The Doll...Part 2 (January 22, 2011)

Two weeks

Since the last time

Stacey had dressed up.

Freely walking
Around the house

As herself

And not

The hated Stuart.

Promising herself

To be more careful

In tidying up

And putting away
Her clothes.

Before someone saw her

Specifically Jane.

Unbeknown to Stacey

Jane has installed

A small camera

Among her doll collection.

Hoping to catch Stuart

Touching them

Without permission.

Except
Jane wasn't expecting

What she saw
On her monitor

When she got home

Tired from work.

She saw her baby brother

Dressed completely

As a young girl

Wearing a light blue

Polka dotted calico dress

With navy blue leotards

And black patent

Mary Jane's shoes.

The face was completely free

Of any make-up

Except for

The black nail polish

On her fingernails.

Her long glossy dark brown hair

Was divided into pigtails

Two golden hoop earrings

Hung from each ear.

“Holy shit”

Escaped her mouth

Before she realized it.

Hoping
No one heard her.

Playing back several times

The image of Stacey

Longing to hold

One of Jane’s dolls

In her arms.

Her hands straying

Just inches away

From totally disobeying

Jane’s command.

“What am I

Going to do with him

And his desire
For my dolls”.

Jane thought to herself

Not knowing

Where he got his outfit from

Except it was not

From her’s

Or mom’s closet.

Should I tell mom

About his cross-dressing

Hoping to put an end

To his desire to hold

One of her dolls.

Or keep quiet

And see

Where this leads to

Before she blows the whistle

On him?

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: The second installment of a poem, taken from my poetic vault.

The Doll...Part 1 (January 22, 2011)

Stacey stood

Before the glass shelves

Barely moving a muscle.

Where Jane

Her older sister

Kept her valuable collection

Of porcelain dolls.

She had been warned

Numerous times

To never touch them.

But
Temptation kept her

Coming back

For one more touch.

“It’s not fair

Jane gets dolls

And I don’t”

Stacey thought to herself.

The Grandfather clock

Started to chime 4 pm

In the living room.

A panicky Stacey

Raced from Jane’s room
Into her own.

Changing back

Into her “male” self

Before she outed herself

To the family.

Stacey is

A 12 years old boy

Named Stuart.

Who'd been dressing up

For the past 3 years

Before realizing

He's a girl trapped

Inside a boy’s body.

Although

He hasn't tried Jane’s

Or his mom’s make-up
Yet.

Only

A matter of time

Before he does.

Normally

He put away

All his feminine clothing

Without any visible signs

To be seen.

Bought
Last summer

At a local thrift shop

On a friend's dare.

In his mad dash
To change back

A stray pair

Of navy blue nylons

Poked out

From the highboy dresser.

As Jane poked her head

Into his room

To see

Where he was

And doing what.

Since the house

Was totally quiet

Quite unusual for Stuart

Since he played

The Cure

24/7.

A quick scan of his room

Showed Stuart

Sitting on his bed.

Trying to understand

But growing frustrated

With the assigned math homework

Which he could not grasp

The principles behind

The trig questions.

As her eyes roam over

The rest of the bedroom

She saw the telltale nylons

But choose not to mention them

Yet.

Not quite sure

What to make of them

Wondering

If they had been taken

From her nylon drawer.

But wanted solid proof

First before a confrontation

As she left him

Alone.

Catching Jane’s disappearing head

Stuart let out

A sigh of relief.

Only to see

The toe of the nylons

Sticking out

Of their hiding spot.

“Oh God

Please pretty please

Don’t let Jane see

Those navy blue nylons”.

Silently
He pleaded.

Hoping for the best

Fearing the worse.

Knowing
Jane will use this

Against him

Like she always does.

Dejectedly

He replaced the nylons

Back into their hiding spot

Gently shutting

The dresser drawer.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem, taken from my poetic morgue. Due to the length, I have divided this poem, into 6 parts, for easier reading.

Lady Of Avalon (January 10, 2015)

My soul lays

Before you

Seeking your gift

Of healing

Denied to me

On other planes.

In your hands

Does wisdom flow

Long forgotten

By mortal men

And women.

Of a time

When the Gods

And Goddesses

Walked upon the land

With us.

As your dark hair

Sweeps over

My broken body

Covering it

In your warmth.

Like a light

Shining the brightest

On the darkest night

For me.

In keeping

The one weapon

That They have forged

Our salvation shall

Safe.

Until the day

I can return.

Therisa © 2015

Author's note: Another release, from my poetic morgue. At the time of writing this, I was listening to the British gothic group, The Mission UK. Particularly their song, Deliverance.

Liberty (July 1, 2017)

Freedom to do

Whatever

Whenever

You want.

Knowing

The restrictive

Institutional rules

Don't apply

Now.

No longer forced

Or viewed

As a child

To be supervised.

And yet

My soul is

Still imprisoned

In need of healing.

As the battle wounds

Are exposed

To the uncompromising glare

Of the morning sun.

Cauterizing 

These putrid black wounds

Long suppressed

Behind mental walls.

Now 

They lay

Upon my soulscape

Like medieval ruins.

In need of

Rebuilding 

And moving forward.

Leaving the lies

In the dark.

Forever more.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: The fourth chapter poem for A Work, In Progress.

That Loving Touch (June 28, 2017)

Your words

Haunt me

Like a dark horror

Of the vilest kind.

Where truth

Is twisted

Into the blackest lies

Upon your lips.

Your gentlest touch

Is the harshest blow

Rupturing my soul.

Where blood flows

Like tears

From my pores.

Leaving behind

An emaciated body

And soul.

All done

Under the guise

Of parental love

To a child.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Just a little darkness.

Independence (June 28, 2017)

Freedom

To be different

From others.

Knowing

The burden

It carries

Upon one's soul.

A willing sacrifice

To be paid

Regardless

Of the lives lost.

To do so

Otherwise

Is a slow death

By passive suicide.

As the tears

Flow down

In honour

Of those lost.

Therisa © 2017

Author's Note: On Saturday, July 1, 2017, Canada will be marking it's 150th birthday, as a nation. Have thought of using this poem, as a possible chapter heading on my prose project, A Work, In Progress.

Place Of Lost Hopes (June 24, 2017)

A place

Of last resorts.

Where dreams die

A horrible death

Under the harsh light

Of reality.

As the weaker sheep

Are eaten

By the stronger sharks.

People

That society  

Has tossed away

And forgotten about.

Written off

As losers addicts

And mentally ill.

Where cigarettes are

The walking fold

One measures wealth

On the street.

Dealers hustle

Offering 'food'

To whomever 

Wants it.

As part 

Of the 'Jenny Crack'

Diet plan.

The unpardonable sin:

Showing up early

By 3 minutes

Before the shelter opens

For the afternoon.

By the condo residents

Who live

Across the street

And several floors

Up.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: How spending a month, in a homeless shelter felt to me (June 3 to July 3, 2007).