The Tunnel

Poetry, , ,

This was inspired by the long pedestrian tunnel linking Central station in Sydney to the UTS Campus and Sydney TAFE.

Green tiled umbilicus
Linking the silver rails
To the city streets.
Louder as I walk
The sound of digeridoo,
The sharp click of rhythm stick
I pass.
Overhead, the distant rumble of train passing on
To a destination unknown
Taking people to places unseen.
Sound of Koto and Japanese pipe
I pass
People rushing pass
Never taking time to listen
To the sounds that can transport them
To a world outside themselves.
Sound of singer never destined to be
I pass
Should I tell him?
Drop a coin in box and say
This is not to be.
Loud raucous music from guitar
I pass
Never stopping.
Never looking.
I pass.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2002

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Expurgation

Poetry, , , ,

A number of years ago, I spent some time as a monk in a contemplative monastery. I thought I may have had a vocation. It was a cleft in the rock of life to hide away while I found myself. Hidden away in that silent cloister I saw that I was just denying myself the life I needed to lead – as a gay man – and also saw abuses of power, subjugation of sexuality, and betrayal of trust! For someone who was already doubting belief in God – more so as the years rolled on – it was the straw that broke the camels back. By the time I came out, I was an Atheist. It is a position I do not regret!

Cloister arches, dark and cool
Within the breath of God.
Fire lost, extinguished, I search
For light, a leading way.
Sanctuary lamp sputters
Within the sacred choir
Haze of incense smoke from
Thurible
Now unmoving, chains tangled
Upon the altar top.

Monstrance
Held high in adoration,
Throne empty of Body of Christ.
Chant of monks
Mea culpa, mea culpa
Rustle of robes,
Clack of beads,
Clang of sanctuary bells,
Unfeeling, I’m lost to faith
No longer blinded,
No longer blind,
No longer.

Chalice of blood held high,
Bowed heads, mutter of prayer.
Break the bread, genuflect,
Strike your breast in fear
Of retribution while living,
While dead.
Choices to make,
Made
In an instant of time.
Desert the dorter,
Flee from the frater
Washed hands over lavatorium bowl,
Sprinkled water from asperges
Like raindrops upon
The sacred ground.
Behold
Tabernacle thrown open,
Its emptiness shines within,
Without.
Cowled head bent in silent prayer,
As a soul slips quietly by.

Meditation upon a valley rise,
Hail Mary, Hail Mary,
Rest in green pastures.
Thy kingdom come,
Not mine.
A world awaits,
A life,
A time.
Close a door,
Another door beyond awaits.
Cast aside robes,
Cast aside faith.
Believing,
Yet not,
Praying,
Yet not.
A sigh, a whisper,
An echo in the nave.
Lost to God, lost to man.
A wanderers journey begins.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2002

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The Promenade

Poetry, , ,

This poem was entered in a competition back in my uni days. The Bondi History Society were after piems on Bondi beach to use in marketing. I received a note from them to say it had nearly won. Nearly!

Promenade walkers gaze to sea

Many only see the sand

Browned bodies worshipping
In the Heat
And waves washing ashore.
They do not see
The beauty of a sunrise
Over distant horizon
Or the grandeur of a sunset
Spreading its setting rays
Over the still, summer sea.
They know not the history
Of this place where indeed
Many of us call home
Of ancient rush-filled lagoons
Now covered by bustling roads
Of the rocks tossed by waves
On its northern side
Nor the story of the mermaids
Who on the rocks
Damaged by rain and tide
Reside still.
Indigenous carvings hidden on rocks
Now aged by time.
This is my Bondi
Not a home to aimless seekers
Nor those who care not why it is here.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2001

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The Edge

Poetry, , ,

Fine line
Forever walked along
An Edge
Sharp as a razor
Dividing life in two.

The edge
Keen yet blunt
Hot yet cold
Light yet dark
We walk it everyday.

The edge
Life yet death
Balanced yet not
Smooth yet rough
It gives substance
And meaning to our existence.

The edge
Loud yet soft
Heavy yet light
Quick yet slow
We know not its deciding mind.

I have walked the edge
And know the fine line
Between death and life
Finely balanced,
Honed to jeweled brilliance.
One side darkness
The other side light.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2010

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The Monastery

Poetry, , , ,

Cool, crisp morning air
Wrapped in mists from the valley below
Flickering light of candles through stained window glass.
Soft clang of cloister bell
Raises a community to prayer
Before the sun rises to chase the mists away.
Soft rustle of heavy habits
Draping cowled figures in the gloom
As they kneel in contemplation
As the morning Office intones.
Clack of rosary beads
Tinkle of communion bell
Clouds of smoke from censer, soft click of brass chain
All bow before powers greater than themselves
Each lost in a world of meditation
Within this powerhouse of prayer
Another day at ‘Mourilyn’ begins.

A lone monk stands at the head of the valley
Watching the heat send the mists rolling away
Smell of pine, of fir, of eucalypt
Snowbells blooming through the grass.
He watches, hands clasped into sleeves beneath flowing scapular
And contemplates the unseen.
He is unsure
Is he here for himself
Or for others?
Is this silent community his home?
Or is he just hiding from himself
A truth always known?
It is time to be free
To flee from this security
He will find himself
Elsewhere
Without.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2010

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Ruins

Poetry, , , , ,

Ruins
The bare bones of glories past
Of abbots and priors
Discalced footsteps in prayer
Scapulared monks clack rosary beads
Singing mea culpa to the sky
Desecrated altar bare
To the midday sun
Bleached now to eternal beauty
Clerestory windows open
To the winged flight of birds
Grand crossing floor now grass
Green softness under foot
Nave once holy
Now a foxes lair
Choir echoing pater nosters
From an era long gone
Monstrance blessing
Host raised no more
Yet
A rare embracing of exposed bones
Shivering in the cold
I raise my eyes to belfry
Where tolls no more a bell
I turn my back and walk away
Overawed by the graciousness
Of the ruin

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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To A Brother (3/8/1958 – 8/12/1965)

Poetry, , , ,

Our time together was brief
My Brother,
Our lives intertwined for a short time.
I want you to know that I miss you still
And wonder often why things had to be so.
I remember our romps with the dog
And our antics, stealing sweets from the corner store
Even though I always blamed you,
Isn’t that what brothers are for.
Nobody understood you except me
No one else seemed to care
They all thought you were slow
But I knew that the talent
To love and care was within you
And that you had no control over who you were.
I have never forgiven our father
For the outrageous, sudden death he thrust upon you
Have never forgiven the housekeeper who nagged him
Till his actions became uncontrollable.
I have never forgiven his family
For trying to pretend you never existed
That lying with our grandmother in her grave
Your memory should be obliterated for all time.
I wonder still and often
What fun it could be to have a younger brother
Someone to share my life with
Someone else who understood
Everything that went before.
Growing old together, and wondering
Just what you would have been like,
Are the things I miss about your passing.
But fear not, my little blond one
I write about you still
I remember.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2010

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Kevin Pickhills – The Unspoken Name

Going Home (part 24 of ‘The Northern Territory Suite’) – Finale

Poetry, , ,

Hustle and Bustle of real life returns,
The airport a reminder of where we are
And to where we return.
The Dreaming is over,
Our spiritual journey at an end.
Sadness weighs heavy
Upon our shoulders, our chests.
Tears flow gently down.
Succoured by our native land,
Fed by the dreams of its age.
A journey started what feels
A life ago is now end.
Reality crashes in,
Time stands quietly, guardedly still.
We fly high above Kakadu
Not visiting now, gone.

We twist heads, peer back
Wish it was not ending.
Set our eyes for home.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2001

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Darwin (part 23 of ‘The Northern Territory Suite’)

Poetry, , , ,

Distant city trapped between seas
Arafura and Timor vie for your beauty.
Verdant green grass and shrub
Trailing bougainvillea, flowering vines
Silver fronds, red of Lipstick palm
Lining streets near deserted in the noon day heat.
From cyclonic rubble, from first buildings
Now in ruin and preserved for memories sake
Has arisen a city of great beauty,
Peace, silence, colour, modernity
No longer a poor relative
To cities further down
A teeming heart within
The heart of this great land
We lie upon the grass, shaded by tree
To relieve the humid, heavy heat
Surrounding our bodies
And we gaze
Across the Arafura and Timor Seas.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2001

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Floating Over The Alice (part 11 of ‘The Northern Territory Suite’)

Poetry, , , , ,

Moving through the cold desert night
Awakened from our warm, cocooning beds.
Night flyers seeking the right winds, we wait in expectation
At last to be told we fly.
Red and yellow teardrop rising into the early morning sky
Transporting us into another world.
Purple, pink, orange aura on clouds foretells of the rising sun
As we wait, our breath held.
Below us in the rising light
Kangaroo and emu run from shadow cast from on high,
A dry riverbed awaiting the rains,
Delineation of land by scrub, as if drawn by our own hand.
At last the sun appears, washing away the cool of the night. Disappearing for a minute more behind foamy clouds
It reaches its zenith on the horizon,
And at last, we let our breath go.
Floating gently back to earth, a basket in the swaying Spinifex.
The sun warms us again.
We are alive!
We have seen!

Tim Alderman
(C) 2001

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