Men, I Honour (June 17, 2017)

So easy

To give in

To hate.

In letting

Anger rule me

Against all men.

Given

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

Upon.

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.

Depression V.2.0

Darkness

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.

Bearing

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.

Dreading

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

Unless

You surrender all".

A note crumbled

In haste.

As an arrow

Does pierces

My mortal breast.

Blood bubbling

At my mouth

Sounding

My death rattle.

Cursing

That damned bird

With my last breath

Before eternal darkness.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: another poem from my poetic morgue

Censorhip (June 10, 2017)

A                   

    r                      

         g              

                h.

B                             

           l                      

               e  

                     e  

      p.

I            

    t.

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

When.

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

Forever

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: taggrrl.blogspot.com. 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, 

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

A pinprick

Against my skin

Releasing 

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.

Struggling 

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

Screaming:

"Murderers!"

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.

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

Forty years ago 

A child was born
Into this world.

Perfect
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
But
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

'Party-line'.

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. 

Still
The flame burns.

Standing
Like a beacon

Lighting the trail
Throughout
The hostile wilderness

Society has become.

Enduring chronic bouts
Of depression
And anxiety.

Shed
Not a tear

For that child is
I.

Now an adult

Walking the path now

So long
Brighten
By the dim flame.

Once more burning

White-hot
Having found herself.

Therisa © 2010

A Ghostly Poetic Letter (June 4, 2017)

May 12, 2017

Happy birthday

Dad.

Been awhile

Since my last letter

To you.

Wish

I could take you

In my arms

And share 

A hug or two.

Possibly

Shed a tear 

On your ghostly 

Shoulder.

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

Dad

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.

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

Crying 

In total despair.

What you consider

A rash

And impulsive decision

On my part.

To throw

Everything away

And begin

Anew.

Although

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

Whatever 

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

Regardless

How many times

I try and fail.

Therisa © 2017

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

Foreplay (April 14, 2015)

Clenched

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

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.

Building

A wall of sound

That surrounds

My soul.

In keeping

The darkness

Away.

Trying to restore

That innocent stolen

From me

By fear and hate.

Singing

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.