When has love thrived under convention, convenience, or even wisdom?

Take my ashes to San Francisco
Follow the steps
And lay me to rest where
I always felt free and at peace

Step one: Irish coffee(s)
Step two: Irish coffee to go
Step three: take the walk and shed your demons
Step four: find my spot and sit
Step five: tune in, unwind, and listen for my reply

Let me go into the ocean
And I'll always be within reach
Stay by the sea and let the water  
Sing you my love songs
I'll be the fog on the horizon
And the brisk embrace
of the Pacific mist

And if you find yourself in need
I'll relinquish my spot
for those days you could use an ear
And feel comfort
Know that I'll hear you
And I'll reply
And if you weep
Let the raindrops that fall
And the howling of the wind
give notice
That I am weeping too

You may grow lonely
But you will never be alone
I'll be within waters reach
And in the city I will
Always be alive with you.

Take my ashes to San Francisco.

Are you surprised?
When you see a man holding another man's hand
Or when you witness a girl kissing another girl
Or when you go to a hospital where
they hire female doctors and male nurses
Or a woman holds a position higher than yours
in the corporation where you work for thirty more years
Or when a black female police officer is arresting a white man
Or...etc..

If yes, then sir, please take another ride on your time machine
back to the stone age.

born 1900
when Austria was still a monarchy
    that did not know
    it was approaching its end

growing up as the daughter
of the mayor of a little district town
    big fish in a small pond
educated accordingly
as a ‘higher daughter’

   be a home decorator
   do needlework
   be a gourmet cook
   play the piano
   be a respectable member
       of the community and the parish

when she turned 18
after the end of world war I
the social order for which she had been prepared
simply disappeared

her father became a disillusioned monarchist
the town’s republicans elected a new mayor

she married a railway engineer
who left her after her daughter
    my mother
was born
she managed to survive world war II
as a single mother

watched her daughter
    fall in love with, at Christmas 1946,
    and marry in April 1947
a guy who had just escaped
from a Soviet POW camp
looked like a walking skeleton
       my father
AND
was the son of a communist
who  had survived  world war I
as a POW in Siberia

strange bedfellows

     they used to play cards together
     once a week
     with great gusto

     class warfare
     morphed into social entertainment

both my parents were working
grandmother  led the household
on the side did bookkeeping for local businesses
     to bring in some money
practically raised me and my brother
cared for us when we were sick
taught me to play the piano

was always afraid we would not get
enough to eat

for a while, as a little child,
I slept in the same room with her
and  learned that she had
a wondrously melodious snore
    going over an octave & some such

when, after grade school,
I had to leave at 5.45 am
to catch the train
    pulled by a sturdy steam engine
that took me to the high school  
    50km down the road
she was concerned when I
   rushing out the door
just grabbed parts of the breakfast
she had so lovingly prepared

when I left home for university
she was not happy
when I went to the USA for a whole year
she was disconsolate

she did enjoy her great-grandkids
when they visited, though

too much distance for too long
from the place of her birth
made her uncomfortable
in her later years
she needed a familiar place
that came with its familiar things
to do and know

she lived to be 87

I saw her last
after a second stroke
had mostly incapacitated her

a tiny woman
curled up
waiting to leave us
for a world that finally might heal
the pain and disappointment
she had so bravely mastered
throughout her life

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.

The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n

the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
    upon layers
         upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n

i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n

What do i do, then?

Then, i run.

i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.

listening to contemporary soundscapes on the radio
I realize I am the  age of my grandmother
when she was terrified that I was
happily howling the latest Beatles  songs
and trying to play them on the piano which
    for her
was a sanctuary of late 19th century music
she liked to play with virtuosity and passion

much of what my culture radio station
calls contemporary music
or pop music stations praise in their charts
does not really catch my ear either

times keep changing