Long Weekend Blues (May 29, 2017)

Not sure

Where or why

These tears came.

But

They're here.

Coming

In waves

Like the tide

Down my face.

Melancholy

Fills me

Looking back

Over the past 4 days

Can only sigh.

Half-forgotten memories

Of earlier times

Echoing

In my head.

When life seem

So much simpler

To understand

And life.

That happy child

Was a facade

Concealing

A troubled soul.

Knowing

These magical moments

Of happiness

Are far and in between.

But

As magical as

A summer long weekend

Fireworks display

On a night sky.

Between

The "oohs" and "aahs"

Of various designs 

Exploding overhead.

Only

To vanish

As quickly as

They were launch.

Pale echoes

Of those childhood moments

Remembered fondly.

As store bought

Fireworks explode

Around the neighbourhood

Marking the start

Of another summer.

Allowing

A new generation

To share 

In this rite 

Of summer passage.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: In Canada, the unofficial start of summer is the Victoria Day long weekend, which occurs, on the second last Monday of May. In honour of Queen Victoria, who ruled over the British Empire, when Canada was granted, it's independence, as a Dominion, within the Empire, on July 1, 1867. Even before this date, there are historical records, in Upper Canada (now the province of Ontario), where various communities celebrated Victoria's birthday.

Was It Real? (May 24, 2017)

When I stand

Before you.

Am I

A weed?

You need  

To pluck

And toss away.

As you run away

In search

Of that herbicidal spray can.

Restoring 

Your immaculate life

Into its artificial 

And lifeless form.

Or

A delicate flower?

Like an erotic orchid

To be treasured

For my (inner

And outer) beauty.

Gracing your life

With love 

And happiness.

As only

Two souls 

Bonded

As one

Can know.

Therisa © 2017

Valley Girl To The Max (February 23, 2008)

Listen here

You damn virus

You're suppose

To left my body.

Two weeks is

More than enough time

To move it.

Like last week

Waking up

With a sore throat

Is like.

So

Yesterday news

Mon.

I want today's news

And you're not it.

So

Um

Isn't it like

Time for you

To get your bags packed

And leave

Pronto like.

Oh no

I must be sick

I'm writing

In Valley Girl mode.

Does anyone

Still speak

Like this

Totally rad way?

Shivering
At the thought.

Therisa © 2008

Author's note: Another poem taken, from my poetic morgue. About 12 days ago, I noticed the first signs of a chest infection that still sticking around me, refusing to leave, like a good guest does, when asked to. Somehow, I remembered this poem, and so, am now sharing it, with a wider audience. And yes, I do remember watching the movie and the TV series, Clueless.

Girl's Best Friend (November 24, 2009)

Friends shouldn't part

On such sour note

Never to have contact

Again.

No matter

What we wish.

Sigh.

You're always there

For me.

Celebrating

My life's high points:

Birthday parties

Trips to Dairy Queen

A stunning sunset

After a beautiful day

At the beach.

So many great memories.

Until

One August afternoon

A secret meeting

Between us.

Ending

On a bitter note

Forever dooming

Our relationship.

Wish

It wasn't so.

But reality says

Otherwise

For me.

Now

Death is
By Chocolate.

Therisa © 2009

Author's note: Another poem, from my poetic morgue. This time exploring my extreme food allergy that I have caffeine, through the lens of chocolate, which has become, my bitter enemy.

Steerage Class Citizen (May 19, 2017)

Please forgive me

If my anger boils over

And I say 

Or do something.

That I'll regret 

Afterwards

To you.

So want

To get into your face

And scream obscenities

Until my voice is hoarse.

A mere whisper

Of itself.

Fucking

Stupid 

Cow.

Just because

We weren't born

With the proper plumbing

Like you.

You think

We don't know

What it feels like

To be raped

Or abused?

Eight years ago

I came forward

To a local abused

And battered women centre

In Toronto.

Looking for help

In dealing

With my abusive past.

Having clearly

Identified

Myself

As a transsexual

(Male to female).

And yet

I was sluffed off

To a local counselling service

By the intake worker.

Who doesn't specialize

In the issues

Abused and battered 

Women face.

As if

She's yelling

"Next!"

To the callers

In the phone queue.

Any wonder

Feminism has become

A pejorative word

In Western society.

By turning your back

On the real needs

Of your trans-sisters

With your misogynistic  

Beliefs.

Ensuring all women

Remain 

In chains

Of oppression.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note:  On May 12, 2017. I noticed this article on CBCnews.ca, about the Senate hearing on C-16, the inclusion of gender identity and expression, under Canadian law and Canadian Human Rights Act,  (http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/transgender-rights-bill-female-born-spaces-1.4110634?cmp=news-digests-canada-and-world-morning) which I support, as a Canadian, who identifies, as trans, and live my life, as a woman. As I read this article, I grew angrier, at the dismissive tones, of those feminist, who view people, like myself, as basically, gender traitors, to other women.

Reality is, we face the same discrimination, as cisgender women do, and more, in the way that Western society is structured, and has influenced other societies, around the world. Honestly, why would anyone want to give up, their position of power, to live life, as some feminist would argue, as the dominate birth gender, as a male?  In many ways, trans-woman, are starting, at a lower point, in society, with the barriers that we have to overcome. Many cases, losing our biological families, our jobs, and sense of self-identity, as we transition, from one gender to the other. 

Sadly, on May 14th, I accidentally erased this poem, and for the past 5 days, have been struggling to rewrite this, while battling a very nasty chest virus, which is slowly clearing up. This version of the poem isn't as angry, as the original one, the thoughts, and frustration, still remain. 

I wonder, how these feminists view the Intersex community, and their struggles, for political recognition. In that, these women were deemed, at birth, to be visibly male, and yet, chromosomally, are female, with underdeveloped female reproduction organs. Are they not female, since they can have periods, which many trans-women, only dream of; given these feminists' .agrument.

Bitter Ashes (May 11, 2017)

Was my birth

A moment of joy

Mom?

After

A stillborn daughter

And two miscarriages

On your previous attempts.

Followed up

By a preemie baby boy

Almost three years later.

Can tell you

My rebirth

As you daughter

Was nowhere near

A joyous occasion

For me.

Do you blame

Yourself

For having

A trans child?

Even though

The literature

Is mixed

On explaining

Transgenderism.

Thus

Took out 

Your misguided anger

On me?

Turning your love

Into fear and loathing.

As our relationship

Is a scarred 

And scorched battleground.

Like those

One sees 

On the evening news

From Syria.

With little hope

Of a resolution

Any time

Soon.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: For those, who don't know, I accidentally "outed" myself, to my mom, on July 1, 2006 (Canada Day), when she showed up, unannounced and unwanted, at my apartment, after I told her, I wanted the long weekend, for myself. Claiming, I sounded depressed and wanted to help me. The reality is, I was, at the end of my 2 weeks, of booked vacation time, and just wanted to relax, before going back to work. Having just got my ears pierced and started to dress more femme, in my off time, from work.What little time, I had.

In the following year, I got information, about local support programs and contact numbers, near my mom's rural home, like PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians And Gays). Knowing my mom, she never called them, or showed up, for one of their support meetings.Tossed the brochures, into the recycle box, after I left her place, 

Before anyone starts calling me, a b*tch, you need to know, my mom told me, over the phone, in a cold and calculating voice: 

"Hell will freeze over, and you'll have to crawl on your hands and knees, begging for my forgiveness, before I think about it."

And she wasn't talking about Hell, Michigan, either. Yes, there is a place named that, which surprised me, given how puritanical, some Americans can be. 

The Loneliest Number (May 10, 2017)

How do I describe

This irrational feeling

That grips my soul

In its iron grasp.

Of this need

To run away

And hide

From people.

Simple things

Like taking transit

Triggers anxiety attacks

Bordering on

Outright panic attacks.

Needing outside help

To leave my apartment

For taking out

The garbage.

Self-hatred 

And self-loathing

Fill my soul.

As I rattle the bars

Of the invisible cage

Inside my mind

That holds me.

Hoping to find

One loose bar

To aid

My escape.

As another bout

Of agoraphobia

Sinks its talons.

Deep

Into my struggling soul

For who knows

How long.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: This will mark my third major bout of agoraphobia, in the past 8 years. The previous two bouts, lasted several months before I could resume, what passes for my normal life. I am hoping, that I am wrong, in view the past 6 months, as a warning sign, to a possible renewal of agoraphobia, which last visited me, two years ago, staying for 3 months, before departing, after Labour Day. There are times, I hate my body, for the mental and physical struggles, I face, on a daily basis.

Untitled (May 4, 2017)

Never wanted

To be different

From other people.

But

I am.

Feeling like

I'm cursed

Or worse.

A diseased biomass

Meant to be

Put down

As a mercy.

Asking myself

Why is it

Am able to

Help other people.

And yet

Am struggling

To help myself.

Trying

To bash through

This invisible cell

That surrounds me.

As guilt

Fills my soulscape

Like a layer

Of freshly fallen snow.

After

A long and emotional

Blizzard.

Touching

All parts

Of my life.

The past

Present

And future.

As the tears

Of sadness and frustration

Roll down my face

In shame.

In wanting

To reject this "gift"

Of being hyper-empathic.

Therisa © 2017

5 Mei (May 4, 2015)

It has been said

My generation can't relate

To the sacrifice

Previous generations have made

For us.

And yet

For me.

Every time

I see or hear

My last name.

Am reminded

Of the ultimate price

For freedom

Of my paternal homeland.

As more than

7, 600 Canadian soldiers

Are buried

In Dutch graves.

Tomorrow

Marks seventy years

Since German command

Surrendered.

Having grown up

In Canada

I heard stories

About the Hunger Winter.

How my aunt

And her family survived

By eating flower bulbs.

But

Very little

From my dad.

Except for

One post-liberation story.

In which

He and other boys

Lit cigarette cans

With gasoline and bullets.

Until

Parents stopped it.

For liberation was

An early birthday present

For my dad

As his birthday is

May 12th.

With these somber ceremonies

Am reminded

Of the lost

His death

And his connection

With this past

I need.

Wanting to share

My heartfelt thanks

To those soldiers.

By placing

A bouquet of red tulips

And a white rose

On every monument

That  honours

Canadian grave sites

In the Netherlands.

With my dad

By my side.

Sadly

He died

On November 15, 1998.

Still

In five years time

I feel this need

To honour them

And my dad.

In marking

Seventy-five years

Of liberation

And my fiftieth year.

Therisa © 2015

Stripping The Facade (May 3, 2017)

This year

We observed

The 70th anniversary

Of Jackie Robinson

Breaking MLB's

Colour barrier.

And yet

The plague of racism

Is alive and kicking.

As news of violence

Is the lead story

On the local and national

Broadcast.

In all 

Of it's ugliest form.

Whether

On the television

Or the computer screen.

Am

Not so naive

To think

It'll disappear

With a blind eye

Like some people hope.

As the message 

Is distorted

By multinational conglomerates

Spinning their version

Of the truth.

Caring only

For the bottom line

On the balance sheet

Be printed

In black ink.

While

They present

A caring veneer

To the general public

At large.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Some may call me, a Marxist, but my university professors, will that you that I hold the "left" and "right", under the same lens. Having been warned, in 1991, by one prof, for my sardonic essay, on Karl Marx's The Communist Manifesto that it will get me, into trouble, with the teaching establishment, at Carleton University. Rhetorically, he asked me, "how did someone so young, get so sarcastic?", when he handed back my essay, to me.

On Monday night, after the game between the Boston Red Sox and the Baltimore Orioles, Adam Jones, the all-star Oriole outfielder, shared his experience of racial harassment, by the Boston fans, in Fenway Park. Although, a small group, they shouted verbal slurs and threw peanuts, at him. I understand, it's an accepted practice to shout disparaging comments, to get the opposing team player, off of their game, but there is a fine line, between this, and hate that spew from these fans' mouth and throwing objects.

News (May1, 2017)

Negativity at its finest

Expression of cynicism

Washing of the truth

Spun dreams pure fiction.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: If one were to watch the local newscast, from Buffalo, New York, one would think that Buffalo is, a haven for criminal, with the lead story focusing on crimes committed, there. Whether, it be ABC, CBS, or NBC affiliates. I wonder, do the executive producers realize, how bad of an image, they portray Buffalo, New York to outsiders, like myself? I know, bad news sells more commercials, as people look on, at the damage/death that other people are experiencing, but they have to be, at some point, think, enough is enough, as the market is oversaturated, with these grim reports.

Mayday (May 2, 2017)

Gently

Maia's tears fall

Upon my barren soul

And empty womb.

Caressing me

With your tender winds

Spreading your subtle perfume

Far and wide.

Whispering promises

Of growth and change

In my ears.

Absently

My hands move

To my abdomen

Rubbing it.

Phantom pains

Of a growing child

Fills my body

With love.

Knowing

This shall never pass

For me.

As young men and women

Dance around

The Maypole.

Honouring Maia

On this 

Her day.

In the age-old ritual

Of young women 

Leaving behind

Their childhood.

In becoming

Mothers.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Maia, is the ancient Greek Goddess for mothers, from whom, the month of May, is derived from. Something, as a transwoman, I will never experience, without placing my health, at great risk, to do so.