Lost my old spot at the Café Searchin’ for a seat every means and way But I never lost one minute of thinkin’ Worryin’ ’bout the way things might have been
Joe’s grounds keep on grindin’ Our Mary keeps on shinin’ Shinin’, shinin’, shinin’ in Orinda
Stacked a lot of cups on tables Talked a lot of gump downing coffee beans But I never saw the best part of our gath’rin’ Till I grabbed a seat near that Java klatch Queen
Joe’s grounds keep on grindin’ Our Mary keeps on shinin’ Shinin’, shinin’, shinin’ in Orinda
Shinin’, shinin’, shinin’in Orinda
When she comes down to the Café Bet you gonna find her full of good cheer You will not be sorry ‘cause she tells “hip” stories We all at the Café are ravin’ to hear
Joe’s grounds keep on grindin’ Our Mary keeps us smilin’ Smilin’, smilin’, smilin’ in Orinda
Smilin’ (Go on), smilin’, smilin’ in Orinda Shinin’, mm, shinin’, mm, shinin’ in Orinda Smilin’, smilin’, smilin’ in Orinda
In a classroom where sunshine spills, And morning’s laughter freely fills, There is a realm that just one child sees— Whiffs of color wafting on the breeze.
Her skillful fingers, so full of grace, Apply colors to their special place— Pinks, bright yellows, deep blues, solid greens, Ev’ry piece adorned with vibrant scenes.
With crayon box, varied and new, Whose each shade is a magic brew, She makes fancies take off in flight Through shiny stars sparkling at night.
She puts down with wholehearted cheer works of artistry to revere. Each mark is a tale, pure and free, Charming princess on royal spree.
Dancing across the paper white, Pixies and rainbows shine so bright As smell of wax, both light and neat, Rises up from her artwork sheet.
The aroma is a fragrant bond To childhood days, both fun and fond, In ev’ry shade and ev’ry hue, A world of dreams for all to view.
Her enjoyment pours out, strong and clear, As vision forms a world so dear. That sweet scent’s a timeless recall, Where whimsy reigns and wonders sprawl.
Thus a special child, heart so true, Turns simple strokes to skies of blue. And in her scenes both bright and bold, The scent of color shines like gold.
If we chase useful immigrants away, Our country will wake to a “bigly” day. Fields will lie fallow, factories go still— Fewer hands to build or handle the grill. Restaurants will close and kitchens go dark With no hustling workforce or ethnic spark. The streets will turn silent, no bustling rush; Cities will turn into a stifling hush. Homes will stay dirty and the lawns uncut— No painters, cleaners, builders, who knows what. The crops will wither and the trucks won’t roll, As the economy takes a great toll. And who will care for our young children’s needs? Who will there be to tend the farmers’ seeds? Hospitals will be thinned, with few nurses there; With caregivers gone, there’s a lot to fear.
So please reflect on the nation’s welfare— What will we do when migrants aren’t here?
O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light What so gladly I sell to billionaires’ top bidding Whose grand schemes and big dreams through Patriotic fight O’er the podcasts we aired, were righteously streaming? And your Savior’s great flare, fireworks bursting in air Give proof through the night that the Deal’s in gear; O say does my Czar-spangled banner now wave O’er the home of the “weak” or the land of my Faved?
Czar-Strangled Banner
O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light What so blithely we sold to a tycoon’s top bidding Whose big whines and wet dreams through the garrulous fight O’er the podcasts we heard, were so pompously streaming? And the Trumper’s stern glare, his farts bursting in air Gave proof through the night that our country’s not here; O say does our “star-spangled banner” yet wave O’er the home of the free or the Realm of the Knave?
That mountain lords over me; High above a looming mass, Its silent, cold indifference Chilling and unnerving my bones. Regardless whether ready or not, I brace to launch my first step; Shaky foot in front of the other, I compel myself to move up. Walking a fine, tottering line, Just one stride after another, I slow to a deliberate cadence To conceal my reluctant struggle. My aging body sore and stiff, Using every muscle and resource, I feel as if I’m teetering, But dare not lose control. Midway my legs grow weak, Testing my will to persist; I stop and rest more often, Then stiffly revive and move on. I must stay ever focused Never looking back or down; Though my limbs grow weary, I cannot accept any forfeit. We all have mountains to climb, But climb we surely must, If we are ever to overcome fear, Adversity will bring out our best. Warned about possible failure, Thought I could not, dare not, While it was ONLY fifteen stairs, I had scaled my Everest!
“Land of the Brave” where dear liberty was crowned, We once stood united, our wills tightly bound. Through the smoke of battle, our ancestors espied That freedom’s a flame, but it can flicker and die. From the ashes of conflict, we forged our resolve, In confronting the tyrants, our spirits evolved. With courage we faced those who twisted the truth, Promises that gush like the Fountain of Youth.
Yet now in the shadows, the voices grow loud, With pledges painted in palettes of the proud. Cloaked in assurance, with menace beneath, The gloss of populists who thrive on our beefs. “Remember,” they say, “the past is a guide;” But complacence makes civic duty slide.
We gather our banners, but forget what they mean, As we march to the rhythms of a con man’s scheme. The lessons grow dimmer as visions in fog; While strongmen encroach, we sit like boiling frogs. With fervor they promise to serve and protect, But a chain on the soul is what they project.
So heed history’s warnings, the lessons they give, For freedom’s a choice, not a passive way to live. In the face of the storm, let our voices unite; For the fight isn’t over, we must keep our rights. To honor the fallen, please open your eyes; For sake of the nation, let wisdom arise. Together we’ll withstand, but divided we’ll fall; For our future to last, we must give it our all.
The 2024 ballot was an inglorious gest, A contest appraised as the nation’s greatest test. A farce, a show, a mockery grand, We cast our votes on Freedom’s last stand.
The stakes were high and supporters all in, Battle of visions, consequences grim. One side screamed louder, the other stood tall, But in the end, many voters dropped the ball.
A land divided by red and blue, Not sure which color would see it through. We aspired for a change, but clung to the past, A cycle repeating, a dark shadow cast.
The joke was on us and the punchline too dear, For the truth we ignored was painfully clear. We thought we could fix things, restore all the glory— But the greatest self-own is the end of the story.
Yet the real decision was not in the polls, But by the masters that remain in control. And as we await the next act to begin, We scoff at the chaos and the mess we’re in.
In a dimly lit room, where cards take flight, Now she shuffles the deck, ready for the fight. “Let’s get started,” she says with a grin As the tricks play out and the fun begins. A master of bluffs, a queen of deceit, With a wink and a nudge, she can’t be beat.
Her foes roll their eyes; for what can they do? They’re ensconced in this contest, just like a shoe. “Trump this!” she shouts, as she lays down a hand As they sip their drinks and try to comprehend. They’re still counting hearts, while she’s on a roll. “1NT!” How to stop her reaching her goal?
The bids fly like butterflies, chaotic and grand; He’s just trying to keep up, is not in command. He nods with enthusiasm, though lost in the fray, Pretending he’s clever, but can’t make her pay. “Look at my diamonds!” she boasts with a laugh. “Four of a kind? You’re kidding! I’ve half!”
But in the end, it’s not the win or the loss; It’s the experience and fun that are boss. With each hand dealt and the laughter that swells, Bridge isn’t just cards, it’s a suit of magical spells. So here’s to Stitch, with her bridge-loving ways. May the games go forever, and brighten our days!
In Ms. Delgado’s kindergarten class, the desks were neat and properly arranged, filled with eager faces and tiny hands pulling out their pens and pencils. Among these students was Nina, a cheerful kid with curly brown hair and a big, wide smile. She was known for her vibrant drawings and, more importantly, her prized pen.
Nina’s pen was special. It was a gift from her grandfather, who had told her that it was magical. Every time Nina used it, her drawings, which received kudos from the teacher and classmates alike, seemed to come to life with extra brilliance. She was proud of it, and it had quickly become her favorite color in her pencil case.
A couple of weeks into the school year, Ms. Delgado announced a classroom project. “Class, tomorrow we’re going to make posters for the school art fair. But first, we may have to share some of our supplies with classmates who don’t have enough.”
Nina’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The supplies they needed were things she took for granted, like pen, pencils, and erasers. She glanced at her pen, which lay in her pencil case like a precious gem. She didn’t want to share her cherished pen.
As Ms. Delgado continued explaining the project, Nina noticed a boy named Jimmie sitting quietly in the back of the classroom. Jimmie’s clothes were often a bit worn, and his shoes looked too small for his feet. She saw he only brought some regular lead pencils and a few old markers to school. He often had to borrow color pens and pencils. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for him.
That night, grandfather called on the phone and asked. “How was your day, dear?”
“It was okay,” Nina replied, “but Ms. Delgado said we have to let other kids use our pens and pencils for our school project.”
Grandfather’s voice was warm and encouraging. “That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. You know, sharing can be very rewarding. It shows kindness and generosity.”
Nina thought about grandfather’s words as she lay in bed. The next morning, she carried her school things to school with an uneasy feeling.
As the school day progressed, Nina observed that Jimmie’s drawings were mostly in black lines and shades of gray with a color or two in some sections. He would occasionally wander over to looked at the other kids’ drawings such her own. She could see how much he wanted his drawings to be as full of colors as those of his classmates. She tried to focus on her drawing, but her pens, particularly her favorite one, felt heavier and heavier in her hand. It was as if that pen knew she was struggling with a decision.
During lunchtime, Nina sat with her friends, nibbling on her sandwich and thinking about finishing the project. She watched Jimmie as he sat alone, eating his lunch in silence. Then suddenly a thought flashed. Nina made her decision. She walked up to Jimmie, extending her pen out with her small hand. “Jimmie,” she said straight way, “I want you to have this.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But… that’s your favorite pencil.”
Nina nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief. “I know. But I think I think you should use it. It will make your drawings special like mine.”
Jimmie’s face lit up with a grateful smile. “Wow!. Thank you, Nina. That is so nice. I’ll take good care of it.”
Nina watched as Jimmie took the pencil, his fingers firmly yet respectfully grasping the barrel. As he turned to show the other kids, Nina felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t expected. It was as if the magic of the pen had transferred not just onto Jimmie’s drawings, but into her own heart as well.
Later that day, Nina noticed Jimmie’s drawings were more colorful and imaginative than ever before. She realized that her pen’s magic didn’t just come from its color but from the joy of giving and sharing.
As Nina walked home, she thought about grandfather’s words and felt a deep sense of happiness. She had given away her favorite pencil, but she had received something even more valuable in return: the joy of making someone else’s day a little brighter.
Just after the crack of dawn, As the sun spills its golden light, a suitcase stands by the door, announcing the journey to come.
I watch, heart swelling— each beat echoing years of laughter, bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games, the weight of dreams woven into the fabric of this moment.
I see my son, now a man, gazing forward into the horizon, eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.
I remember the first steps, the tentative dance of growing up, and how each fall became a lesson wrapped in a parental embrace.
With every reflection, pride unfurls like a flag raised high against the sky— an unspoken bond, strong and steady.
“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy, a bittersweet weight upon the tongue. “Explore, chase your dreams, find your own rhythm in this world.”
In that command, there’s a surrender, a release of the tether that has held us so close. Yet even if the distance stretches, that link will never really fray, only strengthen with each mile.
I fight the urge to pull you back, to gather all the memories, to pause the moment just once more; but I know this is the course of life— the letting go, the becoming, a cycle as old as time itself.
