Good news out of Abbottabad

There’s good news from Abbottabad.
Bin Laden’s death makes justice glad.
This mastermind of mindless terror
must now face Heaven’s court.

Goliath fell to David’s sling.
A waiting world at last can sing
of just desserts for what occurred
not quite ten years ago.

Since then he hid in caves unknown,
but now al-Qaida’s king’s dethroned.
His lifeless body has become
a feast for bottom fish.

His own ground zero came at last.
But lest we think our risk is past,
we’d best beware and be alert
to what his death might mean.

What began one night in Boston still continues in our day

In Beantown in the days of Paul
not all revered King George.
His government was deemed unjust,
inflated and engorged.

And so began a party
(in the harbor) bailing tea
to protest too-much government
from sea to shining sea.

This party of Republicans,
of Democrats and more
just find it hard to swallow
what the liberals tend to pour.

It’s a party of more simple tastes
where herb tea’s plenty strong,
where what is brewed and steeped at home
can’t be considered wrong.

Both iced and hot, it’s tea they crave.
It is their drink of choice.
The “we the people” party want
each state to have their voice.

Coming to terms with an emotional issue;
From Newark to Shanksville;
Don’t Burn the Koran! Read It!

Mosque Feelings Can’t Be Masked
Coming to terms with an emotional issue

That’s holy ground where towers fell
where hate-inspired infidels
inflicted wounds upon our land
that never will quite heal.

Ground Zero we have called that space
where terror showed its ugly face
and still haunts blocks where offices
have yet to be rebuilt.

Within this graveyard of great grief
we’re called to exercise belief
that evil will in time give way
to good and love and peace.

But what of plans to build a mosque?
Do those who want it know the cost?
The price tag of religious rights
is far more than they think.


From Newark to Shanksville
Remembering United Flight #93

From Newark to Shanksville.

It was a one-way flight
those aboard United #93 had not booked.
San Francisco was their intended destination.
But the nation would soon learn
of a revision to the itinerary
arranged against their will.

From Newark to Shanksville.

It was a surreal nightmare
of apocalyptic proportions
for the forty innocent victims
aboard Flight 93.
Less than 93 minutes after take-off
their hopes went up in smoke
as their dreams crashed and burned.

From Newark to Shanksville.

It really wasn’t that long of a journey,
but the journey of grief that continues
nine years after is far beyond
what any surviving family member
could have expected.

From Newark to Shanksville
from so-long to goodbye.
From weekend plans to buying plots
and asking “Why, God, why?”

Why did the hijackers succeed?
Why did the towers fall?
Why did so many die that day
beneath a tragic pall?

Why is Ground Zero still a hole?
Why do “heart holes” remain?
Why do they take so long to heal?
Why do they cause such pain?

Why does this anniversary
tear at emotion’s scabs?
Why does this day seem dagger sharp
as memories slice and stab?

Oh God, please buffer all who mourn
from that which haunts the soul.
Inspire them as they recall
the one who said “Let’s roll!”

* Shortly after Todd Beamer and the other passengers and crew of United Flight #93 perished on September 11, 2001, I got to know Todd’s parents. My poem a year ago on this website was dedicated to them.

http://partialobserver.com/article.cfm?id=3326

Don’t Burn the Koran! Read It!
A case for building bridges (not blowing them up)

A minister in Florida
who’s known as Pastor Jones
is not reflecting Jesus’ love.
About that there’s no bones.

Why burn a book considered “blessed”
by those we hope to reach.
Does such a vengeful act of hate
ring true with what we preach?

Are we not called to follow peace
and love in Jesus’ name?
How dare we mock a holy book
by setting it aflame?
 
To burn a book that teaches hate
flies in the face of love.
Are we not called to turn a cheek
when others push and shove?

Within the Muslim book’s a key
that likely will unlock
a door of friendship and the chance
to meaningfully talk.

Instead of burning the Koran,
how ’bout we take a look
at what it says that corresponds
with what’s within “our Book”?

* A fellow Covenant pastor here in Seattle wrote an enlightening post on his blog. In it Eugene Cho contemplates how Jesus would interact with the opportunity to burn a Koran.

http://eugenecho.wordpress.com/2010/09/07/what-would-jesus-do-burn-the-koran-or-eat-with-his-muslim-neighbors/

Recalling a symphony of peace sixty-five years ago

The General on the “Mighty Mo”
(with Parker pen in hand)
conducted a rare symphony
in Tokyo, Japan.

MacArthur (at the podium)
cued each part when to play.
The score was settled and rehearsed
before the world that day.

The cellos, horns and tympanis
surrendered to the fife
as flute-like melodies of peace
conveyed the end of strife.

There was no single signature
in this grand symphony.
The maestro welcomed changing keys
and varied harmonies.

The strains of “Victory at Sea”
were heard beyond the Bay
as World War 2 became past-tense
that gray September day.

The audience upon the ship
included one I know.
A shy Marine (a mere nineteen)
from Lapwai, Idaho.

My dad was there to hear the sounds
as war gave way to peace.
It was a concert he’d recall
until his life would cease.

And though he’s gone,
I celebrate this anniversary.
The strains of freedom still are heard
within this symphony.
 

Author’s note:
Today marks the 65th anniversary of the surrender ceremony that ended World War 2. On September 2, 1945 the eyes of the world focused on history’s stage and a performance that would not soon be forgotten.

That was the day General Douglas Mac Arthur (with his Parker fountain pen in hand) conducted a symphony of peace aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay. This version of “victory at sea” would be repeatedly captured on film and newsreel.

As Mac Arthur cued the various performers to play their part on this historic day, a nineteen year-old farm boy from Lapwai, Idaho looked on. His is seen in the bottom right hand corner of this familiar photograph. That Marine Corporal looking back at the camera was my father, Edwin Asimakoupoulos.

Before he died twenty-months ago, my dad took great pride describing his memories of V-J Day. As part of the Marine Corps detachment aboard the “Mighty Mo,” he was selected to be one of the honor guards that day. My dad was chosen as an escort for Lieutenant General Kuzma Derevyanko, who signed the treaty on behalf of Russia. By virtue of his privileged assignment, my dad stood about fifteen feet behind Mac Arthur and the other dignitaries.

Although my father is visible in several historic photographs documenting the end of the war, I like this photograph best of all. According to my dad, one of the Russian newsmen covering the event dropped his camera from an elevated perch. He told me he turned around to see where the noise was coming from. At that very moment another war photographer (with a better grip on his camera) snapped this historic picture.

Fifth anniversary reflections;
Sal Manila and His Thugs

Katrina Remembered
Fifth anniversary reflections

A woman’s name (a beautiful name)
that calls to mind a hurricane.
A hurricane that uglified
Louisiana’s pride.

Katrina’s aim (her deadly aim)
meant life would never be the same.
Katrina’s wake rocked joy to sleep
and robbed her of sweet dreams.

Five years ago (long years ago)
the levies failed. I’m sure you know.
The perfect storm of shifted blame
betrayed the suffering.

And New Orleans (old New Orleans),
the Mississippi’s reigning queen,
watched as her subjects fled or begged
or floated dead face-down.

But love reached out (Christ’s own reached out).
There never was a shred of doubt
that Jesus’ call to rebuild hope
was heard in every state.

We watched in awe (amazing awe)
as those obeying mercy’s law
descended on the Big Easy
and tackled hard demands.

And on this anniversary (this somber anniversary)
it hauntingly occurs to me
that those who lived and those who died
deserve our thoughts today.

Sal Manila and His Thugs
Why McMuffin’s crying “fowl!”

Over easy? Well, not quite.
This egg-scare is no joke.
Ol’ Sal Manila and his thugs
have tainted countless yolks.

Our morning meal’s been tampered with.
McMuffin’s up in arms.
To save his bacon he must find
a way to cure what’s harmed.

What’s poached, soft-boiled, fried or baked
is making people sick.
Let’s hope the FDA police
can catch Manila quick.

The scare’s not over. Far from it.
But we all can hope
that what is wrong can be made right
with each and every yolk.