What My Tat Would Be (April 4, 2016)

We

All know

A family member

Or friend

Who is tattooed.

Myself

Rather

Be pierced

Than inked.

It's the needle thing

You understand.

Just the thought

Of a thousand pricks

Into my body

Injecting ink

Leaves me

With a panic attack.

But

Should I have

It done.

It would be

More than

Mere artwork

Upon a blank canvas.

As it represents

All aspects

Of my life:

My spiritual beliefs

Transitioning

From one gender

To another

And where

I come from.

Marking my healing

From an angry soul

Ready to commit suicide

Without a second thought.

To whom

I am

Now.

A person

Struggling

To understand

The wider whole

Of my soul.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note:  As I have noted, in the poem above, I have an extreme dislikes of needles, which plays havoc, with my diabetes and its monitoring.

Should I decide to have myself, inked, it would be depicting 3 dolphins, jumping through, their own golden hoops. On a moon-lit night, over an area, in an ocean. As they transition, from one gender, to the next. Denoted by, the change of their skin colour, from a pale blue, to a soft pink (male to female).

Also, marks the healing journey, I have undertaken, over the past decade, in reaching this stage, in my life. To being, able to talk about my abusive past, without shutting down emotionally and physically, from the memories, like I have, in the past. Frustrating a few therapists, as a result.

It would be placed, in the small of my back. A placement that's called, a tramp stamp.

The dolphins and the ocean, are symbolic references, to the Earth Mother, from whom, all life has sprung forth. Also, marks my ties, to water, as I was born, on Canada's Pacific coast, in British Columbia's lower mainland, and have since, lived near water, throughout my life, whether, one of North America's Great Lakes, or a nearby creek and river, in Brampton and Ottawa, Ontario.

Play Ball (April 3, 2016)

www.nabaelite.com

The one day

Baseball fans

Across Canada

And the United States

Have circled

On their calendars.

As they await

The first pitch

With bated breathe

In marking

Another new season .

Their nightly dreams

Filled with visions

Of championship pendants

And ticker tape parades.

Since

The last out

Of the previous

World Series.

Vicariously

Living out

Their favourite team's

Perfect season.

Moment

By moment.

Ignoring reality

Like it's

A bad hangover

They must endure

For the cause.

As reality's acid test

Consumes their dreams

Leaving behind

A bitter taste

Of defeat

Upon their taste buds.

And the sad refrain:

"Next year

Will be

Our year".

Once more

As the dream is

Renewed

For another season.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The 2016 Major League Baseball season, begin, on April 3, 2016, with three games: Pittsburgh v St Louis, Toronto v Tampa Bay, and Kansas City v New York Mets. Marking the start of the longest season, in professional sports, with 162 game marathon race, to the post-season, and glory.

Why Do Parents Place, One Child, Over Another? (April 2, 2016)

How does

A parent

Place the needs

Of one child

Over the other?

Especially

As the chosen child

Is abusive

And manipulative.

A question

I'm asking myself

For the past 30 years.

The irony is

I am

The one

That gets chosen.

Whenever

It's time

To go shopping

For clothes.

Until

I come out

Almost

A decade ago.

Becoming

Persona non grata.

As if

Having fiction

Confirmed

As reality

Was too much.

Although

They denied this

When confronted

By me.

Like my memories are

A figment of my imagination

That I made up

Of those trips

Over the years.

Yeah right.

And Canada is

Officially

The 51st to 61st state

Of the United States.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: During my Thursday meeting, with the social worker (March 31, 2016), the conversation got around, to talking about my relationship, with my mom. To which, I described, as dead, for the past 3 years, at my decision, for emotional and psychological reasons. Given my mom's inability to respect the boundaries that I have set up, as part of my healing process, and her reluctance, to be seen, in public, with me, when we go get together, at a neutral location. As if, neighbours, from 20 years ago, are going to start gossipping about me, and the transitioning journey, I am undertaking. Honestly, I haven't seen these people, since I moved out, for university, in 1990.

Sheesh. Give me, a freaking break.

Sunday Mornings (April 1, 2016)

Once

A week

Whether or not

I want it.

A suit and tie

Awaited me

Until my teenage years.

Never mind

I hated

Having to wear

That noose

Around my neck.

Even if

Only

A clip-on.

As mom marshaled us

Into the family car

My brother and I.

While

Dad slept

Or did other things.

Stepping

Into a church

Felt like

I had entered

Unto hostile grounds.

Didn't matter

What Church

It was.

Always felt

I didn't belong

There.

As if

I was intruding

And about

To be discovered

And tortured.

Something

I struggled to

With my mom.

Only reluctantly

She surrendered

Giving back

My Sunday mornings.

Therisa © 2016

Author note: Strangely, are I stopped playing hockey, at the age of 14, my mom stopped, in her demands that I attend church, with her, on a weekly basis. Never did tell her, about my true feeling about these forced indoctrination, as a Christian, by her, when I don't view myself, as a Christian, despite being baptized, as a baby. Rather, a follower, of the Earth Mother, as my Goddess.

Saturday Blues (April 2, 2016)

Snow flurries

Greet me

As I look out

My apartment window

This morning.

Where

I find myself

Growing ever tired

Of this constant battle

That I call

My life.

Having faced

More than four decades

Of banging my head

Against systemic

And societal discrimination.

At what point

Can I stop

And rest my soul?

Just once

I would love

To have my burden

Carried by

Someone else.

Thus

Be able

To understand

What it means

To walk

In my footsteps.

Even if

Only for

A few seconds.

Am so tired

Of well meaning people

Telling me:

"It'll get better".

Wanting to puke

Upon their dress shoes

And fancy clothes.

Who have

Never endured abuse

Or discrimination

On a systemic basis.

To the point

Life

Becomes meaningless

Beyond death.

What is normal

For you

Is my wildest dreams

Come true.

Therisa © 2016

A Fool, Such As I (April 1, 2016)

Am I

So naïve

Of a fool?

In wanting

To believe

The best of people.

Even though

Time after time

My heart is broken

Into a thousand jagged

Pieces.

Each successive time

Am left

Feeling like

Humpty Dumpty.

Without

The King's men

To put me

Back together

Again.

Wondering

If life would be better

Should I choose

To close myself off

Emotionally.

In becoming

Body and soul

A frozen maiden.

Therisa © 2016

November 13-15, 1998 (March 30, 2016)

Never

Shall I forget

That last weekend

Of your life

With me.

Of holding

Your clammy hand

Within mine

That one last time.

Gone is

The rock

That anchored

Throughout

Those depressive storms.

Never more

Shall your voice

Reach me

Over the telephone

In my time

Of need.

As darkness

Surrounds me

In its strangling web

Over my soul.

Gone is

The rock

That anchored

Throughout

Those depressive storms.

Knowing

Never was

Your favourite child.

Whom

You cried yourself

To sleep over

Dad.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Over the Labour Day weekend of 1998, I helped my parents, to clean up, the inhuman mess that my younger brother had created, in his basement apartment unit. For everything reeked of human waste, as we piled up, the garbage bags, several high. As my dad cried, at the destroyed antique red maple bed set, he had restored, for him. My parents left, with heavy hearts and piles of soiled clothing, which took multiple washings, to get rid of the smell.

For every night, until November 13th, my dad cried himself, to sleep, repeating my brother's name. On that fateful Friday morning, my dad had his last heart attack, as he prepared, to get dressed, for the long car ride, to University Hospital, in London, Ontario, for an appointment, with a heart specialist. One, he never made.

Paramedics tried, in vain, to revive my unconscious dad, but their efforts, were too late. For too long, his brain had been without oxygen, and only machines kept him, alive, which we removed, as per his wishes.  And yet, his body survived, almost 36 hours later, before the last breathe, at  9:50 pm, on Sunday, November 15, 1998.

Thus, marking my seven years of my mom's attempting to make me, into a clone, of my dad. As I had to submerge my own grieving process, to become, the "man" around the house. Even though, I lived a 3 hour drive away, from her, and had my own life, to live. As I sunk even deeper, into depression and resentment, towards her. As I worked long hours, so I didn't have to face her, every weekend.

I ask, anyone who reads this, doesn't leave any comments, as I won't be approving them, rather, be deleting them. This is, as far as, I feel comfortable, in sharing, this private moment, in my personal life.

The Climb (March 29, 2016)

We start life

At the base camp

In believing

Anything

Is possible.

Never realizing

How cruel

And unforgiving

Our ascent

Can be.

How fragile

Our foot

And handholds are.

One misstep

Or lost of grip

Can send us

Tumbling downwards.

Which

Some people

Never recover.

As their grave sites

Litter

The valley below.

Others

Like adrenaline junkies

Are pushed

To take

Even greater risks

For that rush.

Burning out

When their oxygen

Is exhausted.

For those lucky ones

Who pace themselves

In reaching

Their personal summit.

Thus

Are graced

With Nirvana's entrance

And inner peace.

Which

Has eluded

Too many people.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Tomorrow is, the ninth anniversary of the posting of my first poem, on social media (MySpace). Have to admit, every time, I look at that poem, I cringe, and want to delete it from existence. But, everyone has to start somewhere. In the following nine years, I have experience many highs and lows, in my poetic outpouring, depending upon my battle with mental illness.

Have joking told, the group moderator of my Male to Female support group, she's to blame, for this onslaught of words that I place out, in the world. For she pushed me, for several months, to take up writing, as a release valve, for the stress, I was dealing with, at that particular moment, in my life.

For all, who have read one of my poems, I thank you, and hope, I haven't chased you, away from my words.

Misguided Effort (March 28, 2016)

To the members

Of Black Lives Matter

I ask you

This important question.

Shouldn't we

Be protesting

The lost of another life

By a Toronto constable

Regardless

Of one's skin colour?

Will admit

There's racism

Throughout Canadian society

Among

All ethnic groups.

I wonder

If Mr. Loku

Had been Arabic

Or Asian

Would your zeal

Still

Be here?

Sadly

I know

What the answer is:

NO!

As you seek

Your simple solution

To a complex question.

As I continue

My silent campaign

Pushing for real change

How Toronto Police

Handles those calls

Dealing with

The mentally ill.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The real crime, is how Toronto Police, deals with those calls that involved disturbed mentally ill people. For the Police service has been too slow, in their respond, to real change, in their operating procedures, in this area. How many more people, regardless, of one's skin colour, must die from a police bullet, before change happens. I speak, as a person, has struggled, with mental illness, for most of my life. The biggest tactical error, the police are making, is yelling, given these people may be disassociating, and they don't hear the tone, or the words that is being used, upon them. Escalating, the already stressful situation, to the point, the police officer may feel the need to use violent force to protect themselves.

Respect (March 28, 2016)

You claim it

As a birthright

From me.

Without

A second thought

Of giving me

A similar right.

Oh please

Put away

That race card

And stop screaming

"Discrimination".

Was taught

At a young age

You earn it

Like interest

On your balance

In a bank account.

Frankly

My dear

I don't give

A damn.

For your selfish excuses

That endanger

Everyone.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: There is a certain group of people, in my apartment building, who refuse to use their fob, when they exit it. Despite, repeated times of being told, to do so. In the past, there have homeless people, who have slept, under the stairwell and have left their bodily remains, behind for others, to clean up. As someone, who's dealing with an abusive past, I don't feel comfortable, in letting everyone, have free accept to the building.