Poetry

KICY: A Dream Come True

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

They’re celebrating in Nome this weekend!

Quite long ago (in 1910)
a Swede named Axel Karlsson
was laid to rest in Una’kleet
before his dreams came true.

Just listen to this true-life tale
(but unlike Jonah and the whale)
this man who had a call from God
was swallowed by regret.

He longed to share redemption’s plan
with Russians so they’d understand
how much God loved the world He’d made
and sent His Son to die.

But Axel found himself in jail
until a man named Alf Nobel
negotiated his release
escorting Axel home.

But Russia still was on his mind.
What could he do? How could he find
a way to realize his dream
to take the Gospel there?

And then a thought! The USA!
Alaska would provide the way
to reach the Russians from the east
as if through their back door.

And once he reached that land up north,
he won three converts, then a fourth.
And when revival swept the coast,
he had a flock to lead.

Then Axel died. So too his dream.
A vain pursuit, or so it seemed.
But dreams God plants don’t ever die,
though sometimes they must wait.

Five decades passed, then (my-oh-my)
a miracle! K-I-C-Y
went on-the-air one Easter morn
and what seemed dead found life.

That town once known for panning gold,
for serum runs and arctic cold,
became a broadcast hub of sorts.
In Nome the tower stood.

It beamed its signal to the west
and you can likely guess the rest.
Through Russian language programming
that old Swede’s dream came true.

This weekend there’ll be lots of cheers
as those in Nome mark fifty years
since K-I-C-Y first began
transmitting the “good news.”

Across the Bering Straits it beams
reminding us that God’s sweet dreams
may not pan out the way we planned,
but always comes to pass.
 
* Believe it or not, 19th century Swedish industrialist Alfred Nobel helped arrange for the release of Axel Karlsson from his confinement in Russia. What is even more amazing is the fact that for six hours every night K-I-C-Y broadcasts the Gospel in Russian with a directional signal of 100,000 watts across the Bering Straits into Eastern Russia and Siberia.

** The fascinating history of K-I-C-Y is published in a book titled “Ptarmigan Telegraph” available at http://www.covenantbookstore.com/pttebygras.html

*** You can listen to K-I-C-Y live by going to www.kicy.org

The Comeback Cat

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Reflections on Tiger’s return to golf;
The Lion King and a Tiger’s Tale

The Come-back Cat
Reflections on Tiger’s return to golf

His roar (once cocky) Tony-like
is now a whispered “GREAT!”
This wounded tiger trapped by sex
is unsure of his fate.

The stray cat knows his way around
Augusta’s famous links.
But can he keep his cool (and vows)
when some hot temptress winks?

With one life down and eight to go
this feline has returned.
A Masters without mistresses?
Let’s hope that Tiger’s learned

how not to play around at work
forgetting who’s at home.
Let’s pray that this unfaithful cat
won’t reap all he has sown.

The Ling King and a Tiger’s Tale
Thinking about the new Nike ad with Tiger Woods’ dad

Mufasa
(from the heavens)
speaks
to Simba
(broken, shamed and weak).
A father (dead)
reminds his son
to claim his destiny.
And in that brand new Nike ad
we see the cub
(and hear his dad)
confronting Tiger in his cage
inquiring
“Whatcha learn?” 

Is Nike cashing-in on sin?
Exposing what’s in Tiger’s den?
Or is this brilliant marketing
that helps the golfer heal? 

Can dethroned tigers reclaim crowns?
Or are they banished and thus bound
to prowl the PGA in vain?
Only time will tell.

* The new Nike ad in which Tiger Woods’ father’s voice is heard speaking to his somber-faced son reminds me of that scene from The Lion King where the deceased Mufasa speaks to his son Simba.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NTRvlrP2NU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCXEO1N5ijQ

The Power of the Cross

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Poetic reflections on this Good Friday;
In Praise of Easter

The Power of the CrossPoetic reflections on this Good Friday I’ve sung “There’s Power in the Blood,”
since I was just a boy.
“Would you be free from your burden of sin?”
the gospel songwriter asked.
“There is power, power, wonder-working power
in the precious blood of the Lamb,” he contends.
“The life is in the blood, the Scriptures say.
So, there’s power in the blood.”

But is there power in the cross?
A scaffold symbolizing loss?
That’s what it is you know.

Loss of innocence.  
The cross was Caesar’s preferred way of punishing criminals.
Those nailed to the hardwood crossbeams
were hardened criminals.
Guilty as guilty can be.
Death row inmates.
Punishment-worthy with a capital P.
Green milers undeserving a purple heart.
Only the worst were candidates
to quench society’s blood thirsty desire.

Loss of dignity.The cross displayed an unclothed victim
in the most immodest pose possible.
Prior to being hoisted as society’s debt
(reminding the crucified and onlookers alike
that crime doesn’t pay),
they was paraded like circus animals.
Humiliated by the laughter.
Peppered by the jeers.
Flogged to within an inch of their lives
before the main attraction would
leave them ready for a yard of bones
six feet beneath the blood-soaked soil.

Loss of pride.
Those crucified were robbed of whatever self-worth
they’d held on to since they stole their first breath at birth.
Suspended between heaven and earth,
writhing in pain, these objects of shame
had no reason to be proud
for crying out loud.
And that’s exactly what they did.
Screaming’s more like it.
Agony.
No ecstasy, except for the sick onlookers
for whom human torture
provided a demented sense of pleasure.

Loss of life.
Those who hung from a cross
didn’t hang around long.
Not breathing, anyway.
The cross was the final curtain.
There was no intermission.
The executioner’s mission was clear.
In this one-at play,
he knew his script by heart.
He had his lines down cold.
“Break a leg!” the prompter would call from off-stage.
An expression to encourage
the executor in his performance.
It was also a suggestion for hastening the death
of the victim on the unvarnished stake.

So, power in the cross?
Are you kidding?
The cross on which the victim cowered in pain
and convulsed uncontrollably had no power.
Could this wood be anything but a three-dimensional stage
on which the drama of justice was enacted?
It was but an inanimate object.

“Oh, I object,” a convert cries.
“That crossbeam on which Jesus died,
has fueled my faith and moved my heart.
There’s power in His cross.”

Ah yes.It is the bridge that lets us cross
a chasm far too great to span.
It is the power that achieved
God’s vast eternal plan.”

The cross achieves what nothing could,
for in that intersecting wood
what once was dead is born again
as One once living dies.

There’s power in Christ’s precious blood
and in His cross as well.
For on that bloodstained wooden stake
our souls are saved from Hell.

In Praise of Easter
The ultimate grave robber

Graveyards are a fact of life.
Just ask my father’s widowed wife.
Those granite tombstones punctuate
a lawn that’s hard to mow.

Such markers call to mind the pain
of waging war (with Death) in vain.
The landscape littered with gray stones
is lifeless, cold and dark.

But there’s an empty grave I’m told
that’s far away and very old.
A not-so-final resting place
whose vacancy inspires.

Within the earth they laid my Christ
drained of the blood that paid my price.
But mourning proved quite premature
as night gave way to day.

That empty cave’s a mystery
that fills my heart with ecstasy.
This is the bedrock of our faith
that robs Sleep of its sting.

The Sounds of Spring

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

They are about to be heard in your favorite baseball park

It won’t be long till Op’ning Day
when “boys of summer” start to play
the game by which our nation’s known
and with it sounds of spring.

Bees buzzing in a buttercup
sound beautiful, but “Batter up!”
from men in black adorned with pads
gives me a longed-for buzz.

Although I like spring’s chirping birds,
the cheers from box seats are preferred
(as are those organ melodies).
It’s music to my ears.

I love the sound of ball meets bat.
That quintessential springtime crack.
A sound I’ve missed all winter long
will soon be heard at home.

Much like the earth that is reborn
(or what took place on Easter morn),
these “sounds of spring” remind me that
joy’s found in brand-new starts.

* Curiously, Opening Day this year is on Easter Sunday. I don’t recall that happening before.

Deal or No Deal?

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Questions dealing with Hollywood’s drug pandemic;
Obama, Duh!

Deal or No Deal?Questions dealing with Hollywood’s drug pandemic  Another child actor deadand all because of drugs.What happens there in Hollywood?Are kids turned on by thugs? Does all that fame and instant wealthcreate a thirst for more?Once scenes are shot and in the can,who helps young actors score? Who gives them pot and cocaine and speedin hopes they soon will buy?The very ones who feel no griefwhen these young actors die? Who deals and sells to those at risk?A doctor? Parent? Friend?Do they not know they’re liablefor causing lives to end? Who cares enough to find a cureto this pandemic curse?Will we just blindly close our eyesand let it become worse? Or will we close our eyes in prayerfor Mastermediaand other faith-based outreacheswho woo actors to God? * Mastermedia International is an interdenominational ministry to actors, directors and producers in Hollywood. Check out their website at http://www.mastermediaintl.org/Obama, Duh!
New lyrics to the same old tune about healthcare reform

Obama, duh,your healthcare plan is broke
and should it pass,we’ll also be (no joke).
 In Washington your biggest guns
take aim to force your will.
But is it fair to deem and dare
opponents on the Hill?
 Why should we be like Canada?
Waiting for months and years for surgeries
while paying more in taxes endlessly.

* The above poem can be sung to the tune for “O Canada”