war – The Tree of Life

Ukrainian Blues

The surrounding countryside of Kiev, and other cities, such as Lviv, and even my own ancestral hometown, Bolekhiv, are quiet in the night, while the Russians prepare their next attempts to maneuver their positions, to be in alignment with their next forward march into the fray. By now, they know that they will continue to meet with resistance from the Ukrainian defenders. These are not nationalists, like the propaganda espoused by the Putin regime would have it known; rather, these are loyal citizens of a country that has been trying to gain its complete freedom for decades. True, it was Ukrainian nationalists in the midst of WW2, who were no friends of the Jewish population in Bolechov, Poland in 1939, when the Soviets retreated. However, the current generation of Ukrainians are not responsible for the sins of their ancestors.

After WW2, my ancestral hometown fell in under the new lines of demarcation, designating the city as Bolekhiv in the newly established boundaries of Soviet Ukraine. And, now, 58 years later, and, incidentally, fifty-eight miles south of Lviv, I wonder how far the smoldering torches of war have receded, or perhaps impeded upon the place where the graves of my ancestors rest. Of course, most of them, were actually buried in either one of two mass graves. The first, 7 km outside of Bolechov (now, Bolekhiv) in Tarnipol. The other, hastily made grave in the actual cemetery. This cemetery is the best preserved Jewish cemetery in Europe. I have always wanted to visit, since I “found” my ancestors through genealogical research. And, now, How am I to do so? Ultimately, if am able to do so in the future, will I be entering Ukraine, or Soviet-controlled Ukraine?

My ancestors souls,

transcend earthly boundaries,

knowing only peace.

Butterflies

Amongst the fields of sunflowers,

dreaming in the winds of change,

butterflies roam, partaking of the nectar.

Sweet dreams interrupted by a shift

in the pleasant breezes,

accompanied by dark clouds.

Nectar runs dry, and petals wilt,

as the resting places

of the fragile two-winged creatures,

disappear from the fields.

How many Ukrainian refugees,

who have taken flight,

from the devastation,

will be blessed with a new beginning,

in faraway places, where safety resides,

miles away from their homes?

My ancestors, with prescient insight,

migrated across the Atlantic Ocean,

before the flames of the Shoah

engulfed Bolechov, and took the lives

of those who remained in the shtetl.

Ghosts of the past cry out,

Release me, into the wind,

so that our memories

will not be forgotten.

The Call of Silence

As the tanks roll into the cities,

blue and yellow flags are waved high,

in defiance of the occupier’s atrocities,

while many finally flee with a sigh.

As the drama continues to unfold,

within the layers of recent history,

the territorial defenses stand bold

in the face of the assault and misery.

Echoes of past flights from death,

and narrow evasions of an untimely fate,

are interwoven with our every breath,

and surface in our own memories of late.

Our brothers and sisters who have fled

to the checkpoints, are now able to impart

a message of hope, despite all who have bled

silent tears within the confines of their heart.

Having travelled through many regions,

lives are reshaped, homes found for new arrivals,

across the boundaries of neighboring nations,

that were in flux, during past upheavals.

poem: Inner Grief

The eyes make no disguise

or pretense for the lies,

that fall vacant upon the ears,

that hear the explosions that sear.

As we serve to witness

the duress and stresses

of a people silently torn between

their homes and the need to flee.

poem: Seeking Solace

“As we step forward, they attempt to surround us; they intend to spread out across the country.” – Psalms 17:11, embellished

May the right arm of Your majesty, in all its effectiveness, assure victory for us over the challenges that we face each and every day of our lives. During this time of peril, whether starting our lives over elsewhere, or trying to remain hopeful in the midst of uncertainty, as we hunker down below the city streets, let us see the light of dawn breaking through our sorrows.

The prayers of the faithful will be sent to shomayim upon the wings of angels. We send even our most seemingly trivial concerns to Heaven; for, it is the small details of our lives, and the relatively inconsequential choices of our lives that appear to matter most at times. Once the important decisions have been made, the smaller ones appear in clear relief.

Like a picture-perfect day, not a cloud in the sky, may the realization of our dreams exceed our expectations. May our cities be rebuilt, and our lives resume, only stronger for having been through these traumatic experiences, and the overall devastation that has pummeled our cities. May we live to see the day when the seeds planted across the nation will bloom into tall sunflowers, always facing the light.

Note (FYI and Disclaimer): This a dramatic monologue. A dramatic monologue gives voice to those whom the poet chooses to give expression through the poem. Although I am a poet, and not a Ukrainian, I feel an affinity with the Ukrainian people, especially my Jewish brethren (i.e., brothers and sisters). Additionally, this is also a prose poem, and not a typical poem that has verses, stanzas or rhymes.