Wednesday 30 March 2016

November 13-15, 1998 (March 30, 2016)

Shall I forget
That last weekend
Of your life
With me.

Of holding
Your clammy hand
Within mine
That one last time.

Gone is
The rock
That anchored
Those depressive storms.

Never more
Shall your voice
Reach me
Over the telephone
In my time
Of need.

As darkness
Surrounds me
In its strangling web
Over my soul.

Gone is
The rock
That anchored
Those depressive storms.

Never was
Your favourite child.

You cried yourself
To sleep over

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Over the Labour Day weekend of 1998, I helped my parents, to clean up, the inhuman mess that my younger brother had created, in his basement apartment unit. For everything reeked of human waste, as we piled up, the garbage bags, several high. As my dad cried, at the destroyed antique red maple bed set, he had restored, for him. My parents left, with heavy hearts and piles of soiled clothing, which took multiple washings, to get rid of the smell.

For every night, until November 13th, my dad cried himself, to sleep, repeating my brother's name. On that fateful Friday morning, my dad had his last heart attack, as he prepared, to get dressed, for the long car ride, to University Hospital, in London, Ontario, for an appointment, with a heart specialist. One, he never made.

Paramedics tried, in vain, to revive my unconscious dad, but their efforts, were too late. For too long, his brain had been without oxygen, and only machines kept him, alive, which we removed, as per his wishes.  And yet, his body survived, almost 36 hours later, before the last breathe, at  9:50 pm, on Sunday, November 15, 1998.

Thus, marking my seven years of my mom's attempting to make me, into a clone, of my dad. As I had to submerge my own grieving process, to become, the "man" around the house. Even though, I lived a 3 hour drive away, from her, and had my own life, to live. As I sunk even deeper, into depression and resentment, towards her. As I worked long hours, so I didn't have to face her, every weekend.

I ask, anyone who reads this, doesn't leave any comments, as I won't be approving them, rather, be deleting them. This is, as far as, I feel comfortable, in sharing, this private moment, in my personal life.

Tuesday 29 March 2016

The Climb (March 29, 2016)

We start life
At the base camp
In believing
Is possible.

Never realizing
How cruel
And unforgiving
Our ascent
Can be.

How fragile
Our foot
And handholds are.

One misstep
Or lost of grip
Can send us
Tumbling downwards.

Some people
Never recover.

As their grave sites
The valley below.

Like adrenaline junkies
Are pushed
To take
Even greater risks
For that rush.

Burning out
When their oxygen
Is exhausted.

For those lucky ones
Who pace themselves
In reaching
Their personal summit.

Are graced
With Nirvana's entrance
And inner peace.

Has eluded
Too many people.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Tomorrow is, the ninth anniversary of the posting of my first poem, on social media (MySpace). Have to admit, every time, I look at that poem, I cringe, and want to delete it from existence. But, everyone has to start somewhere. In the following nine years, I have experience many highs and lows, in my poetic outpouring, depending upon my battle with mental illness.
Have joking told, the group moderator of my Male to Female support group, she's to blame, for this onslaught of words that I place out, in the world. For she pushed me, for several months, to take up writing, as a release valve, for the stress, I was dealing with, at that particular moment, in my life.
For all, who have read one of my poems, I thank you, and hope, I haven't chased you, away from my words.


Misguided Effort (March 28, 2016)

To the members
Of Black Lives Matter
I ask you
This important question.

Shouldn't we
Be protesting
The lost of another life
By a Toronto constable
Of one's skin colour?

Will admit
There's racism
Throughout Canadian society
All ethnic groups.

I wonder
If Mr. Loku
Had been Arabic
Or Asian
Would your zeal
Be here?

I know
What the answer is:


As you seek
Your simple solution
To a complex question.

As I continue
My silent campaign
Pushing for real change
How Toronto Police
Handles those calls
Dealing with
The mentally ill.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The real crime, is how Toronto Police, deals with those calls that involved disturbed mentally ill people. For the Police service has been too slow, in their respond, to real change, in their operating procedures, in this area. How many more people, regardless, of one's skin colour, must die from a police bullet, before change happens. I speak, as a person, has struggled, with mental illness, for most of my life. The biggest tactical error, the police are making, is yelling, given these people may be disassociating, and they don't hear the tone, or the words that is being used, upon them. Escalating, the already stressful situation, to the point, the police officer may feel the need to use violent force to protect themselves.

Respect (March 28, 2016)

You claim it
As a birthright
From me.

A second thought
Of giving me
A similar right.

Oh please
Put away
That race card
And stop screaming

Was taught
At a young age
You earn it
Like interest
On your balance
In a bank account.

My dear
I don't give
A damn.

For your selfish excuses
That endanger

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: There is a certain group of people, in my apartment building, who refuse to use their fob, when they exit it. Despite, repeated times of being told, to do so. In the past, there have homeless people, who have slept, under the stairwell and have left their bodily remains, behind for others, to clean up. As someone, who's dealing with an abusive past, I don't feel comfortable, in letting everyone, have free accept to the building.

Point Of Perception (March 28, 2016)


1.  the habits, attitudes, tastes, moral standards, economic level, etc., that together constitute the mode of living of an individual or group.
2.  pertaining to or catering to a certain lifestyle:
unhealthy lifestyle choices; lifestyle advertising; a luxury lifestyle hotel.
3.  (of a drug) used to treat a medical condition that is not life-threatening or painful:
lifestyle drugs for baldness.

Dear Whomever;

Please help me
To understand
How being trans
And gay or lesbian
Is a lifestyle choice?

When children
As young as
Four years old
Are identifying
As the opposite gender.

Who have
Never known
Their heterosexual

Religion is
Whether or not
You like it
Is a lifestyle choice.

The food eaten
Clothes worn
And manner of worship.

Being gay or lesbian
The decision
To be flamboyant
Or not
Is a lifestyle choice.

And not
The collection
Of DNA markers.

The accident hormonal
During pregnancy
Make a lifestyle choice.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Cis is a shorthand, used by the transcommunity, to stand for "Comfortable in skin" gender.

One Or Two Tubes? (March 28, 2016)

"In international news
An American woman
Is facing
Murder charges.

"After several guests
Have died
When they attended
A pumping party
At the suspect's home."

We're told
By society
Women must look
This way
In fashion magazines
And the runway.

An ideal
That's impossible
For most women
We're cis
Or transgender

In having
The perfect bubble butt
And breasts.

For whatever reasons
Lack of money
Or poor self-esteem
These women seek
A cure.

The Caitlin Jenner
Of the world.

Who placed
Their credit card
Upon the receptionist's desk
Able to buy
Any procedure
They want.

These women
Are desperate
Willing to poison
By injecting
Raw silicone
Onto their bodies.

In pumping up
Their vision of femininity
At these underground parties.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note:  I remember, seeing a documentary on silicone pumping, during the early 1990s, during the summer, when I was home, from my university studies. Sadly, I can't find it, although, I do know, it was broadcasted on the local PBS station, in Buffalo, New York. The first time, I was introduced to terms, like transsexual, transvestites and t-girls.  It focused on a group of transwomen, who worked the streets. Myself, I have never thought of injecting anything, into my body, whether or not, it's medically prescribed to me, by a nurse practitioner or doctor, given my extreme fear of needles, and blood.

Body Shaming (March 27, 2016)

Some meant
Their words
In a positive way
To me.

The sting isn't reduced
No matter
Their intention
Good or bad.

Why bother
If my effort
I make
Shall be ridicule
By society.

Been told
At what I consider
My ideal weight
To be anorexic
Upon my body's frame.

And yet
My current weight
Of 70.5 kg (155 lbs).

To BMI charts
Am overweight
Approaching obesity
At 5'6".

As my self-confidence
And self-esteem
Ever lower.

Adding more fuel
To the fire
In my constant struggle
With depression
And suicide thoughts.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Having been off-line, for the past 60 hours, I saw this article, in the Yahoo! news feed, today (March 29, 2016). In which, a health teenager is told, she must keep an unhealthy body weight, if she hopes to enter, into a dance program, at this particular college, in the United States. If you wish to read it, please click on the following link:

Saturday 26 March 2016

When Life Is, Stranger Than Fiction (March 26, 2016)

Never thought
In my wildest imagination
The truth
I am reading
Could be happening

In this day
And age.

As if
We haven't left
Medieval times
With the "curing"
Of the LGBT+ community.

In the mistaken belief
Physical torture
And psychological denial
Will alter.

What genetics
And chance
Have produced.

How many children
And adults have taken
Their own lives.

From this quackery
As "medical treatment".

Old memories
Within the LGBT+ community
Of a time.

When transphobia
And homophobia
Were the norm
Within the medical community.

And not
The exception.

Like it is

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The following links, are about conversion therapy, and how two different jurisdictions are dealing with it, on a practical term. One, actively taking steps, to make it illegal and stop its practice. And the other, to continue on, as if, nothing wrong has happened.

The second question, my mom asked me, after I came out, as a trans-lesbian, did I wanted to be cured. As if, being a trans-lesbian, was a horrible disease, like cancer that needed to be corrected, at cost, to me. While, adding, as a side comment, she couldn't help me, in the paying for such "cure". Never mind, she had just destroyed, any emotional base, I had with her.

Moving Beyond Fear (March 26, 2016)
At what point
Can we say
Never again
To "never again"?

Once more
We're huddling
In fear
Within our homes.

Jumping at
The slightest thing
Like a person
Who has PTSD
With our hyper-vigilance.

With each
New restriction
We impose
Upon ourselves
In the name
Of self-protection.

Giving our attackers
An additional moral victory
Over us.

I know
From personal experience.

My own life
From those
Who terrorized me
In the past.

For you
Can't reason
With a fanatic
Who is bent
Upon destruction
And death.

To continue on
Living life
Without fear.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Hope, the fear and hatemongers, of the Republican Party, are reading this poem, and taking notes. For there is nothing, such as, a perfect wall or system, to keep out  or stop those, who we view, as hostile combatants, within our borders. Just asked, the former Soviet Union, with its heavily manned Berlin Wall, who tried to prevent Germans, from fleeing, into West Germany.

Act Of Rebellion (March 25, 2016)

This is
A rebel's poem
Calling forth
Radical action
From the heart.

In a world
Govern by
Fear and hate
As death rains down.

With random acts
Of kindness.

Of one's gender
Or ethnicity.

By embracing
Our inner light
Piercing through
The darkness
That encircles
Our lives.

Greeting total strangers
With an open hand.

And not
A clenched hand
In anger.

As bridges
Not dams
Are built
Over troubled waters.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: As I wrote this poem, I couldn't stop thinking, about the U2 song, Sunday, Bloody Sunday, and the line, which Bono sings, "this isn't a rebel song", about the sectarian violence that has torn both sides of Ireland, apart. Especially, after the March 22nd bombings, in Brussels, Belgium, I felt this need, to voice my protest, over the violence that's spreading over Europe, in the past couple years.

Thursday 24 March 2016

Perception Is Reality (March 24, 2016)

Just Another Case Of He Said, She Said (March 24, 2016)

Today is
Verdict day
In the Jian Ghomeshi

I find myself
Being split
In two different ways.

The survivor
Of abuse
Part of me.

Wants the book
Thrown at Jian
For the alleged charges
Of sexual assault
And choking.

How hard
It is
To come forward
And bare yourself
Before the public.

In having
Every part
Of your life
Placed under
A magnifying glass.

In being made
To feel like
You asked for it.

Of the reasons
I will never
Take my brother
To court.

(And the length
Of time
That past
Since he started

(For the abuses
He done
To me.)

The part of me
That likes to explore
My own sexuality.

Wants to find him
Not guilty
Even though
He may have done
The alleged acts
To these women.

The verdict
Judge William Horkins

Four lives
Are forever

And not
For the better.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This poem was written, before Judge William Horkins read out, his verdict in the 4 charges of sexual assault and 1 charge of choking, against Jian Ghomeshi. For more, about the court ruling, please click on the following link:

Wednesday 23 March 2016

Armed And Dangerous (March 21, 2016)

Once more
A Toronto police officer
Is absolved
Of any charges
For shooting
A mentally ill person.

They say
They're making progress
In how
Officers respond
To these type of calls.

Hollow words
As the preventable deaths
Mount up.

Where are
The mental crisis teams
So many years ago?

A supervisor
Who's authorized
To use
A Taser?

The nature
Of the call
To 911.

How many more deaths
Does the SIU
Need to investigate
Before political will
Forces real change.

And not
Just empty words
To appease
The chattering class.

We find ourselves
To another shooting death
Of a mentally ill person
By Toronto police.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: On Friday, March 18, 2016, The Special Investigation Unit (SIU), a provincially appointed unit that investigates any time, a civilian is injured or killed, by the police, in Ontario, which cleared an unnamed Toronto police officer, in the shooting death of Andrew Loku ( a refugee, from South Sudan, who suffers from mental illness. The following is, a link to the case:

Information Control (March 23, 2016)

(Please insert name
Of a right-wing politician
Or a spokesperson
For a big business lobby).

"Can you explain
Why you resist
All changes
To stop or lower
Greenhouse gases

"Wouldn't be prudent
To cripple our industries
With new regulations.

Our leading trading partner
Doesn't have them".

"And yet
How do you justify
The lost opportunities
For emerging technology
To create
New jobs?"

"We have committed
Several billion dollars
To R&D
In finding new way
To reduce
Our carbon footprint."

Which critics
Have dismissed
As sketchy
At best.

Or not
It will work out".

The phone interview

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Until October, 2015, the Conservative Party of Canada, governed Canada, for a decade, by imposing their political and philosophical views. While, creating a culture of fear, among federal scientists, by firing or muzzling their ability, to share their findings, with the international community. Forcing them, to get their supervisor's approval, to attend any international conference, where their work is being shared, whether or not, it's good news, for their speciality area. 

Am hoping, the new governing Liberal party, will loosen all restrictions on Canadian scientists, thus allowing, a true exchange of information, between all countries. For already, there have been calls, to tighten the reins, over the federal scientists. A disaster move, if the Liberals hope to show, they're different, from the top down managerial style, of the Conservatives.

Going Beyond The Tears (March 23, 2016)

Was born
During the 1970s
Came of age
In the 1980s.

During my lifetime
Have witnessed
A huge change.

In how
We address
Mental illness
As a society.

For I speak
From personal experience
In my own battle
With it.

People used code words
To describe depression
Like feeling sad
Or being overly emotional.

My own dad
Told me
As a child:

"To suck it

And yet
Despite of this
People are
Still scared.

I started talking
About my suicidal past
Over the past decade.

As if
By doing so
They're triggering me
To commit this act
Before them.

Never realizing
I needed to share
This dark secret
Of mine.

Until now
That is.

For this
Am eternally grateful
For this one person
Eleni Pinnow.

Who broken
Through society taboo
Over discussing

By stating
The truth.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The following link, is Ms. Pinnow, talking about her lost and moving forward, with her life, after her sister's suicide, in February, 2016.

Myself, I have attempted suicide, several times, before the age of twelve. My last attempt, occurred over the holiday season of 2010-11, which I had various vials of medication, lined up, before me, to take, before planning to drown myself, in the bathtub. Not sure, what stopped me, whether, it was Venus and Squeak (Star hadn't entered my life, yet), or something else. For I didn't open those vials, that stood before me. Rather, put them back, where I, normally keep them, in a bedside drawer, away from the cats, extreme heat and dampness.

Tuesday 22 March 2016

A Murder Was Spotted, Today (March 22, 2016)
My apartment window
I did hear
A murder of crow
So mournfully.

In signalling
The doom
Of someone

Never realizing
That person
Was someone
Who I knew.

As I turned on
The clock radio
To listen to
The noontime news.

The truth
Hit me.

Rob Ford
The former mayor
And city councillor
Of Toronto
Is dead
From cancer.

Sudden outburst
From outside
Broke the spell
I found myself

Looking out
A stranger is
Using a broom
To scatter
This murder of crows.

In believing
The Celtic belief
About Crow
Being the harbinger
Of death.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For more information, about Crows and the Corvus family, please click on, the following link:

Personally, I despite everything that Rob Ford, stood for, political, and as, a human being. But, he tried his best, to make Toronto, a better city, during his time, in office, as an elected official. For me, he will be remembered, as the first sitting Mayor of Toronto, openly rejected all invitations, from Pride Toronto, to be involve, with Toronto's annual celebration of the LGBT+ community, during Pride Week (last full week of June). For more information, about the life and times, of this polarizing politician, please click on the following link:


Through The Looking Glass (March 21, 2016)

At the 519
Looking at their board
Of help programs
And finding myself

In that
There are no programs
Which match
My specific needs.

There's programs
For depression
Abuse survivors

Geared for those
Who are male
(Or identify
As male).

In having
A substance abuse
Or alcohol

Never felt
This need
To ever inject
Or snort drugs.

And alcohol
Can't stand
Its taste
Or how
My body reacts
To it.

So why
Do I feel like
Am being punished
For avoiding
These pitfalls?

As I slip
Through the cracks
Landing in
"No-man's land"
(Pun intended).

To create
A patchwork network
Of support.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The 519, is  a community centre that operates, in Toronto's Gay Village, while supporting local needs, it serves, as an outlet, for the LGBT+ community, in the greater Toronto area. Its actual address is, 519 Church Street, hence, its name.

Saturday 19 March 2016

Remembering, The Debt Owed (March 19, 2016)

As a child
I was taught
By my dad
To show respect
Towards all lifeforms.

Of what I thought
Of them.
It be
A weed plant
Or a pest insect.
In returning
The great gifts
That they provide
To us.

In the form
Of food
Or simple beauty
In our lives.

Our debt
To Mother Earth.

For sharing
Her creation
With us.

Without it
There wouldn't be

Therisa © 2016

To Move Beyond (March 18, 2016)


Why can't I
Have the ability
To choose
When and how
I move on.

Having tried
Eight different drugs
Over the past 8 years

Each one
More toxic
Than the previous one
To my body.

Please spare me
All this talk
About suicide
Being a mortal sin
To my soul.

In your eyes
Am already condemned
For being
A trans-lesbian.

I don't believe
In your religion
Or philosophy.

At what point
Have I earn
The right
To be granted release
From my chronic pain?

Isn't 30+ years
Of suffering
For anyone
To receive relief?

I think so.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Am so sick and tired, of having people telling me, try another anti-depressant/anxiety medication, as my body doesn't respond to them, in a positive way. Each new drug that I try, is digging deeper, into the past, of failed drugs that big Pharma and the medical community has pushed on society. At what point, does the medical community admit that their one-size-fits-all treatments doesn't work for everyone.

For the record, I have been suffering from PTSD, since November 1974, when I had my mouth, electrically blown out, and have endured several reconstructive surgeries, to repair it, While, growing up, I have endured decades of abuse (physical, emotional, and psychological), at the hands of my family, so-call friends and transphobic strangers. In some cases, this abuse has resulted, in attempts, to kill me.

For those, who oppose assisted death, where are the programs, to help people, like myself. I can tell you, from personal experience, mental health programs, are the first thing, which are being cut, to save money, by hospitals and provincial governments. To receive any long term psycho-therapy, I have to pay out of my own limit fixed income, for each visit. Sadly, palliative care isn't any better, with limited space and lack of resources, for it.

As for the Catholic Church, I have no time, for an organization that condones paedophiles, within its clergy, despite, what they say, their actions, over the years, have said, otherwise. Beside, why should a church of a religion that I don't follow, dictate how my life is lived or ended.

The following link are to sites, for more information, about deep brain stimulation, Ontario's first assisted death and an announcement of Cardinal Collins opposition, to assisted death:

Why I Hate Applesauce (March 18, 2016)

Once more
I find myself
In the village
Of Erin, Ontario.

As if
The sands of Time
Had shifted backwards
Thirty-eight years.

To that fateful day
In 1978
When I learnt
A harsh lesson
In anxiety.

For I had shattered
My latest bully's
Front upper teeth
At the gum line.

A sobbing wretch
I arrived home.

With my broken
Thor lunchbox
And soiled winter jacket
In applesauce.

Can still hear
Those little angels
That surrounded us
Calling for blood.

In the kitchen
Did the fight
To my mom.

Between sobs
And blowing
My running nose.

The next month
Or so.

We waited
For the dreaded knock
From the OPP
At the front door.

Charging me
With assault
Causing bodily harm.

Nothing happened
Robbie (the bully)
And his family
Moved to Calgary.

(As reported
By the grapevine).

Never saw him
That I know of
The flashbacks.

Therisa © 2016

Friday 18 March 2016

Healing Blossoms (March 18, 2016)

Am dreamin'
The long hard winter
Of my soul
Is slowly

Having survived
Those long terror filled nights
Of my turbulent past
That replayed
Before me
In crystal clarity.

As the first 
Tender shoots
Of hope
Start to push through
My soul's frozen soil.

There will be times
I'll find myself
In the blackest
Of weather.

The worse has

The last killer storm
Had blown across
My soul
Five years ago.

The holiday season
Of 2010-11.

As I reach out
To the emerging Sun
In its warmth
And light.

In the moment
Real change is

Therisa © 2016
Am dreamin'
The long hard winter
Of my soul
Is slowly

Having survived
Those long terror filled nights
Of my turbulent past
That replayed
Before me
In crystal clarity.

As the first 
Tender shoots
Of hope
Start to push through
My soul's frozen soil.

There will be times
I'll find myself
In the blackest
Of weather.

The worse has

The last killer storm
Had blown across
My soul
Five years ago.

The holiday season
Of 2010-11.

As I reach out
To the emerging Sun
In its warmth
And light.

In the moment
Real change is

Therisa © 2016

Wednesday 16 March 2016

My Silent Truth (March 14, 2016)

You may think
I'm certifiably nuts
In sharing this
With you.

As I find myself
Once more
To control
This growing urge.

In wanting to
My birth defect. 

I'm not alone
In wanting
To do so
Among transsexuals.

Just that
I have reach
This stage
Of my life.

To medical reasons
SRS is slipping
Out of my grasp.

Am condemned
To living
What remains
Of my lifespan
In a male body.

Every second
That passes.

A Pot Of Tea (March 14, 2016)

Of mixed emotions
Swirl around
Inside my head.

The subway pulls
Ever closer
To my final stop
At Dupont station.

Will this therapist
And I
Hit it off
In the building
Of a strong relationship.

React like
Oil and water.

Or both of us
Feel a bad vibe
Thus ending
Our beginning relationship.

Next stop
Dupont station
And the butterflies
Have grown
Into baby elephants.

Each step
Brings me
To the appointment.

Not sure
If it's poetic irony
Or not.

A light drizzle
Is falling.

I write this

Making use
Of the hour
Before the appointment
With a small pot
Of mint tea.

Its aroma
And taste.

In calming down
My jagged nerves.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note:  On March 14th, I had my first session, with a new therapy, after having gone several years, without seeing anyone. Will admit, there was a connection, with him that I haven't felt with other therapists, who have left me, feeling defensive, as I clam up on them. My next appointment is April 6th. Do hope, this means, I can restart, once more, replacing my daemons, into their proper places.

My Biggest Regret (March 14, 2016)

Within my mind
The toxic game
Of "what if"
Is being played out.

As I castigate
For being
Too chicken
In not telling you
About my true self.

I think
You knew
I was different
From the other kids.

Just that
You wanted me
To speak
These words
In confirming
Your hunch
I'm gay.

Not sure
I should be laughing
Or crying

For your intuition
Is only
Half right
About me
Being gay.

You have 
A daughter
And a son.

And not
the two sons
You went to
The grave

Forgive me
For waiting 7 years
After your death.

To tell
Your ashes
At the grave site.

Craiglist Ad (March 14, 2016


A partner
To exchange
My slightly used
Outdoor plumbing
With an indoor one.

Strong preference
To those
Who are pre-menopausal.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: An insider joke, I have with a friend, in offering, to exchange my outdooring plumbing with them.

Terry Fox (March 16, 2016)
A man
Who shared
His dreams
And hopes.

With a nation
And later
It grew globally.

By making
The impossible

Whose inspirational
Marathon of Hope
Has provided
Many miraculous cures
For the disease
That claimed him.

His passing
Came too early
At the age
Of 23.

As we honour him
Every September 30th
With our own
Marathon of Hope
In thanks.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For more information, about the life and times, of Terry Fox, please click on the following link:

For myself, writing this poem, has brought many tearful memories, from 1980 and 1981, as a young child, Terry was, an inspirational figure, who challenged society's view, on cancer survivors. Can remember watching the news, when Terry's death was reported, hearing the choked up emotions, in Knowlton Nash's voice.

On both sides, of my family, cancer has stricken and killed love ones. During my second year, at Carleton University, in Ottawa, Ontario, my mentor (who worked, with the learning disabled community) died, from cancer. Myself, I am, a survivor of a cancer scare, at the age of 16.

Tuesday 15 March 2016

Burning Of The Soul (March 11, 2016)

I saw
What I could be
If I let my anger
Take me.

And it
Scares me
Big time.

To think
Within myself
The destructive energy

To consume me
If I let it.

By expressing it
As external energy
Rather than
Like I do.

That burns like
A hot red poker taken
From the forge
Of ire
And applied
To the soul.

Burning the flesh

Nothing remains
But scar tissue.

I refuse
To let happen
By not walking
This path of Death.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Last Friday (March 11, 2016), I attend, the first meeting of my Male to Female support group, in over 2 years, at the 519 (a community centre that supports the LGBT+ community, in the greater Toronto area, located, in the heart of Toronto's Gay Village). During the meeting, I found myself, exposing the raw pain and anger, I have within myself, normally, have suppressed. It wasn't a pretty sight, to see.

As I refuse to let, either, my mother, or my brother, get away Scott-free, from the emotional and physical pain, they have caused, over the years.

Which Hand? (March 15, 2016)

Do you look
At me
That way.

In my choosing
To walk
The sinister path 
And not 
The dexter one.

Which is
Often ignored
By people.

The inner realms
Of my fractal soul
And gender
As a transwoman.

People have wondered
If my journey was
An ambidextrous one.

For many times
I have been seen
As blurring
Gender lines.

Not understanding
Why I must choose
Either hand
In conforming
To your orthodoxy
Of gender.

At times
I feel
Nor right handed.

Just me
A soul
Who learning
From both hands.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Using the writing prompt: hands, for dVerse' Poetics.


Monday 14 March 2016

Down The Garden Path (March 10, 2016)

It has been 8 years
I received confirmation
Of my acceptance
By the Ontario Disability Support Program (ODSP).

A program
Notoriously known
For rejecting
All possible candidates
On general principles.

They will never
Admit to this.

And then
There's me
Less than 3 months
After applying.

The letter came

The psychological assessment
I attempted suicide.

Only stopped
By my inability
To cover over
Guard barrier.

To jump
The northbound traffic
Of the Don Valley Expressway.

Damn you
My fear of heights
For stopping me.

As for
My assessment
It was done
By a transphobic psychiatrist.

(A fact
My housing worker
At the last meeting
With the psychiatrist.

(As the psychiatrist
Did an 180 change
In her attitude
Towards me.)

All of this
I have 5 years
Before having
To do this

And that
Deadline past
Three years ago.

As I await
A new package
To arrival
In the mail.

Lucky me.

Therisa © 2016

Saturday 12 March 2016

A Ghost Poem (March 11, 2016)

The white cliff
She stood.

Looking out
Into the distance sea
Before her.

For an answer
That wasn't coming.

A brisk sea breeze
Blew through
Her waist long
Ebony hair.

Fanning it
Across her body
Like a living cape.

She brushed back
Those loose strands
From her eyes.

The rising moon
Shone upon
Her pale alabaster skin
Washing out
Her facial features.

Except for
A slow steady stream
Of tears
That sparkled
Under the moonlight
Like diamonds.

No movement
Was observed.

The moon's passage
Around her.

By little
Her presence
Started to fade away.

As the Moon dripped
In the Horizon.

Dawn lights
Began to brighten
The early morning skyline.

Nothing was left
To mark her
Upon the cliff.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: A different take, on the traditional ghost story, which the woman is waiting, the return of a love one. And, most of this poem was written, during the wee hours of the night, as my insomnia paid me, its nightly visit.

Friday 11 March 2016

What Is Normal Like? (March 11, 2016)

I find myself
Asking this question
Without a ready answer
To it.

Never gave it
A second thought
About the toxic relationship
Between my brother and I.

Even though
My grandma did remark
She has never seen
Two siblings go at it
So furiously.

How different things were
From my many cousins
In comparison
To my situation.

I entered
 A Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) program
At a nearby hospital
About four years ago.

The therapist told me
It's not unusual
For a family
To be dysfunctional.

As if
My childhood years
Weren't brutal

Even now
Thirty-five years later
I can still hear him
And his friend
Calling me:

" A f--king

"A f--king fairy"
Who needed
To be taught
Her proper place.

As they pounded
The living daylights
Out of my body.


To my grade 5 year.

I could say
My previous school years
Were less violent
And verbally).


This would continue
Until I transferred
To another high school
At the end
Of grade 10.

This abusive environment
Behind me.

The memories
Still haunt me.

I ask you.

What does it
Feel like
To live
A normal life?

Without constant echoes
Of destructive voices
Or PTSD flashbacks
To haunt
Every moment
Of ones life.

If possible
For just one minute
I would love
To experience this moment
In my live.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: There times, which I find myself, cursing my long term memory, for its ability to hold past events, in my live, as if, they have happened, just yesterday. While, my short memory has more holes, in it, than an unpasteurized piece of Swiss cheese. There is more, that I could have detailed, here, but, even a masochist, would be crying, begging, for no more. Sigh, am so tired of this weird roller coaster, which we call life. Can I, finally, be able,to get off, please?

Taking The High Road (March 6, 2016)

Excuse me
Do you feel threaten
By my very existence?

In which
I challenge
Your perception
To the core
Of your soul?

You find yourself
In all areas.

Your negative response
To my poetry.

Come back.

You've grown up
And educated

We can talk.

Until then

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This is, my response to, an ignorance comment, about my mental health, in calling, my poem, "The Good-bye", sign of a disturbed mind. I had thought of responding back, with a sarcastic comment, but this person wouldn't understand, what I was saying, to them, thus, simply deleted their comment.

Feeling, momentarily depressed, doesn't mean, I am suicidal or even thinking of attempting it. Over the years, I have found that some of my more emotional poetry is written, during down periods, like this. I wonder, what this person would say, about Vincent Van Gogh, or Fyodor Dostoyevsky, who both suffered from mental illness, but considered masters, of their chosen art form.

Thursday 10 March 2016

Monday 2:17 (March 7, 2016)

Another night
Of broken sleep
And half formed poems
Fill my consciousness.

My body's protests
Are ignored
Once more.

The perpetual motion engine
My brain
Won't shut down.

Blink of the eye
My mind has leaped
From the past
To the present
And back

Any temporal interruption
To my thought patterns.

As if
The very concept
Of a time continuity
Is meaningless.

With the blurring
Of time
Between night/day
And sleep/consciousness.

This must stop
For the sake
Of my health
And sanity.

I feel
So powerless
To stop it.

Short of
A complete system

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For those, who are wondering, there is no religious significant to the title, beyond, I wrote it, on a Monday, and started it, at 2:17 am.

Wednesday 9 March 2016

Some Sanity, Please (March 6, 2016)
Dear Powers To Be;

Am writing this
In protest
Over this winter's

Is it
Asking too much
From You
For consistency?

So sick and tired
Of feeling like
A ping pong ball
Being bounced
All over the place.

Never knowing
If I should
Be dressing up
In multiple layers
For the coldest day
Of winter.

Breaking out
From storage
My Summer clothes
And sunscreen lotion
With a SPF of 1000
For my body.

A heavy sigh
As I wonder.

Will we get
Any Spring
This year.

Go straight away
A long hot Summer.

With little
To no relief
From the needed
Spring showers.

I hope not.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: We were told, this year's winter, would be, an El Nino, never expecting an Artic Vortex that would be our guest, for February. As the weather bounced around. In one week, the temperatures jumped, from 14.8 C to -20something C, as the city of Toronto Public Health, declared an extreme cold warning, for the following 2 days. This is extreme, even for Canada.

A Side Trip Through Hell (March 6, 2016)

It's been 9 years
I have quit
My last job
In utter frustration.

I found myself
Working in
An increasingly
Hostile environment.

With little
To no support
From management.

I could have taken them
To the Labour Board
Or the Human Rights Commission
Over their actions.

I needed out
Of there.

For the sake
Of my health
And physically).

A minimum week
Of 50+ hours
Over 5 days.

On top of
A daily commute
Of a 3 hour
Round trip.

Never mind
My asking
To work
An 8 hour shift
Every fortnightl.

To attend
A support group
In Toronto.

Was like
Trying to remove teeth
From someone
Who has none.

As I tried
To transition
In this working Hell.

Looking back
Am better off
With less money
And stress.

As I take it
But constant steps
In my holistic healing.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: At the time, I was working for a small company located near, Pearson International Airport, in Mississauga, Ontario. When, I did quit, I tossed all of the inbound receipts, into the air, like Mary Tyler Moore did, with her hat, at the beginning, of her 1970s show. Not caring, where they landed.

A Crippled Soul (March 9, 2016)

A sad sigh
From her lips.

She looks over
The numerous responses
To her poem
About coming out.

Her eyes.

As if
She was seeing things
On the computer screen
Before her.

For years
Around her
Been expressing
Their support.

Despite this
She's left feeling
Weird and uncomfortable
With this outpouring.

Almost like
She's waiting
For the other shoe
To drop.

The abuse
To start
Once more.

Even though
That part of her life
Is years away.

She can
Still feel
Its destructive echo
Within her soul.

Just wanting
To be normal
Like everyone else.

In being free
From this harmful baggage
Of her past.

And not
This emotional cripple
Who's breaking down
In a public library
Like a little baby.

Therisa © 2016

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