Saturday 11 November 2017

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.

Time isn't 
On my side.

As the growing darkness
Looms larger
Upon the horizon
Before me.

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.

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. 

Monday 18 September 2017

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

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

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.

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. 

Saturday 9 September 2017

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
By the trapped beast

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. 

Wednesday 6 September 2017

After The Tears (September 2, 2017)

They fall
From the heights
Of Mt Olympus
Down our face.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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 31 August 2017

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

Next Tuesday
The kids go back
To school.

Are the falling tears
The raindrops
Of nature?

She sheds
With hope and lost
For the coming years.

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

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.

Saturday 26 August 2017

A Dream Postponed (May 10, 2017)

To some people
I am
A freak.

Who dreams
Of giving birth
To my own children.


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 the late 1920's
And early 1930's
Doctors would've transplanted
Female reproductive system
From cadaver donours.

My chance
Of a normal pregnancy.

At great cost
Of rejection
For the transplanted organs.

Unlike today
Tissue typing
Wasn't done.

And anti-rejection drugs
Weren't developed

As many transwomen died
From the shock
Of organ rejection.

And still
This siren call
Beckons me

Of one day
Being able to hold
This bundle of joy
With stem cell research.

We are cis
Or transwomen.

Therisa © 2017

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

Wednesday 16 August 2017

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.

Most people take
For granted.

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.

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.

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.

Wednesday 2 August 2017

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
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".

Short term success.

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. 

Wednesday 26 July 2017

Speaking An Unspoken Truth (December 20, 2011)

Oh Goddess
Please help me
To understand
Where this anger
Comes from.

This black rage
Fills me
With homicidal
And destructive

I struggle
With PTSD.

My last black rage
Happened two years ago
The threat remains
It will return.

Is not me
To want to
Hurt another person

But it is.

Therisa © 2011

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

Saturday 22 July 2017

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

Do I have
This need to be

No one is.

It exists.

Echoes of my past
Keep resurfacing
In the present.

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.

My face lights up
Like a deer caught
In the headlights.

As my frustration
And anger build up

Over my reaction
To their offer
Of support and love.

With each rejection
A part of my soul

Therisa © 2012

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

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