My recent poems have been written,
primarily in response to the Ukraine war.
Feeling, recently, that the tides of change
cannot be explained any further,
nor rearranged into coherent descriptions,
I sought to refrain from this endeavor.
Yet, my heart is overflowing,
teeming with complex emotions,
and my pen, figuratively speaking,
is writing (typing out) words again,
in response to the internal reservoir,
of all that remains to be said.
My muse? Ineffable, for He Knows all,
and is above and beyond all muses.
So, redeemed, is each word that I reckon,
as not my own, rather, from deep within,
a pool of reflection, tinged with a conscience,
and a consciousness, stemming
from the part of mankind’s soul,
that is connected to the Divine.
In addition to all this, I do not know
how I can even factor into the equation,
that Bolekhiv, my ancestral hometown,
is fifty-eight miles south of Lviv,
where several dozen of my relatives
were buried in mass graves,
during the Shoah.
The Tree of Life 