I began writing at “full throttle,” immersing myself in the Sentinels of Solace series. After approx 3-4 years, I needed to finish something, ANYTHING. I delved into poetry and prose, and finally into song. (though I can only write the lyrics, not the score). The process of free association in poetry and the the distillation of words in all of these modalities was more challenging than expected (which means exponentially more work). This surprised me, as generally I edit my chapters many times over. I had no idea that aside from the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, I would be refining my general writing techniques as well.
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Exceptions
Destiny binds its roots
in the writhing soul
of our own imperfections
Winter Green: photograph – Ilona Rapp
its wisdom too complex
to parse, its delicate leaves
lashed by winds of greed
Its branches hacked bare
in peremptory spasms
of cold calculations
Rigid matrixes,
eschewing integrity
in the nefarious logic
of profits and loss,
until the solution to
generating Peace
is a fatal exception
and hope forms
the single thread
which anchors us
to eternity.
©Ilona Rapp 2017 All Rights Reserved
Truth is inalienable, except when it is not. It is a many layered work of
Photographed by: https://unsplash.com/caleb_designer
art, a composition, with seemingly contradictory elements, each of which defines truth within the fabric of the observer’s background, position, angle of ascent or descent, as well as their field of vision. Consider the feather of a peacock. It is teal, It is also golden brown, it is rigid and it is soft. It is as large as a world to a mite, as small as a mite to a whale. It is of paramount importance to the mite, it is valued as its world, to peacock itself it is valuable, though not irreplaceable. It is kindly regarded by a human who covets it as an adornment, yet to the whale it is entirely insignificant.
A peacock feather can be transformed to a work of art, poetry or prose. Entire philosophies may be built upon it. It can lodge in the gorge of a predator, causing great discomfort or injury. It can draw a peahen to create life with its bearer, or it can frighten a naive predator with its unholy eye. It may be coveted, or revered, it may be immense in its life giving attributes, or it may be repulsive , injurious or might even steal a life.
What is the true meaning of a feather?
Once you have answered this question, you are one layer away from the true meaning of life.
A snapshot of a moment
Ilona Rapp 06-09-15
Little Snapping Turtle
Remember how you’d bite
When your splashing went unnoticed
When our silence gathered spite
Little Snapping Turtle
Remember how you’d kick
When you sought the warmth of comfort
Or when you’d fallen sick
Little Snapping Turtle
Sleeping warm against my chest
When your voice was lost in chorus
How you’d push aside the rest
Little Snapping Turtle
Scarlet Moons within your eyes
Running faster than your footsteps
Stubborn grit within your cries
Little Snapping Turtle
Grasping wonder in your world
How you’d nuzzle at my succor
Tender sweetness, fists unfurled
Never for a moment
Did I fear I’d bear a scar
For the armor of your kisses
Impish Pranks could never mar
Never for a moment
Did I fear that I would bleed
For the healing of your laughter
Would fulfill my every need
Little Snapping Turtle
Stretching farther than your reach
If you’d only circle closer
In a snap, I’d fill the breach
Little Snapping Turtle
How I long to bear your scar
As a snapshot of a moment
With you safe within my arms
Little Snapping Turtle
Remember how you’d kick
In the hollow of my yearning
Though I’d filled it with a brick
Little Snapping Turtle
Remember how you’d bite
Clasping to my anchor
As you swam into the night
Ilona Rapp, June 9, 2015
For Takeshi, my Little Snapping Turtle
Poet John Wisdom posted a five line tanka on twitter which carried me back to my childhood. The celebrating event defining summer was two fold. First my hair would be pinned up into my “summer bun,” and secondly, I would be allowed to walk barefoot on the concrete sidewalks.
I had not tried this ancient Japanese form before, but interestingly my memory flowed seamlessly into the traditional form. I hope it may stir the memories of other writers and promote a chain of recollections.
Here’s the first link in the chain: John Wisdom’s shared tanka on twitter
Life is Magic and Magic is Life
Summer Recollections
hair swept in a bun
the first caress of summer
warming my bare feet
the time smoothed stones rejoicing
eschew their mortared prison
Ilona Rapp, May 2015
I have not attempted to write a song in decades, and I didn’t intend to write this one, though I was challenged to do so. The melody and lyrics streamed through the open door I provided and I share them with you here. I believe that I have unintentionally created a theme song for Solace Born of Winter as well. Please share you thoughts.
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Humpback Whale amongst dwindling glaciers.
Unentitled Roar
While the icecaps slowly swelter in a grand primordial weep
Still we trough for deeper treasures ever blind to what we reap
And our children gather nightmares at the edges of their sleep
As they bear the mournful keening of the creatures of the deep
* * *
Yet we seek the mighty powers in their steel and glass retreat
We sanctify them holier than Gods or life or seed
We grapple one another, rising ever in our greed
While the triumphs of creation in the darkness slowly bleed
Shackled by our precedents we’re gripped within the maw
Of the tithing to the devil written in the law
Will the violent throes of sorrow breach the bonds that seal our roar
Shred the patronizing solace which is rotten in its core
Mourning angels hear our plea
Solace yearning hearts be freed
Mourning angels hear our plea
Solace yearning hearts be freed
We are suckled on profanities and set off to a war
With our mothers, fathers, daughters and our sons forever more
We have crucified our planet in the arrogance of youth
And the echoes of our saviors we defile with platitudes
Tis the winter of our morrow, tis the final warning call
And we squander our intentions, fiercely struggling for a fall
We are mothers, we are fathers, we are born as infants all
We are workers, we are lovers, we are huge and we are small
Mourning angels hear our plea
Solace yearning hearts be freed
Mourning angels hear our plea
Solace yearning hearts be freed
AyaAyaAyaAyaAyaAya Ay-AyaAyaAyaAyaAya YayYay
AyaAyaAyaAyaAyaAya Ay-AyaAyaAyaAyaAya YayYay
Mourning angels hear our plea
Ilona Rapp, March 2015
It’s Raining in Anchorage
It’s raining in Anchorage.
The glaciers have surrendered
and the solstice draws near
shrouded in brilliant endeavors
The glaciers have surrendered
The wanton path of progress
shrouded in brilliant endeavors
bleeds a murmuring of sunlight
The wanton path of progress
borne by the feigning of innocence
bleeds a murmuring of sunlight
obscured in the guise of Nature’s caprice
Borne of the feigning of innocence
shrieks of desolation
obscured in the guise of Nature’s caprise
are swallowed by the tides
Shrieks of desolation
ensconced in ancient homelands
are swallowed by the tides
as refugees gather on the precipice
Ensconced in ancient homelands
we consume the body of our world
as refugees gather on the precipice
trampling one another for purchase
We consume the body of our world
While we scramble for profit
trampling one another for purchase
tears stream from frozen remnants of humanity
While we scramble for profit
It’s Raining in Anchorage
Tears stream from frozen remnants of humanity
and the solstice draws near
Ilona Rapp, December 2014