The Storm (September 13, 2023)

 

Gently the mist

Caresses my face

Wiping tears away

As I look up.

Knowing

The skies will blacken 

Before clearing up

Like my soul. 

On the horizon 

Gathering storm clouds 

Block out the light. 

Sinking

Ever deeper

Into myself.

As the wind howls

Transforming mist

To a soul destroying rain.

Carving channels

Visible to the naked eye

Across my soulscape.

Watching 

In real time

The land disappear

Underneath me.

Tumbling

I struggle to tell 

Up from down 

In this surry.

Time

Becomes meaningless

Beyond the next breath.

Until nothing

Only silence

As I laid awake

In my bed.

Realizing

Had just endured

A night terror.

Author's note: About the 4th day of this, I realized that I had intertwine least 2 different poems. So last night, I deleted all, but the first 3 stanzas. The things that we do for art (like no sleep).

Posted to http://newwhatsgoningon.blogspot.com

 

Blocked & Poisoned (January 19, 2020)

H-2-O

Most precious gift:

Water.

Without which

No life can exist

On this planet.

Tainting it

Through our averse

And greedy ways

Culling countless species

With wanton waste.

Killing powerful rivers

Like the Colorado

Into muddy streams.

Failing

To reach oceans

With dams

And other needs.

As the environment

Collapses

Upon itself.

Therisa © 2020 

Grasshopper Literature (May 9, 2019)

There are days

My soul - a blank canvas

Awaiting an artist’s

Gentle strokes.

As I struggle

For semblance of order.

Others can understand

My mental chaos

Filing system.

Jumping

From one thought

To another.

With an intuitive ease

Often leaves people

Confused.

Never realized

‘Til pointed out.

Just imagine

My poor university profs

Decoding this.

Therisa © 2019

Author’s note: The last stanza, is a reference to my ability, to jumble the order of my thoughts, whether written, or speaking them. Yes, it’s part of my learning disability, which has costed me, valuable marks on exams, essays and tests. Often wonder, why this wasn’t pointed out to me, during my high school years, by my various teachers, As they knew, I was heading for university, with the courses that I had selected.

Giving Birth (May 4, 2019)

A vast void

Awaiting input

From a stalled press

Starved of fuel

Once more.

Like the universe

Before the “Big Bang”

The explosion

That created everything.

My thoughts are

A creative mixture

Of untold ideas

Awaiting delivery.

Bounding around

Inside my brain

Colliding with each other

As new expressions

And thoughts emerge.

And yet

Here I am.

Staring

At the computer screen

Forcing my fingers

To start typing

These elusive words

From my mind.

Knowing

Many will result

In a miscarriage.

Or worse

A stillborn.

As the tears

Roll down

My face.

One painful sigh

After another

Escapes my lips

With each occurrence.

At the death

Of an idea

Before its time.

As my soulscape

Slowly fills up

With mental markers

For each stillborn idea.

A time of mourning

Is required

Before moving on

With the next one.

In giving

The previous idea

Its proper respect due.

Renewing

My creative process

At the beginning

Once more.

Therisa © 2019

Author’s note: Not sure, if it’s the late start for spring, or real life, getting in the way, but I

have been struggling, with my writing, for most of 2019. It would be so easy to blame

others (like President Trump and the conservative horde that wants to rule the world,

with their hate filled ideology), instead of, looking deep inside of myself, for the root causes.

So, here I am. Seating before the computer screen, typing out my heart, for all to see.

Maybe, inspiration will find me, and guide me, to the next step that I need to take. In my

physical and mental healing. One can, only hope so.

Becoming Water (April 20, 2019)

The transition

From a solid

To a fluid.

Healing chemistry

Of a holistic nature.

Regaining flexibility

So long lost

In pain and suffering

Of another lifetime.

Where rigidity is

An armoured shell

Protecting me

From your blows.

Now

A liability

That hinders

My healing process.

As I seek

To move forward

Reclaiming the past

For myself.

Like a gentle stream

That becomes

A fast raging river

Carving its pathway

Through the valley floor.

Displaying

True inner strength

So often

Hidden away

From plain sight.

Flow grows

Increasingly muddier

With my past debris

Stripping away.

A process

That can takes years

If not longer

Before completion.

If

At all.

First step

Is remembering

Being gentle

To oneself.

Isn’t a sign

Of inner weakness.

Rather

An awareness

Of the harmony

That nourishes life.

Enabling me

To move

At my own pace

As I embrace

My new self.

Therisa © 2019

Author’s note: The title and inspiration for this poem, comes from a children book, explaining, how melting glaciers become water, at my local library.

Cold (January 7, 2018)

Brittle

Fragile life

Breaking

At slightest touch.

Frigid wind blows

Across one's soulscape.

Shivering

Body heat bleeds

Like steam

From boiling kettle.

Frozen corpses

Pale imitation of life.

Stacked

Like woodlot’s

Cords of firewood.

Blithely consumed

By ignorant society.

Waiting next snowfall

To ease

Any collective guilt.

Life spent

So cheaply.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: For much of the past 5 weeks, most of Canada and the United States have been under the grip of an extreme cold air mass. In Toronto, this has resulted in new record lows temperature, for daily highs and overnight lows. As many water mains burst, under the onslaught of these frigid Arctic temperatures.

On a more personal note, this is the first poem that I have written, since November 2017, almost two months ago. As I have past the midway point of the second year for my current bout of depression that started June 2016.

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. 

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.

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