Wednesday, 4 April 2018

March's Tears (March 28, 2018)

The last visible footprints
Of Ole Man Winter
Are slowly disappearing
From the landscape.

As the slender green shoots
Of Daffodils Tulips and Crocuses 
Push through the frozen tundra
Of the past 4 months.

Bringing renewed hope
To a blah landscape covered
In various depressing shades 
Of brown and beige.

Upon the distant horizon
The last traces
Of January and February battles
Still linger.

As the heavy winter clothing
Is slowly removed
With a weary eye
To the bright warm less sky.

Should the need arise
To redon 
These bulky clothes
Once more.

Ole Man Winter
Has one more kick
At the can.

An April surprise
That covers the land
Once more
In a brief white blanket.

Before disappearing
Til late October
Or early November
With his bitter embrace.

As cold tears
Of long repressed relief
Flood the land.

Heralding Ms Spring
And April's arrival
To the land
Long tired of winter.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: This is my last poem that I will write before my March 30th anniversary, which mark 11 years, since I wrote and posted my first poem. Sadly, I have failed to reach the milestone of 3 000 poems, once more, due to health reasons. Maybe next year, I will reach this mark.

Wednesday, 28 March 2018

The Fallen (March 12, 2018)

A long held taboo
In the darkness corners
Of most societies.

The very act
Of mentioning it
By its victims
Is met with ridicule
And offense.

As if
They're seeking
The public spotlight
Of fame and notoriety
From society
At large.

Receiving mixed messages
From those
In position of power
When coming forward
With their complaints.

Who should they trust
With their truth.

When their truth
Is dismissed
By statements like:

“It's just boys
Being boys.”

It's “just sibling rivalry
Nothing to worry about.

As their very lives
Are shredded
Once more
By each brutal step
Through the healing process.

As if
They had committed
The crime

Their self-hatred
And self-anger
Into a very negative
And destructive energy.

As self-harming
Becomes the norm.

Some self-medicate
Through the abuse
Of alcohol and drugs.

Placing themselves
In high risk situations
To find self-worth
And self-value
From others.

Or else
Taking sharp objects
Scoring their bodies
Until blood shows.

In shame
These wounds are hidden
Not wanting to draw
Anymore attention
To themselves.

Battling thoughts
Of impurity and uncleanliness
That no amount
Of soap and water
Can remove.

These hideous cycles
That will continue
Until broken.

Another heavenly Angel
Drops ahigh
Into the fiery pits
Of Hell.

With little notice
Or concern
Beyond brief outrage
As life moves on.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: Not sure, why I wrote this poem on domestic violence/abuse. Except, I felt this need to do so. And yes, I'm a survivor and a witness of this, myself.

Thursday, 22 March 2018

Downward Spiral (March 9, 2018)

Down the darkest corridor
I do walk through
Seeing the merest hint
Of light
Before me.

Torturing me
These brief interludes
Of cruel mirages
Caressing my soul.

To come crashing down
Bathing me
In the renewal
Of darkness.

As days flow
Into weeks
And later
Into months.

Where time is
Only measured by
The changing
Of seasons.

My voice
A muted sound
Moves from being threatened
To endangered species list
As my words vanish
From sight.

The dangerous sound
That silence is
For a person
Like myself.

There's no escaping
Once labelled extinct
As Death takes
My soul.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: On the weekend of February 3rd and 4th, after my 2018 birthday, I was having active suicidal thoughts. This the first time that this has occurred, since the holiday season of 2010-11, when I last attempted suicide. What this meant for me, I was hearing, in greater clarity these self-harming thoughts. That as far as it got for me, during this time, I was battling a virus for eight days. A belated birthday present for myself. Am no longer having active suicidal thoughts, since then.

Wednesday, 21 March 2018

Only, In America (March 1, 2018)

Am I
Far too cynical
To believe
Real change
Is possible?

As the headlines scream
Of another student massacre
By an armed gunman
At a U.S. school.

In a nation
That views firearm ownership
As a God given right
Carved in stone
By the U.S. constitution.

Where anyone can use
50 bullet or bigger magazines
In their semi-automatic rifles
Hunting big game animals
Through urban forests.

To whomever
Who’ll read their dreams
And achievements
On social media.

As innocent blood bleeds
Through Angels’ fingers
Over the Elysium.

Their bodies
Barely buried
They're pilloried
As Fake News
Or worse.

Agents provocateur
Seeking the destruction
Of the United States
And it's way of life.

Like Holocaust deniers
These ‘gun righters
Cherry picking the truth
Creating a world filled
With fear and hate
Justifying their existence.

In believing
More guns will solve
This growing epidemic
In American society.

Ask yourself.

Will arming teachers
Make the classroom
A safer place?

As the bullets swarm
In the classroom air
Like a disturbed hive
Of angry killer bees
With their deadly stings.

The level of MAD*
And chaotic moment
Of engagement
As everyone flees
For safety.

Politicians pose
In opportunistic photo-ops
Congratulating themselves
For their decisive action.

And yet
Each new death
Shows the shallowness
And lack of real leadership
From the political class.

Only the death
Of the United States President
By an assassin’s bullet
Will produce
Any real lasting change
In American gun laws.

*MAD: Mutual Assured Death

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: No need to say anything more.

Monday, 29 January 2018

In The Hanging Garden (January 28, 2018)

Casted adrift
Into a sea of darkness
Without any sense of direction
Or reason

Searching for a past
Long buried
In hate and ignorance
Of being different.

A minority sublimated
By the majority
Without questioning

Lost of self-identity
Imposed denial
Cultural genocide
That consumes
One's soul.

Of one's inner strength
No one is asking

Where death is
Often seen
As the only solution
For life's injustices.

And yet
Are reluctant to change
Without wondering

Where one's greed
And self-agenda
Are often measured
In the lives lost.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: Just some thoughts that have been floating in my head.

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