Poetry

A Private Hurricane

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Prayer for a president caught in a media storm

O Lord, be near our president.
He needs you as his critics vent
accusing him of apathy
within Katrina’s wake.

It is a private hurricane
that twists the truth and places blame
on one who aches for those in pain
and loved ones they have lost.

Please vindicate our nation’s chief
who did his best to send relief
but had no way of knowing then
the toll we all know now.

Encourage him for what’s ahead
as numbers grow and tears are shed.
And don’t allow his critics’ barbs
to wound his will to lead.

Eulogy to an Evil Woman

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Katrina’s Dead but Her Damage Lives On

The Big Easy has big problems
and no easy answers.
It’s a devastation
our nation hasn’t experienced
ever before.

Four years ago this week
we tasted of the agony of catastrophe.
But 9/11 was but an appetizer
to a bitter main course that has
left us fed up with grief…
and questions.

No wonder the tears that flow
give rise to the belief
that the contaminated waters
of a broken levy
are far from the only thing that
floods the French Quarter.

O Katrina, how could you?
How could someone
with such a beautiful name
wreak such ugly havoc?

You’re a two-timing heartbreaker
we will never forgive.
We thought your destruction in Florida
was bad enough.
But you had other plans.

With premeditated scorn
you humiliated those in the Gulf
who gratefully thought you’d spared them.

But there was something in your eye
we should have seen as you blew by.
It was a restless calm that seemed
to wink as though in jest.

And now that you are dead and gone,
the homeless, grieving stumble on
to right the wrongs you left them with
from which they’ll never heal.

A Toast for Labor Day

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Saluting the American workforce

I lift my glass to those who work
the cabbie, waitress, soda jerk,
the gardener and the janitor
and mini-mart cashier.

I’m grateful for attorneys, too,
protecting us from those who sue.
And don’t forget our family docs
and nurses they employ.

And then there are the brave who teach
and those at church ordained to preach.
The farmers, too, deserve our praise
plus salesmen on the road.

The firefighters and police
and car mechanics smeared with grease
help keep us safe and on the road
though often they’re unsung.

This toast is also for our troops
who labor ’til their eyelids droop
defending freedoms we embrace
while taking aim at terror.

So here’s to all who earn a wage.
This weekend they deserve the stage.
Because of them, our stress of life
is drastically reduced.

A Pain in the Butt

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A crude title for a poem about a crude problem

To do your duty at the pump
is cause for pain within your rump.
It steals your joy and robs you blind
and renders you a grouch.

Yes, getting gas can make you mad,
especially if you drive a Cad.
But even Honda owners cry
to give their car a drink.

The price tag on a barrel of oil
is nothing short of criminal.
It seems, though free, we’re hostages
to those who own the crude.

Yet in all things we can give thanks
although it hurts to fill our tanks.
For while, it’s true, we pump and weep,
we have the means to pay.

For Pete’s Sake

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Why I hope Peter Jennings’ search for God paid off

The world tonight is still in grief.
A newsman loved is dead.
Toronto-born, Pete made his home
where we all live instead.

He smoked for years. He quit too late
and sadly died too young.
But when he gave his last newscast,
he’d reached his craft’s last rung.

Success’s ladder leaned his way.
But I could sense he longed
to find good news within a world
that daily bled from wrong.

In the name of God he searched for Him.
I pray he reached his goal.
For though Pete Jennings lost his life,
he has a timeless soul.