Coffee – KensView

Brewstock 2

Well, I came across a band of folks
As they dashed on Orinda Way
And I asked them, “Tell where are you going?”
This they told me

Said, “We’re going to Café Teatro
Got to join a Holiday chorus
Gonna sit with just no rush
And sip some caffeine”

We are honest, we are olden
Near a hundred-years-old carbon
And we’re joining together
Here with our good friends

“Well, then can I come drink with you?
I have come to lose my brain fog
And I need to make certain
The wheels keeps turning”

“And maybe it is just the right season
Or just maybe it’s what’s in the air
And I don’t know what it is
But it’s time for sharing”

We are honest, we are olden
Near a hundred-years-old carbon
And we’re joining together
Here with our good friends

We are honest, we are olden
Near a hundred-years-old carbon
And we’re joining together
Here with our good friends

© 2022, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.

BrewStock

I came across a band of folks
As they dashed along Orinda Way
And I asked them, “Where are you going?”
And this they told me
We’re going to Café Teatro
We’re gonna form a Holiday chorus
We’re gonna sit with no rush
We’re gonna sip some fresh brewed caffeine

We are honest
We are olden
And we’re joining together
With all our good friends

“Then can I come drink with you?
I have come to lose some brain fog
And I need to make sure my mind keeps on going”
“Well, maybe it is just the right season
Or maybe it’s what’s in the air
We don’t know what it is
But you know, it’s time for sharing”

We are honest
We are olden
And we’re joining together
With all our good friends

After arriving at the Café
We were a couple dozen strong
And all around, there were toasts and joyous singing
And I dreamed I saw the Grinders
Gauging EVs on the road
And sparring over Joe’s, Donald’s, ‘n Ron’s
True situation

We are honest
Near hundred-year carbons
We are olden
Riding on a Java high
And we’re joining together
With all our good friends

A Different Spin

My Odysseus announces his return
From his long, meandering sojourn,
In which he and his valiant mates
Twist over geopolitical fates.
Lamenting Cassandras, they foretell
The effect of a famed pretender’s spell.
They fret fortune’s downswings
And titter about scandalous flings,
While singing praises of spouses
Awaiting dutifully in their houses.
Thus, entering assured he states in jest,
That I’ve passed the loyalty test.
But, I respond with the reminder
That he’s simply an Orinda Grinder.
I note his tunic’s brown spill
Does not give me much thrill.
And, as to Homer’s old yarn,
I don’t really give a darn.
I assert that his coffee vacation
Offers me an opportune occasion
To advance my own business
Or shop for a new headdress,
To hit a few fairway drives
Then tend the backyard beehives,
To rehearse for the church choir
Or do whatever I aspire.
I’m not some doting Penelope,
‘Cause this is the 21^st century!

(Sub)urban Planner?

Now you wouldn’t know from his presence
When he spills coffee on the Café terrace,
That Pete is famous world over for his plannings,
Launched after Illini and military beginnings.
Architect, urban designer, and perspectivist,
He’s also dabbled as an editorial cartoonist.
In the capital he set a good precedent
For his very first client, the President,
By designing the ‘64 inaugural pavilion,
Which he had won in stiff competition.
To recount all of Pete’s accomplishments
Would take several rounds of refreshments:
He created a Pennsylvania Avenue scheme
Then formulated the Reston, Virginia dream.
Baltimore Interstate Highway system untangled,
Renovation of Amtrak stations well handled,
His designs for mixed-use office, residential,
Industrial settings and some educational,
Spawned innovation in Australia and Japan,
Historic Prague, Mexico, and Ford Island.
A first collaborator of US and USSR architects
To help restore earthquake-ravaged Spitak,
He advised Atlanta’s Olympic planning,
Then consulted on Katrina rebuilding.
But one perspective his designs overlook
Is that not all plans go by the book.
Once wandering for weekend distraction,
A young GOP activist drew his attention.
For the Lincoln State boy, fish out of water,
Helen made sure to give him no quarter.
She found that the future Cad Man was no cad,
And made sure all his promises were ironclad.
The long sustainability of their project shows
Politics and serendipity make great bedfellows.

Bad Coffee Breaking

I daydreamed I was on trial, accused
My espresso gone cold, and so abused.
“Oh woe,” I exclaimed, “What can I do?”
Someone then said, “I’ve the one for you:
He can make Perry Mason green with envy;
Stir jurors and witnesses into frenzy.
As to judges, he’s wise to predilection,
‘Cause they always sweat about re-election.
Of his rep, biggest frog in the pond,
Opposing teams are not very fond.
A Tiger eyeballing any inconsistency,
He sniffs out obfuscation and insincerity.
Not bursting out from the gate with guns blazing,
He evolves organically with pacing,
Showing at first restraint and patience,
Then exuding swagger and confidence.
He digs his claws deep into motivation,
Then charts an opponent’s slow degradation.
Deftly nudging prey into a canyon,
No half measures are his only canon.”
“But the bottom line is, I must demand,
For my lapse should I get a helping hand?
To fess up would appear common sense,
But I can’t lose my Grinder’s license.”
“Yes, he can salvage any reprobate
If you can afford double market rate:
Coin of the realm, beans or grounds all accepted,
Absolutely no maximum rejected.”
Gradually the scent of coffee arose,
Managing to tickle and tease my big nose;
I suddenly woke from the short spell,
And yelled out loud, “I’d better call Hal!”

Tamer of the Brew(haha)

Near every morn we convene
To sort out the day’s headline screed.
Back and forth we parry and joust,
Debate hotter than coffee roast.
Everyone looks for some missing gem
To unscramble the nation’s maelstrom.
But into the fray comes a gentle gent,
Whose arrival is clearly heaven’s gift.
Winding calmly amidst the noise,
He’s a stalwart with stoic poise.
He speaks a truth quiet and clear,
With insights insured to endear.
His presence offers inner light,
The path before him ever bright.
But who is he to whom we refer?
A true meaning-of-life observer.
With words recalled from a Dylan ode,
Let’s share a cup of Zach ‘fore we go.

The Smallest Grinder

Life’s no beach, no bones about it;

The old bones ain’t what they used to be.

Day after day, week after week,

Forever tethered, he drags me over here.

Then just when I get settled in, he says,

“Move over, make room for one more.”

It wouldn’t be so, so terribly bad,

But I’m subjected to all that verbal abuse.

Those Grinders, a noisy, smelly bunch,

Grate my ears with their endless whining

Of prices rising high, politicos going low,

Nyah nyah nyah, which I pretend not to hear.

While I do have a lot to complain about,

It’s not as bad as the ASPCA shows on TV.

His training took me too long to trade him,

And there’s something about him that I lap up.

It’s a dog’s life, but somebody’s got to do it.

Keep those cups of Joe coming, Dave.

Thanks for your steadfast loyalty.

Who knew?

I came as an outsider to Café Teatro
Sitting all alone for several mornings
Until the day he said please come join us.

With a broad smile and the tenor of his voice
Leaving no doubt he was genuine,
I was thus cordially welcomed.

We would sit with the other Grinders,
but soon I surmised a pleasant surprise
That this was no ordinary gentleman.

He began to expound about pool pumps,
Troublesome private roads and neighbors,
Along with heavy footing through the Grapevine.

A devoted family man and stalwart at Santa Maria,
He’s comfortable en español and on a hard court,
And has paid his dues working SF public schools.

As a babe, he hailed from Tegucigalpa;
And while in the Zone, he tooted his horn
Serenading snakes in the dense, dark forest.

In service to country, the lieutenant went north
To sing Qui tolis peccata mundi on the tundra
Amid defending the arctic cold war front.

A pick of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber,
He earned himself a symphony spot
As he tutored young future baritones.

To some he became known as the one who
Once stared pock-marked Manuel down
As the strongman waded menacingly ashore.

But what always matters most is
Carl’s perfect octave of decades
That regales us as we sit drinking coffee.

Coffee and Doughnut

Daily my father rose early
And put on his clothes in the dark.
He’d make his way to the kitchen
As I slept sound in my room.
Waking to the sound of the brew,
I was greeted by the rousing aroma.
A series of crinkles would follow
As he thumbed through the Sun-Times.
Entering, pattering across the floor,
I would approach with quiet respect.
His smile mirrored the half doughnut,
Artfully placed on his plate.