Rob Harle |
- Robert Maddox-Harle
Driftwood
Obelisk
The liminal zone surrenders her secrets,
hidden beneath rocks
below the pond-sand’s shelf
tippling on the tidal ebb,
this masterpiece of nature’s art
demanded to be saved.
The liminal zone surrenders her secrets,
hidden beneath rocks
below the pond-sand’s shelf
tippling on the tidal ebb,
this masterpiece of nature’s art
demanded to be saved.
Air – Fire – Water
the tools of creation
palpable in the sculpture’s essence.
the tools of creation
palpable in the sculpture’s essence.
The Obelisk lay ensnared in a salty
crevice,
Iluka Bay where mermaids sing
and dolphins frolic,
a home of transfigured treasures.
Iluka Bay where mermaids sing
and dolphins frolic,
a home of transfigured treasures.
Where fishing boats lay tethered
waiting for the next poem
to write itself upon the silvery sea.
waiting for the next poem
to write itself upon the silvery sea.
The silvery sea
reflects unknowable shapes
the pre-dawn-dark eerie and confusing,
the pre-dawn-dark eerie and confusing,
she strolls
undaunted over wet sand
foaming ripples
cooling her mind.
The first orange
rays glisten across the sea
kissing the
crumbling sand dunes
dissolving those
strange sea ghosts,
a warm peace and
calm descends.
She drops to her
knees on the white sand
marvelling at the
singular solitude
unthinkable in her
native Europe,
a pilgrim on the
global route to Byron.
A morning meditation
in the arms of nature,
the waves’ gentle
crashing soothes a busy mind,
the lack of city
noise calms a modern mind,
she drifts into the
deceptive spirit of The Bay.
Blood curdling
screams resonate inside her head,
cries of anguish
pulsate against her temples,
her heart is racing,
thumping hard
as she falls
helplessly into an unchartered time-warp.
Whale’s blood drips
over her eyelids,
shrieks of
splintering trees pierce her ears,
howling anguish of
slaughtered indigenous spirits chill her bones
muffling the
screeching death-cries of cattle and pigs.
The invisible
time-warp portal closes,
sparkling blood-red
reflects in the calm sea,
peaceful solitude
returns
her bewildered mind
returns to Bay Central.
Her morning
meditation agitates her deeply
as she pushes
frantically down the crowded concrete,
clear to Bundjalung
Elders - The Bay holds deep secrets
hidden beneath the
‘New Age’ crass commercial gloss.
A transubstantiation
transforms whale meat into Vegan bread,
preservation,
conservation replaces ‘Big Scrub’ destruction,
the Lighthouse may
be coming full-circle
as the energy of the
new Cosmic Dance heals The Bay?
NB: Belongil is a beach at Byron Bay,
the most easterly point of Australia. Now a haven for back-packers & home
for New Age healers, writers, artists & musicians it recently was a place
of slaughter – trees, animals, whales and Indigenous Australians!
Going Home
The voices start
softly
singing sweetly,
build to a crescendo
then fade momentarily
mimicking the
relentless surf.
Come Home! Come
Home!
The mermaids beckon
seductively
my return
inevitable,
only the foolish
deny their hearts
pretending logic
rules
pretending reason
reigns supreme.
Rising and falling
of the tide,
the salt sea air
seductive nectar of
Poseidon,
shimmers above the
shoreline zone
where sandstone
reality
becomes spiritual
metaphor,
where one’s soul
resonates in universal harmony.
Mermaids beckon
irresistibly,
secrets of Neptune
and Poseidon
are revealed in spiralling
spray,
dolphins cruise with
happy smiles,
Manta rays glide
past
models for
intergalactic spacecraft.
More mermaids beckon
irresistibly,
building to a
cascading crescendo,
Allegro.
Come Home! Come
Home!
How much we’ve lost
in progress,
the sign saddens me
remembering earlier
times
free in spirit
free in spirit
free to roam,
wandering shorelines
casting fishing
lines.
The liminal
transition zone
a place of mystery
and magic,
free to prise
oysters from the rocks
as clean water
flowed over bare feet
marvelling at the
creatures of the tidal zone.
No Thoroughfare!
Gaol-like fences
keep out the peasants
keep out trespassers
or are they to keep
the greedy inmates, in?
The public waters
lap at the fence
eroding the cheap
steel
just like the erosion
of our rights,
the rights of The
Everyman.
guarded by dense
mangroves
a million miles from
the fast lane
the humble house
awaits
rocky outcrops and
eucalypts
the Hawkesbury
signature
symbols of an
ancient land
dominate my vision
boat access only!
psychic adjustments
required here
a reconnection with
time and tide;
this is wild country
a place for
creating,
a place to reassess
values,
a place to laugh at
our self-deceptions
the sturdy jetty
a safe landing point
beckons,
my little boat
approaches
whoosh, whoosh
and the sun caresses
this Nirvana.
he pushes a pram
slowly,
deliberately,
thoughtfully
along the river’s
edge path.
salt air, divine
nectar kisses his face.
deftly he plucks up rubbish
plastic bottles
plastic bags
plastic “stuff”,
stuffing them in the pram,
stuffing them in the pram,
a desperate effort
to turn the tide
to clean the filth
of human thoughtlessness.
Time and Tide
I watch the glassy
waters recede,
pulled towards the
sea
relentless, silent.
Lady Luna smiles
her invisible force,
irresistible
the daily, hourly
movement
sketches time.
Like a skilled
strip-tease artist
she exposes the
delicate liminal zone
a naked body lying
between wet and dry.
The ebb and flow
harbinger of
civilization
ruler of romance
creator of cultures.
This incessant flow
defines time,
understand this well
homo-electronicus.
Bits of
techno-gadgetry,
like a conjuror’s
illusion
fool us every day,
keeping us comatose,
pacifiers of harsh
reality
and the cold hard
shards of existence,
Time and Tide wait
for NO ONE!
Keeping her lone
vigil
the enigmatic Iluka
mermaid waits,
arm raised shielding
her moist eyes,
the setting sun
glistens
dancing across the
mirror-glass water.
Her ancient ancestor
Atargatis,
great Syrian goddess
not to blame really
though the legend
remains.
The trawlers head
seaward,
wave to their
protectress
crucial for a safe
return
no guarantees in
this work,
the sea is a cruel
mistress
but the spiritual
connection remains.
Ploughing through
the plankton-green sea
engine humming a
tinnitus tune
a perfect beat,
a heartbeat for the
fishermen,
slowly
the dark of night
nudges in.
The Iluka mermaid
breathes easily again,
the trawlers return
the sun pushing them
in,
a gentle bow wave
slides across the bay.
Her eyes are dry,
now she settles in
for the day.
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