The labyrinth of life offers little hope.
Each turn threatens doom, in darkness we all grope.
Alone we shall perish, unable to see
that the light only shines, from within. From Thee.

For a while nephesh, our animal soul,
Seems to help us along, mocking our role.
Even as the moon is, shining with borrowed light,
of that that lies beyond it: the mysterious Might.

Then, at last, we are blinded: Let there be what may…
No man can see God and live! So the prophets say.
The sun fills our eyes. Fills our heart and mind.
The light shines from within, let us all remain blind.



I am happy

Bronze Sculpture “Equilibrium”

My head is full of wonder––filled with roses? No…
bluebottles and poppies in fields of windswept corn
swaying like open sea. It was the height of summer
I remember it well… I was so happy then.

I felt almost silly. My legs raised up, so carefree…
Blue sky soaring above me, entwining puffs of cotton…
He sat right next to me, his hand… he touched me gently when…
I remember it well… I was so happy then.

My mind still wanders to those old, swaying cornfields.
I hear voices of children, or are they angels’ trills?
My brow turned grey… ah, yes, it was way back
I guess I will remain happy… now, even as then.







A thousand years have passed, yet to this day I wonder,
Since I stood there, alone, upon a hill, out yonder…
Branches entwined as hair reaching for the sky,
Ever dreaming, hoping, that one day I could fly.

Yet now, here I am, petrified in woman’s body.
Cast as a sculpture by nature’s cruel laws…
My veins still pulsating in stillness of a stone
Still reaching for the sky, still dreaming alone.

All that I’ve left is beauty that once did adorn me
Upon that forlorn hill, ‘ere lonesome yet ever hoping
That gods that gave me life, again would make me whole
Accepting from my hands, my lonesome, living soul.

Poetry by Stanislaw Kapuscinski (a.k.a Stan I.S. Law)

to the stone sculpture Petrified Soul by Bozena Happach

Petrified soul3a         Petrified soul1a

Arctic Idol

My grunts vibrate over the North Pole,
travelling right thro’ the growing ozone hole,
then bounce and rise to the silvery moon…
So well I can scream and howl, and even croon!

Then I overdo acting, like the misbegotten hams,
And I roar louder, to drown the deafening drums.
I also throw my weight around, jerk for all I’m worth!‘Cause
I’m the First, the Only, Idol of the North

Poetry by Stanislaw Kapuscinski (a.k.a Stan I.S. Law)

Ice sculpture and project in Gesso-duro by Bozena Happach

Arctic idol Arctic-Idol


I liked staring, unblinking, into the setting sun
painting the mists of far, far-distant, endless sea.
Since I was but a little, lonesome, fearful boy
sunsets made me elusive, protected, strangely free.

I sat there looking at raging, insatiate orb of fire.
I––tiny, innocent, gazing at what might be…
Tomorrow? The day after? Perhaps even forever.
Beyond time and space, beyond the endless sea.

Now I am old and hunched, still gazing at the sunset.
No longer dreaming of future––still lonesome as can be.
I now dream of the past, of days left behind,
when I first sat here, alone, on the old, gnarled tree.

Poem by Stanislaw Kapuscinski (A.K.A Stan I.S. Law)
Sunset, bronze sculpture by Bozena Happach




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