A Round of Life

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Mastering life lessons we learn from golf

Life is like a round of golf.
It’s a walk with valued friends.
It tests your skill and finds you yelling “Fore!”
The bunkers and the hazards
try your patience and your faith
as you anticipate your final score.

You’re grateful for a Mulligan
when you (at times) mess up.
Like “breakfast balls” the Good Lord offers grace.
Perfection is elusive,
but you give it your best shot
in hopes you’ll reach your dream and card an ace.

And when you’ve played your final round
and reach the 19th hole,
you calculate what matters most of all:
Your family and your colleagues
and the memories you made
while chasing after that white dimpled ball.

*This poem was written in memory of die-hard golfer Peter Dierickx who died a few weeks before the 2016 Masters. 

The Republican Party is Anything But

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

It’s more like a funeral wake

The Party of Abe Lincoln
has become a funeral wake.
The only punch that’s served are verbal jabs.
Trump and Cruz just keep on swinging
like two bullies at recess
while the right to lead our nation’s up for grabs.

The campaign trail is littered
with what stinks and often steams.
Every week there’s more to hate and less to love.
No one’s acting presidential.
Late night talk shows think it’s bliss
as they joke about what we’re all thinking of.

Honest Abe just can’t believe it.
He is turning in his grave.
Truth and decency has joined him six feet down.
The Democrats are giddy.
They smell vic’try in the air.
A GOP contender can’t be found.

An UNHOLY Holy Week

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

What Jerusalem and Brussells share in common

Happiness is trumped by heartache.
A victory parade ends
in a victim’s funeral procession.
History has a way of repeating itself.
Between Palm Sunday and Good Friday,
life happens.
Death, too.

Cries of joy give way to tears of grief.
A hero’s welcome morphs into a martyr’s farewell.
A beautiful scene is blindsided by a bloody act
that smacks of a Garden variety serpent.
Amid the brown and brittle palms (once green),
evil rears its ugly head.

Then as now, fear grips as terror strikes.
Those who search the grisly scene
find evidence of what they suspected.
Upon close examination, a calling card surfaces.
Satan’s fingerprints are everywhere.

Hope is held hostage. Death has defeated life.
Mourning has broken us
shattering any dream of normalcy.
The shards of sorrow cut to the core.

But Holy Week does not conclude on Friday.
This one week of the year is eight days long (not six).
The demons are dancing prematurely.
Though wrong seems to have won,
Right has not been left in the dust.
A grave cannot hold Him.

Christ is risen!
He is risen, indeed!

The Eyes of Saint Patrick

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

New lyrics to an old Irish folk tune

When Patrick’s eyes were crying
he winced at what he saw.
A nation filled with heathens
who broke God’s holy law.
Aware they needed Jesus,
he pointed out the way.
This shepherd of the Irish
cried tears of joy that day.

Then Patrick’s eyes were gleaming
with love for those he served.
A people born in darkness
whose faith was now assured.
He showed them God’s great mercy
and showed us how to care
by making time for others
and learning how to share.

When Patrick’s eyes were closing
as death was drawing nigh,
he welcomed what awaited
for those about to die.
He left this world believing
his work on earth was done
and all because he trusted
in God’s beloved Son.

*the above lyrics can be sung to the tune for “When Irish Eyes are Smilin'”

Good Lord, He’s a Bad Candidate

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Why I hope Donald Trump is not the GOP’s nominee

I pledge allegiance to a flag,
not to an arrogant wind bag.
When Trump insists I raise my hand,
my blood begins to boil.

If Trump’s elected we would see
he’d call it Washington, DT.
The White House would be spray-tanned orange
and called Trump Tower South.

In real estate he may be great.
His wine’s okay.
So, too, his steak.
But Donald Trump as President?
Good Lord, that would be bad!