November's Tears (November 10, 2017)

Once more

November's gray skies

Hover over my soul

Draining me.

A time

Where death comes forth

Like the fiery Santa Ana winds

Claiming it's due.

Find myself

Struggling to keep afloat

As the holocaust threatens

To consume me

In it's embrace.

Knowing

Time isn't 

On my side.

As the growing darkness

Looms larger

Upon the horizon

Before me.

Awaiting

For the coming downpour

That leaves my soul

A frozen shell

In the desolate landscape.

As I have one foot

In this world

With the other 

Straddling the line

Between life and death.

Knowing

That November is

The month of death.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: November 10-20th, is one of my darkest period on the calendar, in which, many somber remembrances and anniversaries are observed. On top of my SAD that usually last from November to mid--March, before I can leave the grip of severe depression. Although, over this past year I have been dealing with a chronic depression, except for brief periods, hasn't left me. Struggling to write, as my depression has chased my muse away. 

The Reversal of Dorian Grey (September 18, 2017)

We're told

That gray hair is

A symbol of wisdom.

And yet

Why do we make

These same mistakes

Over and over

Again?

Like we're trapped

In an endless loop

That only ends

When the power

Is disrupted.

Is it vainglory

Or a sign

Of our hubris

That we try to hide

Our aging shell?

Viewing it

As a sign of weakness

To be despised

And hated

For our impending

Mortality.

Coating our locks

In a colourful sea 

Of natural

And artificial dyes

Like it never happened.

In a flawed attempt

To deceive ourselves

That the biological clock

Will stop for us.

Regardless

Of one's wealth

Social status

Or income level.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Over the past 6 weeks, I have notice more and more gray strands in my hair, whenever I look into the mirror. I realize having spent almost 5 decades on this plane of existence, this would eventually happen to me, but thought it might be delayed for another year or two. Why I may not like this, I won't be lining up at the local salon or drugstore, to purchase this false sense of youth, in dying my hair to an unnatural shade. Having already tried this, earlier in my life. While I liked the look, it didn't last long, as my hair rejected the dye. So no blue hair rinse for me. 

Freeing The Gorilla (September 9, 2017)

Once more

We stand

On the brink of madness

As world leaders

Rattle nuclear sabres.

In heroic poses

Like a 19th century statue

Covered in bird droppings

And other waste.

As egos direct

The tilting windmills

Towards North Korea

And Washington, D.C.

With their eternal dance.

Where political dogma

Reigns supreme

Over logic.

Rattling the metal bars

Of the zoo cage

Unrelentingly

By the trapped beast

Inside.

Knowing

To release it

Is utter stupidity

Of the highest order.

And yet

We have done so

In our anger.

May the heavens

Forgive our follies

For doing so.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: I fear the rhetoric of President Donald Trump will inflame the worsening North Korea crisis, to the point, one side or the other will renew the fighting. Thus breaking 64 year truce, between the warring parties. 

After The Tears (September 2, 2017)

They fall

From the heights

Of Mt Olympus

Down our face.

Overburdened

With the toxic slurry

Of our lives.

Those times

We've been told

By others.

We're bleeping useless

Pieces of waste.

Never stopping

To realize

These words were

Never meant for us.

Rather

The outward expression

Of those speaking

Their own inner hate.

Scared and envious

Of us

In our boldness

To be true.

By being

The ultimate person

We can.

In saying

I love myself

Despite the hate

Tossed at us.

So wipe away

That bio-hazardous flood.

And remember

Their words can

Only have power

When we give it

To them.

A hard thing

To remember

As our soul crumbles

Under this weight

But necessary.

For Rome 

Wasn't built

In a single day.

Neither 

Shall our healing be

Until that day arrives

Please be gentle

And compassionate

To ourselves.

For we shall have

Our good and bad day

On this journey

To wholeness.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Reaching out to someone, who's having negative self-doubts on her healing journey.

Post Labour Day Thoughts (September 6, 2017)

The parade is over

Marchers have gone home

Leaving behind their garbage

Uncollected.

Protesting against

The favourite cause

Of the week.

A dwindling voice

From another era

And time

Of the union movement

Searching for direction

And relevancy.

Where true equality

And gender rights

Are yesterday's news

Meant to be forgotten

As last year('s) failures.

Replaced by

The latest brightest

Sexy causes and slogans

To be chanted.

As another generation

Is lost and forgotten

By society.

Believing

They're solved

And logged

Into some dusty

And forgotten

History book.

As a single mother

Struggles to feed

Her family

Living below

The poverty line.

That $15/hr wage

Won't cover

The basics

Of her expenses.

As social assistance

Punish her

With their draconian

Claw backs.

As she sacrifices

Her present

For her children's

Future.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Under Ontario law, a person on social assistance (general welfare or disability) can earn $150/month, before losing 50% of the additional gross income that's reported to their caseworker, from their assistance cheque, until it's all claw back. Regardless, if one is receiving welfare or disability, these people are living well below Canada's poverty line, as food banks have become part of the system for getting the bare minimum of their food needs, to avoid starving for the rest of the month.

Thursday morning thoughts (August 31, 2017)

Gray skies
Fills the morning view.

As if
Someone had forgotten
To tell Mother Nature
It's still summertime.

And not
Autumn.

Although
Next Tuesday
The kids go back
To school.

Are the falling tears
The raindrops
Of nature?

She sheds
Intermixed
With hope and lost
For the coming years.

Drowning us
In a seemingly endless deluge
A wall of water
That falls
Day after day.

Drenched
Like a colony
Of drowned rats
We crawl forward
Towards the tunnel
Of muted light.

Moving blindly
Into the muddle
We call
The future.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: My second new poem that I have written since July 1st.

A Dream Postponed (May 10, 2017)

To some people

I am

A freak.

Who dreams

Of giving birth

To my own children.

But

Can't.

Genetics stopped

That biological clock

At conception.

Without great risk

To myself

Or my developing child

Outside of the womb.

How do I explain

To you

This feeling

Of incompleteness

I have.

In the early days

Of SRS

Of the late 1920's

And early 1930's

Doctors would've transplanted

Female reproductive system

From cadaver donours.

Enabling

My chance

Of a normal pregnancy.

Although

At great cost

Of rejection

For the transplanted organs.

Unlike today

Tissue typing

Wasn't done.

And anti-rejection drugs

Weren't developed

Yet.

As many transwomen died

From the shock

Of organ rejection.

And still

This siren call

Beckons me

Forward.

Of one day

Being able to hold

This bundle of joy

With stem cell research.

Regardless

Whether

We are cis

Or transwomen.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Given my age and medical condition, this remains a dream for me.  

A Small Act Of Defiance (August 16, 2017)

I have travelled

The darkest path

Of one's soul.

Where hope is

A distance shore

Out of reach

To the outstretch hand.

Waking up

And getting dress

Are major achievements

On a daily basis.

Acts

Most people take

For granted.

But

Not for me.

As I sit

Before a library computer

Typing this out.

Struggling against

My fight/flight instinct

To runaway

From here.

To the safety

Of my apartment

With Venus Squeak

And Star.

By surrendering

To that act

Am giving

My anxiety and depression

Another victory

Over my soul.

Forever 

Keeping me

A hostage

To the mental illnesses

I live with

On a daily basis.

So I ask you

Not to make this

A mountain

Out of a mole hole.

Rather

Sit by me

And say

"Good job Therisa".

Nothing more.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Since last November (2016), I have been struggling with my chronic depression, which has refused to leave me, in March. Turning my fall/winter bout of depression, into a 9 month ordeal for me. Over the past weekend, I have started another prose project, which for me, is a huge step forward. Not sure where it will take me, but anywhere is better that staring at a blank screen, like a zombie.

Early morning Thoughts (August 24, 2012)

Am feeling

History's long fingers

Waking my tired soul.

Another night passes

In the wee hours

Of the coming morn.

Where normal people

Are deep

In their REM sleep.

Except me.

It's 3 am

Sitting on my bed

Pouring my soul

Across the digital divide.

Wanting to turn

The impossible

Into the possible.

Where everything isn't

An unstable liquid

Malleable

To the touch.

Fueled by

An overactive

And creative mind.

In leaving

These dark memories

In the past.

Not surfacing

In panic attacks

Or prolonged bouts

Of depression.

Am so tired

Having to take

A regimen of pills

To be "normal".

Achieving

Short term success.

If

At all.

Therisa © 2012

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue. I wrote this, during a time of severe side effects from one of my numerous anti-depressants that I have taken, over the years. 

Speaking An Unspoken Truth (December 20, 2011)

Oh Goddess

Please help me

To understand

Where this anger

Comes from.

Which

This black rage

Fills me

With homicidal

And destructive

Thoughts.

As

I struggle

With PTSD.

Although

My last black rage

Happened two years ago

The threat remains

It will return.

This

Is not me

To want to

Hurt another person

But it is.

Therisa © 2011

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

Why Can't I Be You? (August 16, 2012)

Why

Do I have

This need to be

Perfect?

Knowing

No one is.

Yet

It exists.

As

Echoes of my past

Keep resurfacing

In the present.

Haunting

Everything

I do.

A simple task

Like accepting

Or giving a hug

Is a traumatic experience.

As waves of anxiety

Flood my body.

Forcing friends

Or love ones away

Hurting them

By doing so.

While

My face lights up

Like a deer caught

In the headlights.

As my frustration

And anger build up

Internally.

Over my reaction

To their offer

Of support and love.

With each rejection

A part of my soul

Dies.

Therisa © 2012

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