He said Lo and behold, I give you Promised Land!                                                                                  As we listened, enchanted we bent low, elated.                                                                                And hence we continue to stoop, ever hoping,                                                                                        to give thanks to Elohim, for this glorious right––                                                                               each and every morning, each and every night….

And for two-score years, we circled blowing sands;                                                                        our feet bleeding, lost in endless desert,                                                                                               holding on, stubborn, to promise that was given.                                                                         Praying, giving thanks, straining our sight––                                                                                     each and every morning, each and every night…

And we went on, wandering, from station to station,                                                                    hungry and thirsty, in search of Promised Land…                                                                           Never suspecting in our relentless plight,                                                                                              that it can only be found in depth of our heart––                                                                              each and every morning, each and every night.


Poem by Stanislaw Kapuscinski, sculpture Exodus by Bozena Happach


A Memory

I saw her just once. A tremulous shadow of my yesterdays
still lingers. Persistently. Or is it but a dream
of unfulfilled desire? Fragments of memories, petals,
floating forlorn, down life’s winding stream.

Her step was as light as a morning’s dew,
her smile as bright as the rising sun,
her touch was as gentle as the summer’s breeze.
I really have no idea how it all began.

Alas ‘tis folly, for I never touched her––
other than with my thoughts. I would not defile
A dream. A fleeting illusion––ghostly apparition?
Yet memories of her continue to beguile…


Poem by Stanislaw Kapuscinski (aka Stan I.S. Law)

inspired by bronze sculpture Tiptoe by Bozena Happach