Sunday, 18 June 2017

Men, I Honour (June 17, 2017)

So easy
To give in
To hate.

In letting
Anger rule me
Against all men.

Most of my abusers/bullies
Were born
Of this gender.

And yet
Tomorrow is
Father's Day.

As I honour 
My opa* and dad.

Two men
Who's love
Have helped me.

And shoulders
I have cried

Willing to do
Almost anything
To protect me.

Whose deaths
Have marked
Transitional moments
In my life.

In becoming
Who I am
As a woman
And a person.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: *Opa is Dutch/German, for grandpa.

Thursday, 15 June 2017

Depression V.2.0

A taint
Upon the soul
Consuming all
Without mercy.

Like a drug
It enters
By injection
One dose
At a time.

Never sure
Like Russian Roulette
If your time
Is up.

As the plunger
Goes down
Emptying the ampule
Into you.

Only knowing
One day
It will be
Your turn.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem, from my poetic morgue.

Winged Messenger of Doom (December 3, 2014)

Across the winter sky
Upon ebon wings
A Raven does fly
Towards me.

What bleak news
I don't know
But fear.

As if
A ghost has walked
Across my grave
Just a moment ago.

Sending shivers
Up and down
My entire body.

The approaching messenger
For only dire news
Travels this way.

As the doom bringer lands
Upon the arm
Of the Head Falconer.

A pale ghost
He does appear
When handling over
The message
From our enemy.

Which reads:

"You're dead
By nightfall
You surrender all".

A note crumbled
In haste.

As an arrow
Does pierces
My mortal breast.

Blood bubbling
At my mouth
My death rattle.

That damned bird
With my last breath
Before eternal darkness.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: another poem from my poetic morgue

Saturday, 10 June 2017

Censorhip (June 10, 2017)




Therisa © 2017

Author's note: This poem is, inspired by, the blackout art of Magaly Guerrero, as a protest, against the censorship, by governments and corporations, in the denying the truth, when it runs counter, to their message, to the general public.

Am Leaving (June 10, 2017)

I'm leaving
On a Go bus*
With my bags
All packed.

Don't know    
Where I'm heading
At the end.

Except that
My heart will tell me

With heavy heart
I buy my ticket
Awaiting the boarding call
To all points
But here.

Am leaving
On a Go bus
With my bags
All packed.

Don't know    
Where I'm heading
At the end.

Wiping away
These tears of sadness
At the parting
Of our love.

At the knowledge
Your love has died
In becoming hate
Towards your eldest child.

Am leaving
On a Go bus
With my bags
All packed.

Don't know    
Where I'm heading
At the end.

Please understand
My love for you
Has never waived.

But can't wait
For your heart
To change.

Am leaving
On a Go bus
With my bags
All packed.

Don't know    
Where I'm heading
At the end.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Ten years ago, on June 3, 2007, I walked out my apartment, in Brampton, Ontario, for the last time, as I headed to, a woman's homeless shelter, in Toronto, Ontario. Marking the beginning of a new chapter, in my life, as a woman. And, the beginning of a new chapter, for; A Work, In Progress, a prose piece of writing, I have started, earlier this month, on my new blog: Hopefully, this latest chapter will be done, soon, I can post it up, with the first chapter.

Wish to thank, the late John Denver, for his song, Leaving On A Jet Plane, as the inspiration, for this lyrical poem of mine. Like an earwig, this song played, in my mind, as I wrote this. I hope this poem does justice to him.

*Is part of the commuter transit system that the government of Ontario operates, along with a train system that connects Toronto, with the nearby and surrounding counties, 

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

Ripples, From Across The Pond (June 6, 2017)

A pinprick
Against my skin
A red teardrop
Into a vast ocean
Of sorrow.

Washing over me
Like a storm surged tide
Eroding the shorelines
Of my soulscape
With each wave.

Spiralling downwards
Into an endless maelstrom
Of darkness and sadness
That threatens
To overwhelm me
In its vortex.

In my fight
To break through 
This plastic surface
Of discarded bottles
And other things.

Entangling my limbs
In their ever growing web
Of entrapment
Like a finely spun
Net of hate.

My body
Washed ashore
Like a beached whale
Or dolphin.

Too tired 
To continue
In this fight
For life.

As my lifeforce
Bleeds out


To no avail.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: When someone uses terror, as a weapon, we all lose a part of our soul, to these acts of hate. Never, to regain that lost innocence, where love and compassion live, within us. Empowering those, who will hate to fight against hate, as a weapon, like President Trump, proposes, with his travel bans, against select Moslem nations. Especially, after the latest attacks, in England. Totally ignoring the fact, most acts of terror, are committed by native-born citizens.

Monday, 5 June 2017

Requiem For A Lost Child (March 5, 2010) (Updated and revised)

Forty years ago 
A child was born
Into this world.

In all ways
With ten fingers
And toes.

No visible signs
Of a birth defect
Except one.

Only known
To the child.

Not a defect
As society understands
But a greater truth.

That burns
With the intensity
Of a white-hot flame.

Removing all doubt
In the child's mind.

She takes small steps
Within the safety
And privacy
Of the bathroom.

Dipping a cautious toe
Into the waters of femininity
Testing the temperature
Before plunging head-first
Into the pool of life.

Filling herself
With the confidence
Only a young child has.

In expressing
Her desire
To be Wonder Woman.

Looking back 
A brave
Very risky move
In a small rural Ontario village.

You know
The type of place
Everyone knows
Your name and life history
And cows outnumber people.

Gossip and bad news
Compete against each other
Like two drivers
Spoiling for a race.

Testing their speed
Spreading the news
On the local phone company's

Hostile and angry glares
Greet the child
Instead of
Open arms
And warm smiles.

If looks could....

Dimming the flame
From white-hot
To a dull yellow hue.

As the child sought shelter
By burying
This part of themselves
In a hidden corner
Of their soul. 

The flame burns.

Like a beacon
Lighting the trail
The hostile wilderness
Society has become.

Enduring chronic bouts
Of depression
And anxiety.

Not a tear
For that child is

Now an adult
Walking the path now
So long
By the dim flame.

Once more burning
Having found herself.

Therisa © 2010

Sunday, 4 June 2017

A Ghostly Poetic Letter (June 4, 2017)

May 12, 2017

Happy birthday

Been awhile
Since my last letter
To you.

I could take you
In my arms
And share 
A hug or two.

Shed a tear 
On your ghostly 

Past year 
Or so
Have been tough
On my health
(Mentally and physically).

As I adapt
To my aging body
And the stresses
Placed upon it.

Like injecting insulin
On a nightly basis
Even though
Am deeply fearful
Of needles.

Never forgetting
Your smiles and hugs
Brightening up 
Whatever darkness
That threaten 
To swallow me.

Thank you
For the memories
And lessons
You taught me.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Another one of my poetic letters, to my dad.Please forgive me, for the lateness, in completing this poetic letter, but for the past 5 weeks, I have been sick, with infections, in my chest and throat, delaying my writing. Am slowly, getting better, and restarting to write again.

It may look like, I am having an explosion, in posting poems, but, in reality, am just finishing up numerous poems that I have set aside, for various reasons.

Saturday, 3 June 2017

Taking Control (June 3, 2017)

Don't call me
The latest flavour 
Of the month.

Another fad
To be tossed aside
On garbage day
To the curb.

Giving me
A month or so
Before I change 
My mind.

Truth is
I have experience
The brutal downside
That life can give.

That would've left
A lesser person
In total despair.

What you consider
A rash
And impulsive decision
On my part.

To throw
Everything away
And begin

You never say so
Your body language does
Loud and clear.

Never considering
My life isn't centered
Around your wants 
And needs.

To do
You want.

At your beck
And call.

Those days
Are long gone
Like one
Of those stories.

You find
In a long forgotten 
History book.

Never expecting you
To understand this
How many times
I try and fail.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Just something, I needed to write.

Foreplay (April 14, 2015)

Between teeth
Encircling my breasts
In delicate rings.

As orgasmic shivers
Grips my body
From the ice cube.

Therisa © 2015

Author's note: Another release, from my poetic morgue, with my first attempt, at an erotic poem

Friday, 2 June 2017

Waves Of Healing (June 2, 2017)

Bittersweet tears
Steam down
My face.

As the soundtrack
Of my teenage years
Plays full blast
In my mind.

A wall of sound
That surrounds
My soul.

In keeping
The darkness

Trying to restore
That innocent stolen
From me
By fear and hate.

Of empowerment
And healing
For all.

Bleeding away
One note
At a time
My sorrows.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: I know, some people call the music of the 1980s, a wasteland, but for me, it was the soundtrack of my coming of age, as a person, and what I stand for, politically, spiritually,  emotionally, and how I define myself.

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