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
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
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