Poetry

Unexpected Death

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

It’s the godfather of all grief

You have heard Tony Soprano
is no longer in the choir.
His voice has unexpectedly been stilled.
All his stunned fans can’t believe it
as they start to sing the blues.
Tony leaves behind big shoes that can’t be filled.

Yes, when death blindsides a loved one
who seemed healthy and so young,
it derails our peace of mind and feels so wrong.
Like a mafioso hit man,
grief is brutal and unkind
as it strangles joy and silences our song.

Unexpected death’s a killer
for it rocks you to the core.
There’s no bracing for the heartbreak that it brings.
Still, faith dulls the sting of sorrow
as it drills down deep for hope
where the peace and grace of God forever springs.

* http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/james-gandolfini-portrayed-tony-soprano-dies-51/story?id=19441746

A Tribute to the High School Band Director

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

The Mr. Hollands in our lives deserve an opus

With your music stand a pulpit,
your baton a shepherd’s staff,
you led your students daily
with stern words and belly laughs.

Yes, you modeled truth through music
by the way you loved the kids
as they looked to you for answers
lest they end up on the skids.

With marching band your metaphor
you helped each section see
just how to work together
and to be a family.

Like Richard Dreyfus’ Holland
you invested in the young
and the dividends you’re earning
is success’s highest rung.

Mr. A, you’re most successful
for the music you have made
echoes far beyond the band room.
It’s an ongoing parade.

Marking time or earning millions,
those you taught (now fully grown)
march through life most confidently
making “music” of their own.

* This tribute was written for Steve Accatino. I first met “Mr. A” exactly 30 years ago when our family moved to the Bay Area. Last week Steve retired from Ygnacio Valley High School where he has been the band director for thirty-three years. High school band directors are a much-loved breed. I kept in touch with mine for thirty years until Mr. Huber prematurely died of a brain tumor. (If you never play in a high school band, you need to watch “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” That inspirational movie will clue you in!)

Praying for Paris

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Michael Jackson’s little girl is in big trouble

Transparent eyes cannot disguise
young Paris’ inner ache.
When Michael died his princess cried.
She thought her heart would break.

For four long years she hid her tears
while flashing us a smile.
But masks can’t hide what bleeds inside
or cover up its guile.

Grief’s haunting ghosts if left to boast
can lead to suicide.
But gratefully she lived to see
she failed (although she tried).

Lord, save this child by life defiled
and drown her wish to die.
May Paris find Your heart is kind
with love that never lies.

A Prayer for Oklahoma

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Interceding for tornado victims

It’s not OK in OKC
for Moore is less (it seems to me).
Less joyful and less confident
that life will turn out good.

The winds of chance blew tragically
destroying much that used to be
and in the process stole the lives
of victims young and old.

As Oklahoma grieves its dead
and groans in unexpected dread,
a watching nation blinks back tears
and bends its knees in prayer.

O God, who hears each pleading cry
and aches with us when loved ones die,
be near to these who’ve lost it all
and must continue on.

Restore their will to stretch and reach.
Reveal Your truth to those who preach
that hope rekindled will renew
the faith of hurting souls.

Servants of the Most High God

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A tribute to hospice nurses

When death knocks
and life’s clock
ticks in slow motion,
it’s easy to tell the time.
But it’s difficult to accept what it says.

That’s when hospice nurses
make their way
to the line of scrimmage
for the final minutes of the game.

They know that beating the opponent
isn’t possible
and yet they make the most
of the little time that’s left.

Tackling whatever is necessary
they clear the way so that you can
make your way into the end zone
with head held high
and faith clutched tightly to your chest.

They’re the best
(though they are often the unsung).
They are heroes of the dying
(and those living who stand watch).
They are angels of mercy, shepherds of grace,
guardians of dignity
and servants of the most high God.

* This poem is dedicated to Tricia who was my dad’s hospice nurse when he died in 2008.