A Centennial Worth Celebrating

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Paying tribute to the Boeing Airplane Company

For 100 years at Boeing
they’ve been making planes to fly.
Thanks to Boeing we found ways to win a war.
Boeing’s given wings to visions.
Far-fetched dreams were realized.
And in partnership with NASA rockets soared.

In their fact’ries in Seattle,
Wichita and Charleston,
Boeing’s birthed their birds with engineering pride.
Air Bus and McDonnell Douglas
can’t compete with Boeing’s class,
though for decades (Heaven knows) those two have tried.

Orv and Wilbur couldn’t fathom
how Bill Boeing would take-off.
He took flight in ways that caught the world by storm.
And the planes that Boeing gave us,
though a novelty at first,
have become (for lack of better terms) the norm.

Here’s to Boeing and their workers
as they celebrate this year.
What a milestone this is to say the least.
Thanks to Boeing and its partners,
airline travel’s safe and sound
as we fly the friendly skies from west to east.

The White House Race is a Mud Bowl

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Just how low can they go?

Trump’s “locker room talk” in the Bush league
was disgraceful, demeaning and lewd.
And his running back (Mike Pence) is pensive
from his quarterback’s comments most crude.

Still Hillary isn’t much better.
She’s been intercepted a lot.
And those emails ruled out-of-bounds clearly
were illegal. Good thing she got caught.

This gridiron game is a mud bowl.
What’s slung by each team should be flagged.
The offensive lines are insulting.
They’re enough to make anyone gag.

Where’s the NFL commissioner when you need him?

The Gospel According to (Another) Matthew

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A prayer for a hurricane’s victims

The Gospel According to Matthew
isn’t good news at all. It’s insane.
This hurricane threatens the southeast
with its wind and its powerful rain.

A monster, the weatherman calls it.
A weather event that can kill.
Eyes are glued on this single-eyed cyclops
as despair dictates disaster drills.

After cutting a swath through Jamaica,
it pummeled poor Haiti with force.
And the death toll from Matthew’s still rising
as it threatens the towns in its course.

Not since Sandy has something this monstrous
sought to humble our national pride.
Matthew’s heartless and bullying prowess
is as tall as it seems to be wide.

Father God, help Your children in harm’s way
who are facing this storm surge head-on.
Give them faith to withstand what awaits them
and the means to rebuild when Matt’s done.

The Artful Dodger

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A toast to Vin Scully’s amazing run

There’s a movie about Sully,
but a sportscaster named Scully
has me pondering my childhood
and the Dodgers games he’s called.

His descriptions were a work of art.
Vin Scully (from the very start)
could paint with words and bring to life
what happened on the field.

Mr. Baseball has been in the booth
before I boasted my first tooth.
I grew up listening to him
and grew to love his voice.

But Vinnie’s voice will soon be stilled
and knowing that gives me a chill.
It’s hard to watch the greats move on
because it’s time to go.

So here’s to you, my childhood friend.
Your legacy will never end.
You taught us how to love the game
describing what you saw.

* Vincent Edward “Vin” Scully will turn eighty-nine on November 29th. He has been broadcasting Dodgers games since 1950. This weekend he concludes his celebrated career. When I saw my very first major league baseball game in the early 1960s in Candlestick Park, the San Francisco Giants were hosting the Los Angeles Dodgers. Vin Scully was in the broadcast booth calling the play-by-play for the Dodgers. Ironically, this weekend Scully is in San Francisco for his very last broadcast as his Dodgers play the Giants.

The Pennant Race in Autumn

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Why this time of year awakens my inner child

Each fall I’m like a little boy,
a baseball fan who dreams
that somehow my beloved team will win.
And though my heart’s been ripped apart
and grieved what’s slipped away,
I find a way to fuel my hope again.

I listen to sports radio
and watch games on TV
while studying the standings every day.
I live with every single win
and die with every loss.
No wonder my thin hair is turning gray.

I think back to those nights in bed
I cried myself to sleep
with my transistor pressed against my ear.
That’s when I learned that baseball’s more
than ending in first place.
It’s learning to be patient till next year.

And yet I love the start of fall
with playoffs in the air.
The chance my team might make it spurs me on.
The slightest hope ignites my faith
that one day they’ll have cause
to play more games when other teams are done.