Sunday, 18 June 2017

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.

Thursday, 15 June 2017

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


Saturday, 10 June 2017

Censorhip (June 10, 2017)

A                   
    r                      
         g              
                h.


B                             
           l                      
                
                     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, 

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

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.

Monday, 5 June 2017

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

Forty-seven years ago 
A child was born
Into this world.

Perfect
In all ways
With ten fingers
And toes.

No visible signs
Of any birth defect
Except one.

Known
Only
By the child.

Not a defect
As society understands
But a truth.

Burning
With the intensity
Of a white-hot flame.

Destroying
Any doubt
In the child's mind.

Taking small steps
Within the safety
And privacy
Of the bathroom.

Dipping
A cautious toe
Into the waters of femininity
Testing its temperature
Before plunging head-first
Into the pool of life.

Filled
With the confidence
Only a young child has
Openly wanting
To be Wonder Woman.

Looking back 
Brave.

But
Very risky move
In a small rural Ontario village.

You know
The type of place
Where everyone knows
Your name and life
And cows outnumber people.

Gossip and bad news
Compete against each other
Like two racers
Spoiling for a race.

Testing their speed
In spreading the "news"
On the local phone company's
"Party-line".

Sadly
Instead of
Being greeted
With open arms
And warm smiles.

Hostile angry glares
Were affixed
Upon the child.

If looks could....

Dimming the flame
From white-hot
To a dull yellow hue.

As the child sought shelter
In burying
This part of themselves
In a hidden corner
Of their soul. 

Still
The flame remains lit.

Standing
As a beacon
Lighting a trail
Through hostile wilderness.

Which
Society had become.

During
The chronic bouts
Of depression
And anxiety.

In offering
A possible escape route.

Shed
Not a tear
For that child is
I.

Now an adult
Walking the path now
So long lit
By a dim flame.

Once more
White-hot
In colour.


Having found herself.
Therisa © 2010-17
Author's note: Funny, although, this poem is from my poetic vault, it feels like, a new poem, to me. Given the numerous changes that I have done to formatting of the stanzas and to the actual wording of the poem, itself. In some cases, this has meant updating things.



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