for this and a label for that

  She is fenced by those who feel she is out of control.

  With a label here and another there

  They add to her suffering;

  No one lifts from her the things

  That cause her to flee.

  No one allays her fear. She is running alone.

  Joined at the wrist

  Hand in hand,

  Facing a common horizon

  We stand joined at the wrist.

  Joined at the wrist, confident

  Our challenge will stand time’s tests.

  Wearying;

  Struggling to break free,

  Each accusing the other of tightening the grip.

  Remaining resolute;

  Sharing, balancing the laughter and pain.

  Joined to each other we are bound to the mess.

  Hands that once yearned to intertwine

  Now endure tumultuous marriage,

  Neither able to completely let go.

  Through thick and thin we have been;

  Sickness and health we have seen

  Yet together we remain.

  Bloodied. Desperate.

  Still joined at the wrist.

  Time to heal

  I turn aside all hands that near me -

  I fear their touch will cause more pain.

  I reject the treatment offered -

  I fear I lack the strength to take it;

  I feel too weak.

  A tender hand to brush away my tears;

  A tender heart to hold my soul and soothe it

  While giving it time to heal.

  Yes all I need is a little tenderness…

  I will be strong again. I will be healed.

  Broken spirits

  Friends, optimism and you have a life worth living

  So hope dictates that our best is given.

  Bridges crossed and time spent lost

  Reveal what life is not.

  Openness is banished behind some fence

  And trust gives way to self-defence.

  “You have to be tough or you won’t survive it!”

  Brazens life’s fragile spirit.

  Love is a promise of bright days ahead;

  While hope guarantees a future that’s blessed.

  Passing days, changing ways,

  Sadly it all fades away.

  Endearments turn to bitter words,

  A promise to leave is now what’s heard:

  “Single I was, perhaps I prefer it.”

  Laments life’s tender spirit.

  Praise and opportunity are added to the game,

  Fresh hope offers us the courage to lift our aim.

  Endless trips and rejection slips

  Begin their choking grip.

  Disappointment firms its cancerous hold;

  Defeat ensures a great future’s let go.

  “Success? I wish I’d not sought it.”

  Concludes life’s sensitive spirit.

 

  Fears. Nervousness. Workaholic hands.

  All symptoms of one who’s lost the plan.
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br />   Shackled to the past each day proves a strain;

  Forget tomorrow, the reason is plain:

  Expectation is too fragile to grow,

  Progress is a matter of moving with the flow.

  In deep dark pools of saddened eyes you will see it:

  Fragments of life’s broken spirits.

  Volcanic

  A hand gesture summons me to his office, as usual no reason

  Accompanies this command. I overlook his manner,

  We work well together in fact I like this man.

  The meeting progresses smoothly. That is

  Until someone’s coffee is upended over me.

  In a fluster I seek to escape the situation, let off steam...

  But compose myself with a deep breath and a reserved tap of my feet.

  “Some towels.” He calls, eyes fixed on me.

  My silence restrains words capable of repainting the scene.

  He picks up my unspoken words and

  Proceeds to juggle them with boyish delight.

  “You want to add colour? You can redo the decor if you like.”

  “Well someone should!” I quip. “It’s not just boring, it’s

  “Depressing, in fact.” In no need of encouragement I continue

  My attack. “It’s no wonder you all wear faces like that.

  “Add some oak; warmth is what it lacks. Change the furniture

  “And… ” Realising the extent of the audience I have captured I

  Slump back.

  He cups one hand loosely across his mouth as if deliberately

  Drawing attention to a concealed grin. The glint in his eyes

  Further suggesting something in this spectacle appeals to him.

  “You intrigue me.” He offers. “Not just because I like a woman

  “With fight. You present a most delightful sight -

  “An enigma to challenge my mind. So controlled

  “So dare I say, uptight? Just one touch of pressure

  “And hmmm, what treasure we find.”

  Teasingly, he reclines, arms folded. Composed in his chair,

  He just sits there, watching me,

  Knowing he has just laid my soul bare. This moment is his