About
Greuschel, Jacinta. Portrait of Andrew Ostrowski (2026), oil on canvas
Who is Andrew Ostrowski? "I am a singer of songs. I also juggle," as Antoninus tells Spartacus.
Andrew Ostrowski is an American writer. His repertoire of writing includes political, social, and spiritual issues, as well as philosophical juxtaposition of mainstream complacency thinking. In this regard, Ostrowski defines himself as a mild Polemicist and fierce Apologist, preferring to put forth highly controversial topics for exposure. He is also a proponent of creative writing.
Ostrowski was a popular weekly columnist with the Am-Pol Eagle, a newspaper headquartered in Buffalo, New York, in which he features both a commentary and a Q&A (question and answer) column. He published two books featuring both of these columns spanning over 20 years. He also serves as a feature writer for local newspapers and offers writing services to the public on a host of genres.
He began his published writing career in 2001, after returning from the Holy Land in Israel, by penning a multi-paged narrative detailing the region’s spirituality and conflict. The story was published by a New York City newspaper, receiving positive feedback reviews citywide.
He subsequently followed with stories reflecting his trips to Lourdes, France, Czestochowa, Poland, and Rome, Italy, and introduced articles on the Catholic Mass, Confession, Biblical Archaeology, and Grace, in addition to a detailed article on his collection of crucifixes.
Ostrowski’s philosophical writings include such topics as Liberation Theology, Incarnation and Reincarnation, and Do Animals Have Souls?
His fictional efforts include short stories, poetry, and his Strictly Nonsensical Sayings, a collection of whimsical thought sequences. He has also briefly experimented in the horror genre, and is currently working on a novella. Ostrowski wrote two hit songs for a French singer based in the south of France.
Earning the Silver Medal in the 2007 Decidedly Dickens Festival for his work titled An Evening’s Tale at Christmas, the tale went on to become a popular Christmastime treat for family and friends. Among his short stories, Teardrop of an Eagle detailed the plight of a lost boy during the outbreak of World War II in Poland.
Whether it's a 13-line poem about a bird teetering on a tree limb, or a day in the life tale of an upstate New York village, Andrew Ostrowski disinvites readers to merely read, but rather his invitation encourages the contemplative, inductive reasoning of each reader. From poetry, music, and short stories, to news columns, speeches, and novels, Ostrowski continues to 'ink' the world over.
Ostrowski was the Director of Real Live Relic Hunter, a project seeking to advance interest in the exploration and discovery of artifacts and antiquities. He subsequently joined the Elektra Research Group, a Spanish-based non-profit organization aiming to assist higher education institutions familiarize the global community on the importance of artifacts. He launched a solo effort in this discipline with his website (coming soon), featuring a broad and diverse collection of art, artifacts, and antiquities. He is also an animal lover, vegetarian, and proponent of leather alternatives, and favors the applicable teachings of Jainism regarding the life of all living creatures.
He lives in New York City with his four indoor and ever-adjusting number of outdoor cats. ~
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The Selected Writings
~ Three ~
Tasseled Hats and Toboggans
...and the Village seems once again delightful. Though it’s Summer, the townsfolk can be seen busy in preparation for Christmas! You see, Bayberry Village really is a Winter town.
When I visited just before Christmas last, the cheerful sight of snow, sleighbells, and song filled the atmosphere with spirit. Children ran around laughing and plummeting into the freshly fallen snow, which seemed abyss-like in depth. I was tempted to just pick up a toboggan and go. Topping one’s head with a tasseled hat makes for a traditional setting, and we all know the Village revels in tradition.
As I once again approached via the one lane curved character road, the aged, weathered, and worn signpost read:
Bayberry Village
Founded 1380
Established 1680
Governed 1776
You see, the Village existed as a settlement long before its name, which came in 1680. The white signpost is appropriately fashioned in a Victorian-Gothic style, with black lettering. Bayberry Village appears on no map that I’m aware of. And the townsfolk like it that way thank you.
I’m getting the feeling they know me. As two weeks ago was my latest trip to the Village, I’ve been frequenting the Village quite often. As I descended into the Village, the Blacksmith greeted me with a warm hello, as if he knew me! Then, upon arriving at center town, the middle-aged woman who tends to the Bookshop popped her head in the window and followed my every move. To top it off, Catherine of Catherine’s Tea House (my favorite stop), served me my usual warm flavored honeysuckle tea, and with a very affirmative ‘how are you?’ The Villagers, I gather, have indeed accepted me. Indeed, it was The First Fellowship. I’m so happy about this.
You see, not many tourists or outsiders descend upon the tiny little hamlet, simply due to the fact that they know not its whereabouts. There are no signs on the main highway going north, no exits. Just a small, narrow, crookety crackety cobbled one lane curved character road. When you see the morning dew drawn up in a mist just over the valley, and the sun’s rays polarized in a spotlight effect, you know that you have arrived...
Continuing my journey, after sipping tea, I learned that the Clock Factory’s foundations are being set. The proprietors are of course from Germany, with the husband having roots near Regensburg and his wife colorfully from Alsace Lorraine.
I’ve never tasted better bread! I stopped at the Bakery only to be engulfed in the deliciously delightful scent of freshly baked bread. I particularly enjoy the multi-seeded, multi-grained rolls. It’s easy to close one’s eyes and imagine this 14th century style once again.
And to think I saw it on Mulberry Street. Yes, traveling down this street one must decide to pass the small spruced evergreen on the right or on the left. A major decision, hmmm.
Well, the Villagers everywhere are speaking of the planned pond! Ages ago, there existed a small pond near the southeast corner of town, close to the large evergreen, which surveyors have recently rediscovered. All of the townsfolk were summoned, and a town meeting was held. The pond will arrive promptly for Christmas next. One can imagine the rejoicing.
I’ll be there.
~ Fourteen ~
Firefly
Tiptoeing, and careful not to startle the seven little kittens cautiously and collectively about, I made my way into the garden. Tucked away behind birch, and a stone’s throw from the pond, the town-kept array of vegetable and flower, herb and rose, Lily upon Lily, and red raspberry too kept me in full spirit. In the effervescence of a morning sunbeam, I entered. Bean to the right, berry to the left.
Proceeding, the winding cobbled stone took me into its world. Cucumber for lunch, thought I. Carrot to follow. The small Sundrop spheres of yellow glistened radiantly amidst the towering green, sunlight dancing off of their skin, and into my eye. I dare not disturb them, small succulent ones. Under limb, over limb, passing parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. And climbing to the heavens, Impatiens here, there, and everywhere. Red, orange, purple…and violet and white too!
Two toads tanned themselves tirelessly at pond’s edge. And, sitting serenely on the white colonial bench, The Premier Book of Major Poets, opened to page 22. The sun now overhead, in full blossom, Marigold too. The gentle cascading of a twelve-bar windchime lulled me asleep…awoken only by the Church bell tolling tediously from afar.
And into the Village was I! You see, Summer is quite special to the townsfolk. Passing the Clock Factory, I purposely peeked and pondered the latest design. Scrolled hand-cut maple face, bright brass workings, and painted in a red and green patina. His spectacles sat peacefully amid the echoing tic-toc tic-toc.
And with not a soul in sight, jubilantly and joyously leaped I into the Bookshop, only to find Cynthia awaiting. We talked and talked and talked, she emerging more beautifully with each syllable, me wishing not to depart. Graciously accepting a dewdrop, I bade farewell. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow.
Even the Postman cared not to continue. He, seated near the water well, close to the large evergreen, in full Postal attire. A cohort of Cardinal overhead, in decidedly Mozartian fashion. And, dashing to the pond, I followed. One, two, three, more! Filbert after filbert, the squirrel left none to spare. Crossing the stone bridge, with the wispy winds rattling their rage of pine, I once again glanced to see the apparition apparent. Sixteen seconds of serenity, broken only by a bass below.
Returning to the town proper, and tempted to down a five-cents glass of lemonade, I continued. Again, met with sternness and serenity, savoir-faireness and surreality, smilelessness and simplicity, the two stood studiously side by side.
Evening encircled the tiny Village, its warm winds carrying the firefly. Ten thousand stars above, guiding me, guarding me. Drawing closer and closer, I once again settled in my favorite chair with my favorite flavor, on top of the crickety crackety floor in an upstairs room of Catherine’s Tea House. The fireplace preparing for Winter. The cat upon my lap. And, rocking back and forth in maple, closing my eyes, I dreamed the dreams of Fall, and another tale to be told…
~ Eight ~
Of Pfeffernüsse and Gingerbread
Happening upon the Village once again, the mist seemed to lift just as the gentle meander down the cobbled curved road began. An array of poinsettia greeted me, and in the distance the source of the delightfully delicious aroma of gingerbread. The Village fully decked with balls of holly. Wreaths of red and green throughout. Grey puffs exiting from above, while warm pfeffernüsse emerged from within. This was Christmas indeed.
And, as I slowly but surely encircled the frost-covered window of the Bakery, seven little children ran randomly towards the large evergreen, covered completely in snow. Making for their toboggan was I told, and then a dash to the pond of ice.
Once inside, row upon row upon row of freshly baked goods, all in time for the holidays. Minced meat pie stood next to apple. Pumpkin neighbored cream. Coconut custard attentively guarded the eggnog. Stockings full of cut-out cookies. Even the Baker’s daughter, with her longly flowing locks of blond, seemed to fit the occasion. She smiled so sweetfully, hands filled with gingerbread.
Upon departing, the Master Baker himself emerged. A plump little man he was, with a broad smile from cheek to cheek. He was covered in flour, from head to toe, and when he spoke, puffs of white became his breath. Laughing brought down an avalanche indeed. People joyously giggling upon farewell, and little did the plump and jolly round man know, this was the reason.
Peeping into the window of the Clock Factory revealed the hastefully stunning display of carved clock after clock. The Master craftsman and his apprentice disappointed none. In tradition, the coocoo clocks carefully adorned the walls with strings of ivy in candlelight. And it was the job of the apprentice to keep the candles alight at night, so radiantly displaying what was within.
As the Robin recited, evening enveloped. A stop for tea was in order. The kindling of hardwood together with merry song was enjoyed by all at Catherine’s Tea House. Quiet invaded the upstairs room, so to set an atmosphere of contemplation.
Looking out the small colonial multi-paned window, the midnight blue stained with silver sparkles told its tale well. The squirrel fallen gently asleep...
~ Twenty Seven ~
Discourse in the Rime
Magical mist, playing your tricks amidst the forest of pine, why do you haunt us?
As its army of snowflakes approached the Village proper on the damp, cold night, hurriedly scurrying here and there were creature after creature, all anticipating the blizzard about to begin. No stars shone above, no wind beneath the wings of a solo bluebird perched on the lower level branch of a birch. There he sat, biding his time, amidst this mid-Winter’s rime...
Accumulating inch by inch did snowflake after snowflake, upon branch after branch. There he sat, eyes fixed forward into oblivion, in his trance-like state. And as the heavens would have it, a mere sparkle thrown by a single snowflake sitting a short distance from him had penetrated the pupil of his eye. His stupor transfixed his present whereabouts, and notwithstanding, the snowflake began to allure him with its charm.
“Needless to say, I say, hello there fellow,” uttered the eight-pointed body of crystalized white ice. “I say again, hello pretty painted friend,” it continued after the noticeable delay. Just then, it twisted and contorted its perfectly symmetrical kaleidoscopic frame, emitting multitudes of sparkles into the poor fellow’s eyes. “Yes, I, I hear you,” chirped the boy in blue. He seemed quite timid, though no longer in the daze he had been in. His body shivered slightly, abandoned and alone on the frosty night. “Why do you look upon me as you do?” put forth the bluebird to his snowy companion. “I’m hippety happety happy! I’m hippety happety happy!” it replied.
It wasn’t difficult to fathom this response in earnest. You see, it arrives on the Village doorstep each season, and each season is met with good cheer and hearty heart. Wherever it is found, no doubt a warm heart is also found. Children come out to play in their merriment, snow shovelers take to their tasks, fierce fireplaces are lit! This tiny embodiment of Winter seemed to express these sentiments in every nook and cranny it possessed. Its entire life seemed the manifestation of pure Winter bliss.
“You like to revel in your revelry!” declared the boy. “Mmm, yeaas,” assuredly replied the flake, “But I contend, it is positively, undeniably, certainly, absolutely, unquestionably, and categorically true.”
The present situation escalated in their ambiance, as the exodus of Winter white continued from its celestial home. The two, now ensconced within each other’s realm, continued...
“Nay, I’ll have it on the morrow a refreshing tulip tube protruding over this,” cited the bird. “There is a time and a place for all,” simply spoke the tiny little Winter wonder. “Think what I can do to lift the spirit of Man amidst the bleakness of life. Imagine a melancholy child sitting still on a park bench, a pond failing to freeze over for the skate, or perhaps a ground dweller shelterless in the absence of a trusty blanket of white. To look at me and discover a world within a world, a new horizon before your very eyes, a sense of purity and perfection, broken only by the footstep of a passer-by. The fraternity of my brethren implore you, fly, fly, fly! Lift ye up and flutter with us! Think not of Men’s woes nor of their wretchedness. Close your eyes and see! Won’t you join me?” philosophically inquired the simple speck of snow.
Just then, the royal blue of the bluebird’s painted belly sprung violently upward and out! Millions and millions of hidden icy flakes exploded from the tops of his wings and into the crisp, night air, wisped in a whirlwind did they follow closely behind him! Into the blissful white of night he went, o’er the rooftops, across the snowy meadow, intertwining with pine...
Tales of Bayberry Village
Can I please have some ice cream? If not, then a bowl of cherries. Yes a bowl of cherries would do fine if it has also some chocolate syrup on top. Be sure to add the syrup lest the cherries go rancid from the heat. And you know the heat is very very very hot indeed. Have it ready for me first thing in the morning. Make sure you pick fresh cherries and you melt the finest Swiss chocolate. Nothing else will do. I do hope you abide these commands, oh I do. Thankyou, Marylou.
strictly nonsensical sayings
I wish I was a blade of grass, frolicking in the sunlight, dancing in the wind. They come and go and come and go, never noticing. Careful where to place your foot. I would like to live tomorrow. I wish I was a blade of grass.
What do you get if you multiply a number of numbers by a number of numbers? And then take the square root of this number. Can you divide it also by 3? Please subtract 7. Then add 5. Multiply again by 23.
Allayy-up! Say Cavendish?...never mind. Morning after morning it's always the same. Allayy-up. Allayy-up. Allayy-up. Rising at 7 touching two feet to the floor. Robe on, slippers on, out the door. Bathroom, cereal, bathroom. Then open the door, dress, and close the door. Umbrella? I won't forget the feline friends.
Poems
Silence.
Few understand it.
Even fewer stand it.
Why
question the serenity of a clear blue mountain sky
or
the glittering of stars as they frown upon us
or even
the spider as it so delicately maneuvers - without the slightest disturbance of air?
If this be questionable
then question me not.
For silence lives in me forever.
Day after day
On that certain branch
He sits
And watches
The leaves as they linger,
The trees as they expand.
What does he wonder
As sun turns to moon,
As blue becomes black?
Hastefully he flies,
To another tree,
To another branch
And sun turns to moon and blue becomes black.
These are the days of wintery
winters
of bird's nest in the tree.
And these are the days of careful
thought of the rain on flower.
These are the days of apocolyptia
of fulfillment, of decision making
And these are the days of smoke
from chimney
of wood burning
of quiet, green pastures
of pipe, of reading, of thinking
And these are the days of world hope
of humanity
of destiny
So many people, so many souls
These are the days we've waited for
upon us now.
Songs
Shades of Montesquieu
I saw her again this evening,
Black cloud rollin' by.
And to think it was just a little romance,
Had my head in the sky.
Some said it was only a shadow,
Some said it was just a big sin.
Pray, show me a land of no worries,
Let me go there and begin.
It wasn't just some kind of fetish,
It wasn't just another thing.
She moved with the wind in the sunset,
Hers was my song to sing.
And though the sun rose without her,
And though today begins anew,
I still feel her breath in the shadow,
Deep in the shades of Montesquieu.
This Side of France
I went for a walk to the highest mountain,
I went for a walk in the fields below.
Went for a walk through the streets of desire, Saw what townsfolk had to bestow.
Met a man pained with envy,
Met another not willing to let go.
Sunday driver don't come near me, Preacher please tell them no, no.
This was not happiness.
This was no friend of mine.
To be King of the Mountain.
To be somewhere out of Time.
This is my side of France
My dream, my side of France. This is my side of France
My dream, my side of France.
Poor widow standing next to me, Cemetery in the distance.
See a river running low and low, Let me have no resistance.
Sun caught in the tear of her eye, Flower meadows blooming.
Church bells toll oh and oh,
The angel looks so presuming.
This was not happiness.
No, no, this was no friend of mine.
Only to be King of the Mountain.
To be somewhere out of Time.
This is my side of France
My dream, my side of France. This is my side of France
My dream, my side of France.
(repeat chorus)
Short Stories
Part I
Little Andrzej seemed somehow to sense the air was not right today. He played in his usual setting, the backyard grassy lot of his parent’s country farm not far from Świebodzice. The building blocks that he had fashioned a week earlier had began to crumble, and as they fell to the ground with the slightest disturbance of air, soft pellets of water emerged from within, the result of scattered passing gray storm clouds overhead. Singing softly but erratically his favorite childhood tune, the humble boy of 10 paced the terra firma repeatedly as if some anxious awakening was about to begin. This was evidenced by his mother’s worn and heavy laden face as she looked out the cracked multi-paned glass window just a short distance away. Littered in her presence were newspapers. Newspapers smothered in talk of War, War, War!
There was no hiding it, everyone knew. From the goats buckling their tethered chains against a semi-fallen picket fence, to the herd of cows opting to stay together as one unit rather than roam freely. Even the song of the chickadee was not of the right pitch. Neighbor upon neighbor, farm after farm, town after town, this was the plight of Poland and its inevitable doom. To marvel at an early morning’s sunrise, or to serenade a loved one at sunset, had no more place in humanity’s purpose it seemed. Long gone and forgotten remnants of an age far, far away…
“verlassen Sie einen kleinen Jungen der Weise!” shouted a man in uniform. As little Andrzej scurried across the cobbled road with frightful anxiety, an anxiety only a small child would know, daring, and inquisitive, he ran to the small hilltop outcropping near the stream where his grandfather taught him to fish. “Stop, stop!” shouted his mother as her echoed words resonated against each pouncing of the boy’s feet. And climbing the hill in haste to see the culmination of his determination, he quickly stumbled, tearing the canvas patch over the left knee of his worn pants. His breath panting… His eyes fully engaged. And reaching hill’s top, overlooking the vast beautiful greenery known only to a poetic phrase, with its early September foliage hinting at the idea of turning a vibrant bronze patina, the little Polish boy saw with his innocent eyes the source of his drive. They had come…
Panzer division AA6 enroute to Wrocław. Luftwaffe squadron 32B flying overhead. Infantry ground Unit 7787 scattered everywhere. This was their first prize: to take this boy’s homeland away from him and claim it for their own. To convert it into a ‘purified’ nation. To conquer humanity. And as a screeching armor-clad tank raced past the boy, yet another followed in its path, and still another. The sounds of metal scraping against metal became commonplace, quickly replacing the chant of melodious birdsong. This was to be the boy’s new tune, that of the Nazi war machine.
13 Months Pass
“Ale potrzebuję (chcieć) zèby walczyć!” exclaimed vehemently did Andrzej’s older brother Stanislaus in the war-torn ramshackles of their once quaint farmhouse. His parents could stop him no longer. Bidding farewell to his family, Stanislaus’ fate was set. And soon began another chapter of the Polish underground resistance movement. Taking refuge in a secret shelter underneath Krakow’s St. Mary’s Church, he and his compatriots were assigned the task of printing resistance leaflets. Day after day they toiled, night after night they kept vigil. In the passing shadows of the moonlit evening sky did the young man contemplate his past, his present, and that of his future…
And always at the forefront on his priority list was his devotion to the Catholic Church. Here was his sanctuary, of which no Panzer division, nor Luftwaffe air fleet, nor ground infantry troop could invade. Though his body may die, his soul was untouchable, and he cherished the time he spent now in this Church. And little did Stanislaus know but at a future moment in time another Pole would think the same while standing in line at a concentration camp… His name was Maximilian Kolbe.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned” expressed young Stanislaus while in the Confessional, sincere in his words and seeking strength from the Father as he had done on a monthly basis. And as his lips spoke his soul’s bidding, looking up for an instant, and just out of the corner of his eye, he realized that…something was not right! An overwhelming sense of evil filled the boy’s presence. It had not been Father Marek whom he was confessing to, instead, someone had been disguised and had overtaken the priest’s role. Then, suddenly he saw! ...2 gold symbols on the man’s lapel: Schutzstaffel!!
Part II
“Keep moving, keep moving, march, you swine!” ridiculed the Nazi officer in charge. And as the now crestfallen and broken soul of Stanislaus struggled to place one foot in front of the next enroute to his new home surrounded by barbed wire, he looked up whilst underneath its black iron gate to read the welcoming scrolled words written in his captor’s tongue, yet interpreted with no difficulty: Arbeit Macht Frei (Work Makes Free).
Life and death stood side by side, each taking turns with the rising and the setting of the sun. One prisoner was hung by the neck daily at the entrance to the camp to set the example; an example for obedience, an example for submissiveness. At the far end, echoes of rifle fire and a pock-marked brick wall reinforced the ‘Master plan’. Dare not you look upon your keeper with the slightest tweak in your eye. Keep your head low, your eyes fixed on your work. Speak to no one, hope not, merely consider yourself already dead…
Yet there remained one thing that could not be captured. Nor could it be controlled. Continually resonating in the mind of this young man, like some spiritual mantra playing itself over and over again, were the thoughts of his past. The long, cool days spent walking in the fields; the smell of wood burning; the firm handshake of a friend; and the Eucharist upon his tongue. His life meant nothing without them. In essence, he was to surrender himself to the burning cauldrons of the crematorium, or find himself in the bottomless pit of cadavers.
But no! “This is not me! This will not be my fate!” silently screamed the young man inaudibly to himself as bullets of sweat streamed down his face! Quickly flashing thoughts of radical upheaval and mutiny invaded the young man’s mind. His eyes dilating, his heart racing… And in the silence of his own mind, Stanislaus meticulously fashioned his escape plan…
“Hmm, hmm…Ej, Przelecial Ptaszek...Hmm, hmm, la de da da…” serenely whispered an old aged, white bearded gentleman in his humble hilltop dwelling overlooking a rolling meadow below, not far from Łowicz. And as an eagle flew overhead amidst tiny pellets of raindrop, the elderly man’s quiet, contemplative chant seemed to beckon the silent wind, as it meandered its way through the windowless abode. The sounds of silence were never so beautiful. And cut against its backdrop, sitting contentedly by the old man’s side with violin and bow in hand, and interjecting single notes of melody against each poorly sung phrase, was the face of a little boy. To paint a portrait of serenity, no artist could ever do. Despite the world around them, heaven was in their midst. In some way, the two became inseparable. To extract one from the other would be unthinkable. In some way, to the two of them, and perhaps to us all, Poland would never die. …And as their journeysong came to its conclusion, the old man warmly smiled and softly spoke: “Andrzej, Przybwają tutaj!” as the boy eagerly embraced him.
What destiny would have it, to learn of one man’s fate and another man’s doom? For every child fortunate enough, there were tenfold not so fortunate. And in the midst of war, what becomes of the family, of the values we hold so dear? Why must the building blocks crumble? Where is the glory? Where is the honor? To think that a species would wage war on itself, to annihilate one another. Brother against brother. A displaced little boy, a prisoner of war, or a lifeless body of bones thrown into a pile and covered in dirt. What have we done? Where are we going? Have we not learned?
And as little Andrzej ran his feet between the littered rubble of a war-torn town nearby, kicking aside remnants of fallen concrete mixed with personal belongings as was his daily doing, his vision became fixed on the gait he was striding. As his head drooped down, his eyes swayed back and forth upon the earthen remains in a meaningless, haphazard fashion. Careless of this day’s destiny, discouraged, and disheartened…
And returning once again on the cobbled road to the old man’s dwelling, the boy glanced back for an instant to see the specter of a solo figure in the distance. It moved in and out of the shade sporadically, as if in wanton search for its destiny. The little boy periodically turned to see as the specter gradually drew nearer and nearer; it waving a single arm back and forth. And, just before the gray overcast skies opened, little Andrzej realized what he was seeing. As he ran towards the figure in haste, his eyes began to water in sheer love for whom he was about to embrace. His prayers were answered. As if the embodiment of all of Poland were within. Though war be waged upon them, even then will they trust… “Stanislaus, my dear Stanislaus!”…
Teardrop of an Eagle
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