Partial Observer

Grace in the Midst of Tragedy

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A prayer for the shooting victims in Tucson

That Tucson Safeway wasn’t safe
as one deranged and fueled by hate
took aim at unsuspecting souls
and shot six people dead.

A 9/11 baby died.
A Congresswoman would survive,
but not the Federal judge whose status
couldn’t save his life.

Who says that evil isn’t real?
Not those whose grief has left them ill.
Satanic forces stalk our land
and rob our peace of mind.

O God, may grace envelop hurt
with words and actions that assert
that You who weep with those who cry
can heal each broken heart.

* This poem was written for the members of Grace Community Covenant Church in Tucson with gratitude for their faithful and caring witness in a grieving community still in shock.

http://www.covchurch.org/cov/news/item8121

Don’t Ask? Don’t Tell?

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

What would the Generals say?;
Confronting Taller Ants

Don’t Ask? Don’t Tell?
What would the Generals say?

Generals Patton and Mac Arthur
had no clue just who was gay.
But now that you can ask and tell,
I wonder what they’d say.

Would they accept it as the norm
or would they think it queer
that gays who shower next to straights
can scan the crowd and leer?

How would they view esprit de corps
with troops who don’t agree
on what it means to be a man
or who their crush might be?

Would they prefer to not take sides
and look the other way?
Or would they buck what Congress did
in tolerance of gays?

Confronting Taller Ants
What bugs me about our culture

Taller ants. They’re all the rage.
They are the mascots of our age.
But lest we think they’re all so great,
remember they’re still ants.

It bugs me that they think they’re hot
and act like shorter ants are not.
But ants are ants and nothing more.
How dare they rule our lives?

It’s time that taller ants take note.
There’s no free pass for those who gloat
about what culture claims as fair
that actually is not.

* taller ants is often spelled “tolerance”

A Toast for a Newborn Year

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Cradling hope in our arms

The old year’s passed. Another’s born.
But lest we grieve what’s gone and mourn,
let’s hold the baby to our heart
and dream of what’s in store.

Let’s contemplate what lies ahead
acknowledging the past is dead
without fixating on regrets
or paralyzed by guilt.

The birth of what we now embrace
is diapered in God’s boundless grace.
Within the face of this new year
the gaze of hope is seen.

Here’s to a new year just begun
that first will crawl, take steps, then run.
This brand new baby represents
all that the Lord intends.

‘Twas the Day After Christmas

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Pondering the true meaning of the holiday; Angel Song

‘Twas the Day After Christmas
Pondering the true meaning of the holiday

‘Twas the day after Christmas.
The inlaws had gone.
And out on the curb was the trash.
I pondered the piles
of crumpled debris
that cost me a mountain of cash.
 
The kids were complaining
about broken toys.
My wife had a throbbing migraine
and there in my bathrobe
I stood like a Scrooge,
ashamed of the five pounds I’d gained.
 
We loaded up gifts
to return to the store.
Aunt Ethel still thinks I wear small.
The Wii game’s the wrong one.
The perfume’s not right.
And so we were off to the mall.
 
The crowds were disgusting.
The chaos unreal.
In spite of the Muzak that played,
my world was quite joyless.
The angels were mute.
And in the return line I prayed…
 
“Dear God, please remind me
your Son’s special day
has little to do with this stuff.
Don’t let me forget
that His presence means most.
The gift of Your grace is enough!”

Angel Song
A melody of grace

The lyrics of Christmas
began in God’s heart
while its music found voice
on the strings
of a harp.

With the beauty of Handel,
of Mozart and Bach,
the songs of the season
inspire less talk.

So, let’s ponder
the “good news of great joy”
we hear
that points to the fact
in Christ’s birth
God comes near.

Time’s Man, Facebook’s Face

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A poetic profile of Mark Zuckerberg;
Yes, Virginia, There’s a God

Time’s Man, Facebook’s Face
A poetic profile of Mark Zuckerberg

The face of Facebook is on Time
and thus the subject of this rhyme.
The status of Mark Zuckerberg
is clear for all to see.

But not his skin. He’s twenty-six.
His baby-face contends with zits.
Time’s man for this year is a kid,
but smart. I kid you not.

His profile page speaks for itself
with education, fame and wealth.
This prodigy may seem a nerd,
but he has countless friends.

Mark’s made his mark (and billions too)
and made it fun for me and you
to reconnect with long-lost chums
we haven’t seen in years.

And yet I wonder, Mr. Z,
in spite of your celebrity
(behind those eyes that rarely blink)
are you alive to life?

Yes, Virginia, There’s a God
Affirming the Almighty’s Existence at Christmas

Yes, Virginia, there’s a God.
Ask Utah. She believes.
But Washington and Oregon?
They aren’t so sure it seems.

In the Bible Belt belief’s a cinch.
In New England self is king.
Where pilgrims landed faith is rare.
Reason’s the main thing.

But reason bows to mystery.
It must. We aren’t that smart.
Dear Lord, Your ways defy our grasp.
We sing “How Great Thou Art.”

We also sing “Joy to the World”
because You sent Your Son.
That silent night so long ago
Your greatest work was done.