Saturday, 30 January 2016

Highway Robbery (January 30, 2016)

As a diabetic
Am told
I need to eat healthy.

And yet
How does one

Do so
On a fixed limited budget?

With the daily depreciation
Of the Canadian dollar
(The loonie)
Against the greenback?

The extreme weather
That Mexico and California
Have experiencing
Of late.

In the past 2 month
My buying power
Has declined
By 40 %
For fresh fruits
And vegetables.

The prices of frozen
Fruits and veggies
Haven't changed

Unlike those
On Ontario Works
(Read welfare)
I have some cushion
To protect me.

I refuse
To buy canned fruits
And veggies.

Given their levels
Of sugar and salt.

The outrageous price
Of $3.95
For a bunch
Of celery.

Find myself
Refusing to pay
These outrageous prices
For fresh produces.

To go without
Until some sanity
Is restore
At the checkout counter.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Yesterday (January 29, 2016), at a local fresh fruit and vegetable market, I saw green peppers, selling for $7.70/kg ($3.50/lb). These prices aren't, from northern Canada, rather, from Toronto. Lets just say, I bought only four of them, to make soups and chili, over the next few weeks. I know, I won't be buying celery, any time soon, give the current price of $3.50 +.


Putting My Pen Down (January 27, 2016)

Excuse me
This is not
Your bed.

My writing book
You're claiming
For yourself.

As I
Write down
My scribbles 
Upon its pages.

That few people
Can read
Without an atomic microscope
To magnify
My handwriting.

Do you mind
This small space
Of mine

You have
My entire apartment
At your disposal.

To do
As you
Please with.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Sigh. What can I say, cats rule. Star, unlike Venus and Squeak, who love to use my writing books, as a scratchpads, Star, only wants to sleep on it, while I am writing, during the night's late hours, into the wee hours of the morning.

Thursday, 28 January 2016

Wake Me Up, When It's May (January 27, 2016)

Cruelest part
Of Winter
Is almost over.

As the "Killing" Moon
Slowly resides
Into the distant horizon
Marking the end
Of January.

February brings forth
The old Celtic observation
Of Imbolc
Winter's midpoint.

North Americans
Have changed
To Groundhog Day
With silly rituals
To predict
Winter's end.

(Never mind
It's my birthday
As well.

I've stopped celebrating
Since 1984
With the sudden death
Of my opa.)

As if
This rudely awaken
Hibernating rodent
Can see it's shadow
Through the glare
Of the TV camera lights.

Anything for
A buck or two
That tourists bring.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For more information about the Celtic celebration of Imbolc, you can check out, the following wikipedia entry: .

Personally, February 2nd, seems to be a magnet for bad events for me, as I'm, either sick with a cold/flu or something bad happens. Honestly, I wish I could hibernate, until May, when the warmer weather is here, and there's no chance of a late snowstorm, like the ones that happen, in April.

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

Why Can't I Be You? (January 26, 2016)

[kur-ij, kuhr-]

the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.
Obsolete. the heart as the source of emotion.
have the courage of one's convictions, to act in accordance with one's beliefs, especially in spite of criticism.

A gentle
But sad sigh
Escapes my lips
As tears roll down
My face.

In trying
To find
That inner strength.

That you say
Shines like a beacon
Through the darkness
I have walked
In my journey
To here.

Having lost
Everything of value
To my body and soul.

For this need
Of mine.

A genetic birth defect
Being born
Within the wrong body
Of a male.

Society views
As normal.

Viewing myself
As a woman trapped
Within a male shell
Of a body.

Won't burden you
With the years
Of abuse and bullying
That has marked my life.

I realized
This inner truth
At the tender age
Of four.

Within my head
The voices
Of my abusers
Ringing out.

Cursing me
With such crude
And hurtful language.

No child should
Ever know.

Fuelling their need
For power
And control.

By expressing
Their fear
At that
Is different.

As adults
These children
Haven't learnt their lessons.

As the fire
Of transphobia
And homophobia
Burns brightly
In their souls.

Whatever remains
Of their logic centre
In a Gray hateful ash.

And yes
There times
I have felt
My life
At risk.

In spite
Of this fact
I move forward
In my healing pilgrimage.

Uniting my body
With the feminine soul
I was born

This cycle.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: By the age of twelve, I had attempted, at least 3 different times, to end my life, which I have never told my parents, about. My last 3 years of high school, was marked, by a nightly visit to the kitchen, where I tried to pierce my chest, with one of the meat knives, but I lack the strength to push it, into my chest cavity.

After coming out, accidently, to my mom, over the 2006 Canada Day long weekend, she told me:

"Hell would have to freeze over, and I would have to, come crawling on my hands and knees, begging her, for forgiveness, before she would think about it."

Needless, to say, I was thrown for a dark suicidal depression that lasted, the entire month of July. Nearly costing my job, as a result. With the help and support of a very special friend, I wouldn't be here, to share this, with the world. Thank you, Z.

The title of this poem, is a reference to the British Goth group, The Cure, who's dark and melodic tunes have helped me, during my bout of dark depression. Also, refers to my needing to live my life, as a woman, who is...simply elegance.

Untitled (January 25, 2016)

Feel like
The general
That's about
To sign
Terms of surrender papers.

As I face
The real possibility
Of having to start
On February 5th.

A fact
My doctor shared
During my appointment
This morning.

Should my A1C
Come back
Extremely high
Like last September test
At 10.

People tell me
Not to sorry.

They don't have
To stab themselves
With a needle
On a daily basis.

Or have
An extreme phobia
To needles.

Using a lancet
To prick myself
Fills my soul
With a paralyzing anxiety.

Needing a year
Able to do it

This is
One birthday present
I dread
To receive.

Even if
It comes
Three days later.

And people wonder
Why I don't celebrate
My birthday.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: In September 2007, two months, after leaving the homeless shelter, I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. Sadly, last year, as I struggled, with my mental health, I went off, all of my medications (for HRT and diabetes), for least four months. Am, now, paying the price, for doing so.

Monday, 25 January 2016

Occupation Hazard Of Being Human (January 12, 2016)
In my mind
Numerous voices
Are sparring
For my attention.

And yet
I find myself
Ever so slightly
Into "no man's land".

From reality
Into my own protective space.

No one can
Touch me.

Being around people
For most of the day
Drains my soul
Of its spark.

Like a battery
Left on
For too long
I crash.

The necessary energy
For my eyes
To flash:

As seen
In cartoons.

An hour or two
With my cats
Or rest.

To recharge
Once more.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Not sure, if I should feel blessed or cursed, in being, an introvert, who suffers from anxiety/panic attacks, in crowded situations, like rush hour traffic, on the public transit. The simple act of taking public transit, during rush hour, takes on new dimension, even after, I have taken CBT, at a local hospital, for my body and soul, are totally drained of energy, as I need to release the shock, and recharge. It's not unusual, for me, to let several streetcars, bus or subway trains, to go by, before I feel comfortable, in boarding one. Even with, a companion, along for the ride, with me.

Just The Way, It Is (January 23, 2016)

My name is

Does this
Bother you?

As you say:


As if
It was
The most vilest
Curse word
You know.

Correct me
If I'm wrong.

But didn't
Your religious belief
Teach you.

To treat others
As you want them
To treated you?

At a food/clothing bank
For disadvantaged "women"
And families?

I write this
Not to embarrass you.

Trying to understand
Why you harbour
Such ill will
Towards me.

I wish
It was possible.

For you
To experience
The "Hells"
I have travelled

Just to reach
This stage
Of my life.

Attempting to
This genetic mistake.

Of being born
In the wrong gendered

Is this
Too much?

For compassion
And a helping hand
A fellow human being.

For some
It is.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: On January 19th, I walked up, to a nearby food/clothing bank, ran by, a local Christian organization, in Toronto. For the first time, in 13 months, I was made to feel like, I didn't belong there, by one particular volunteer, there. Guess, I shouldn't be surprised, given my past experienced, with "religious" people and their gross intolerance, towards those, who challenge their perception of "what is right and wrong". In their quoting verses, from the Talmud and the New Testament, at me, saying my soul is, eternally damned, for being a trans-lesbian.

I didn't feel right, in challenge this person, outright, rather tried to pass it, by saying, I'm transitioning, which is true. Maybe, the next time, if I see her, I will ask, if we can go to a separate room, and try to enlighten her, about her rudeness and ignorance. If she is willing, to keep an open mind, while we talk.

For the record, I'm not, a practicing Jew, Christian, or Muslim. Rather, find myself, leaning towards Animism, which some "People of the Book" would view me, as being Pagan.  Never mind, I was forced by my mom, to attend various Protestant churches, until my mid-teens, when I said, "enough". Never have felt comfortable, in any of these churches. In fact, one church made me feel, like I was walking over the graves of dead.

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

The Mountain Of Life (January 20, 2016)

It stands
Before me
Like K2
Or Mount Everest.

Taunting me
To assault
Its steep slopes.

My hands
Searching for
That elusive grip
To propel me

Having spent
What seems
Like an eternity
On this rocky outcrop.

To look down
Where I've climbed
Over the past decade.

I'll lose my footing
As vertigo
Over takes me.

(My fear of heights
Is second
To that
Of needles.)

Already fallen

Losing several meters
(And years)
As a result.

To restart
From the base

The same margin
Of error.


My future health
And any possibility

In the balance.

Regaining control
Over my Type II diabetes
And mental health.

As I retrace
My steps
Upon the rock cliff.

Of reaching
My dream's summit.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Yesterday (January 19, 2016), I had an appointment, with my diabetic nurse and dietitian, at their downtown Toronto office, as part of the follow-up, to my starting a new med, just before Christmas, last year. At the time, my glucose reading were dangerously high, in the low to mid-20s mmol/L. In Canada, a healthy person, should readings between 4 and 6 mmol/L, during a blood test. A diabetic is considered, within acceptable levels, if they test, between 4 and 7 mmol/L, before eating or drinking any food. At two hours afterwards, it increases between 5 and 10 mmol/L, for diabetics.

Lucky me, I get to see my family doctor and have fasting blood work done, tomorrow morning. A task, I'm not looking forward to, in having, to go and see the vampires, in the lab. Sigh.

Mt. Melancholy (Janaury 18, 2016)

I find myself
Under the shadow
Of darkness.

As old memories
Spring forth
Like an avalanche.

Cascading down
The snow covered

As if
I have taken
The wrong trail
Into a forbidden area
With my ignorance.

Burying me
So deep
In the memories
Of a darker time.

Each passing second
The burden grows heavier
Upon my soul.

Am struggling
To find up
From down
With little avail.

My inner spark
Growing dimmer
As the tears fall
Down my face.

How easy
It would be
To surrender myself
And let everything

In my wanting
To remain
In the foetal position.

My oxygen runs out
Fading out
Into the night

I know
These feeling
Shall pass.

As I dig
My way out
Into the light
Once more.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Not exactly sure, what triggered the events of last Monday, January 18, 2016, when I found myself, buried, under a sudden wave of dark memories. Almost 36 hours later, am still struggling with the aftermath of this, as emotionally, I feel numb, and have lost all contact, with my poetic muse. If I was, to describe this, it feels like a PTSD flashback, without any of the visible images, normally, would have experienced, with one. In being, a total sensory overload of my emotions, in a three hour period, on Monday. Much like the type, I would associate, around my electrical burn, to my mouth, as a four year old.

Friday, 15 January 2016

Fortress Europa (January 9, 2016)
By land or sea
They come
In seeking
The "Promise Land".

Like the Jews
Being led
By Aaron.

Heading north
And west
At great peril
And cost.

In money
And lives lost.

To find
A desolate land
Filled with hate
And fear.

As spools
After spools
Of razor wire
Is strung
Across the land.

Bringing back
Darker memories
Of a deadlier time.

An "iron curtain" draped
Across Europe.

In turning
A relative "peaceful" continent
Into an armed camp
With twitchy fingers
On triggers.

As the dead bodies
Wash ashore
In the Mediterranean
And Aegean Seas.

Therisa © 2016

Author's notes: As a Canadian, from the safe haven, of my apartment, living afar, from the developing situation, in Europe, it's so easy, for me, to critique, the actions of the various European nations have taken, in regards, to the flood of African and Asian immigrants and refugees, over the past 5 years. Especially, after extreme violence that has gripped France, Belgium and to, a lesser degree, Germany, over the past year.

As Politicians and right wing extremists have been quick, to blame IS and thus, by extension, the growing Muslim population, who are, the grandchildren and great grandchildren, of migrant workers and refugees, who fled colonial wars, during the 1960s. Have grown frustrated, with the current political and economic system that offers no hope of improvement, by turning to alternative solutions, like extreme Islamic beliefs. This political backlash is fuelling, the growing feeling of xenophobia and isolationism, among these "native" populations.

I realize, there are no quick solutions, this growing unrest, but it's time, for politicians to act, and take decisive action, for the current system has shown itself, to be flawed, and in serious need of overhaul, if Europe wants to avoid the racial riots, like the United States did, during the 1960s. A plan, which meet the needs, of each individual country and not patchwork affair, which only covers up, the gaping holes of European society. Important ideas that have worked, in Canada, but doesn't take into account, the historical problems of decolonialization and dealing with a multicultural society of today.

No Thanks, I'm Vegetarian (January 10, 2016)
Don't understand
Why people are
So surprised
At my rejection
Of their holiday meal.

There is little
To none
I will eat
Of the meal.

Due to
And medical reasons.

Smell of cooking meat
Is enough
To make me

Must admit
To indulging
In the odd craving
Of fish and chips.

So sue me.

Am Type II diabetic
(Thanks mom
For this genetic inheritance).

Forcing me
To be
Very selective
On my dinner plate.

Traditional veggies served
At high holiday feasts
Contain high sugars
And starches.

A fact
I don't need reminding
As I try keep myself
From needing
To injection Insulin shots.

Never mind
My anxiety levels
Max out
In crowded
And noisy situations.

My need for quiet space.

Am facing
A nasty panic attack.

I thank you.

In all fairness
Have to say
To your generous offer.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Not sure, what triggered this mental discussion, which resulted, in the poem, before you. But I had to get these thoughts out, before they drove me, nuts. Every high holiday feast, like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, my building has a get-together, for the tenants, put on, by the staff, here, which I have politely declined.

For Christmas, last year, a food bank that I visit, when times are tight, was giving away tickets, for a free Christmas dinner, which I declined, disappointing another tenant, from my building, who wanted me, to accompany her, to it.


I can't win, for losing.

Poetic Letter To Dad (January 15, 2016)
I know
You have taught me
To suppress my emotions.

As you felt
I wasn't behaving
Like a six
Or seven year old boy.

And not
The real me
Who I viewed
As a girl.

A lesson
I have learnt
All too well.

But now
We need to
Part company
On this
For my continuing healing.

In the past
I have used
My pent-up anger
As an energy source
On steroids.

I waged war
Against the systematic barriers
Society has placed
Before me.

In regarding
My various learning disabilities
Abuse survivor
Constant struggle
With mental illness
And being
A transsexual.

I promise you
This doesn't mean
Mom's and M's actions
Are forgotten
By me.

Doing so
Would be saying:

"The Nazis didn't kill
Over 6 million Jews
Or used death camps
To so."

Am scared
By releasing
These suppressed emotions.

I'll experience
More bouts
Of PTSD rage.

Like the ones
I have experienced
In the past.

A murderous rage
Consume my soul
Leaving nothing behind.

Only reason
I am not rotting
In a federal jail cell
Psychiatric hospital
For the criminally insane
Or six feet under.

Is pure luck
Of being isolated
From this person
Who sparked this rage.

They don't know
Of this
And hope
They never do.

Soft sigh
Escapes my lips
As I hope
My worse fears
Are totally groundless.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Occasionally, I write these poetic notes, to my love ones, like this, to my dad (who died November 15, 1998), as a way of expressing those thoughts that I have trouble speaking, out loud. Only wish, I could have told him, the truth, about myself, being transsexual, before his untimely death.

Thursday, 14 January 2016

Therisa Scriptor Pax (January 9, 2016)
The sound
I welcome.

And yet

In wondering
If this lull is
Another trap
To ensnare me
In harm's way.

The first moments
Of a lasting truce.

To me
Until now.

Being able
To trek
Across my soulscape
Without stepping on
A landmine.

Having a sniper
Taking verbal shots
With deadly accuracy
To my soul.

Degrading me.

As if
I have
No absolute value.

Laying to rest
These painful
And toxic memories
Of abuse
Into their graves.

To sleep
A full night rest.

Without being awakened
By the slightest touch
Or sound.

More importantly
No more flashbacks
Or night terrors.

Therisa © 2016

Wednesday, 13 January 2016

Prepping For Soul Soup (January 13, 2016)

Photo from
Sitting down
With a paring knife
And a cooking onion
In my hands.

Taking my time
To ensure
No fingers are nicked
By the slicing blade.

Pruning back
The dry and crumbly
Dead layers
Into the garbage bag.

As if
I'm paring back
My life
Before me.

Trying not
To rub
My burning eyes.

Whose tear ducts
Are overflowing
With sadness
From past memories.

With each layer
I have removed
Before placing it
On the cutting board.

All the time
I was handling
Its milder cousin
The Leek.

For the soup pot.

As a stray hand
Starts rubbing
An eye or two.

Trying to ease
The stinging
I feel.

It's a task
I have to face.

As crying
Is cathartic
For ones soul.

In removing
The dead memories
We have gathered
Over our life.

Allowing us
To move on.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This poem is, my 2500th written one, since I started writing poetry, on March 31, 2007, as suggested to me, by the group moderator, of my M2F support group, at the 519, in Toronto.

Opening Up One's Eyes (November 7, 2015)

Courtesy of
In my mind
The old Negro gospel
"We shall overcome"
Is being sung
Before my eyes.

Looking back
More than 60 years
In the struggle
For Civil Rights
And true equality.

Of the many senseless deaths
Which mark
Our journey forward
From the darkness
Of hate and fear.

The many legal battles
Fought and won.

I feel like
A third class citizen
In the country
I was born

With it's rigid hierarchy
That places
Who is different
On the outside
Looking in.

Tolerating us
Like a boorish family member
They want
To disappear.

I wish
You could experience
A week
In my shoes.

The societal
And institutional barriers
You've erected
Over the centuries.

In keeping
From the reality
Of my life.

Your position of power
Is paid.

At a heavy price
By people
Like myself.

Therisa © 2015

Author's note: This is, one of two poems that I wrote for Day of Trans-Remembrance, November 20, 2015. The other one, titled, "The Crater", is in the process of having a clay ceramic statue being created, as I write this. Am hoping, I can have it painted and done, its second and final firing. Thus, being able to post together, here.

For those, who are just discovering me, I have survived numerous attempts on my life, from a family member, whom I have broken off, all ties with, since August 2007. Also, have threatened, by various individuals, who have chased me, on foot or by rode the back of my legs, with their car, while laughing, about it. As if, it was one huge joke, with me, being the punch line, to it.

And sadly, I have tried, on numerous occasions, to take my life, when my depression has reached, such dark levels, the bottom of the Black Sea is a brilliantly lit walk, in the park, by comparison. With my last attempt occurring, during the holiday season of 2010-11.

The Long Run (January 4, 2016)

You think
I would be
Over the moon.

Upon achieving
This milestone
Of five years.

My last suicide attempt.

And yet
A sense of sadness
Fills me.

As the tears stream
Down my face.

The coming month
That January is
For me.

The coldest month
Of the year
Leaving the soul
Bitterly fragile
To the touch.

Each black "X"
Upon the calendar page
One less day.

The end
Of this race.

February's arrival
With its coming thaws.

Therisa © 2016

Author's Note: The month of January, marks the end, of my annual Fall/Winter depression, which has traditionally, seen an increase, in my suicidal feelings, with the two dark periods of November 11th-20th, and December 24th-January 2nd. January 3, 2016, marked the fifth anniversary, of my last suicide attempt, since the holiday season of 2010-11. Also, the first time, since then, I have found myself, on the edge between passively and actively suicidal, with my suicide index, at 5, out of 10. Where 10 means, I have committed suicide, and someone else is writing about my death to you.

Abuse Survivor Reaction To Cologne New Years Eve Celebrations (January 4, 2016)

Protesters marching, against a series of sexual assaults, during Cologne's New Years Eve celebration. (

As I read this
Can feel
My anger rising
To the point.

I want to castrate those
Who organized
And executed
This outrage
With a rusty
And dull razor.

Donald Trump
I won't jump the gun
And blame this
On immigrants
And refugees.

To do so
Would be using
A sledge hammer
To kill a housefly.

I do know
What it feels like
To have survived

Never sexually abused
I endured decades
Of physical
And psychological abuse.

At the hands
Of family members
And those
Close to me.

To the point
I have developed
Chronic depression
Various anxiety disorders

As these dark memories
Of mine
Are threatening
To resurface
Once more.

Fighting against
The tears
Which threaten
To unleashed themselves
In a flood of bitterness.

If those
Who are responsible
Are refugees or immigrants
Than they deserved
To be deported.

To their country
Of origins.

No second chance
Or leniency
For their actions
By the German authorities.

Therisa © 2016

Author's notes: It was January 4th, when I first heard about this outrage, against several female celebrants of Cologne's New Years Eve party, marking the incoming year of 2016. I don't think, we will ever know, what caused these "men" to commit this series of crimes of power, against women. Ever way, these women are re-victimized, again, by the way, local authorities have handled this case, as if they invited these "men" to attack them. Nice going, guys, blaming the victim, for the violence committed against them. Morons!

The following is, the link that outlined, what on New Years Eve, December 31, 2015:

Tuesday, 12 January 2016

Welcome To Canada, Eh? (January 9, 2016) Designed by Elise Gravel.
Not surprise
Someone has targeted
A gathering
Of a Muslim centre.

Canada's long history
Of Xenophobia
And racism.

The child
Of an immigrant.

Who came
To Canada
During the 1950s
As a teenager.

And frustration
Grips my soul.

Naively believing
Things would be different
For the newly arriving
Syrian refugees.

Being able
To call
Their home.

Without any fear
Of being attacked
For their religious beliefs.

In leaving behind
All the violence
Of the Syrian civil war
And the refugee camps.

How I do say
"I'm sorry
For the ignorant actions
Of a few bigots?"

As this
Is your first exposure
To life
In Canada.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: On Friday, January 8, 2016, a group of 30 Syrian refugees, where pepper sprayed, by a passing cyclist, which included children. Under BC law, pepper spray is considered a weapon, and this cyclist will be charged with assault, causing bodily harm. I do hope that this person, has the guts to step forward and take responsible, for his misguided actions. Am, including an link, to the assault.

Earlier today, a planeload carrying the 10 000th Syrian refugee arrived, in Canada, twelve days later that the Liberal government had originally projected, after realizing the logistic nightmare that faced them. I do hope, with the increase refugees, the Federal and Provincial governments increase the money that spent on mental illness, from its pitiful levels, at the moment. Also, increase their involvement, with affordable housing, for all Canadians, new and old. Thus, everyone benefits from the arrivals of the Syrian refugees.

Farewell, David, And Thank You

End of an era
Who's influence
Is being felt
As strongly

As it was
Forty years ago.

Without Ziggy Stardust
I wonder
Would the New Wave
And Goth explosion
Of the late 1970s
And early 1980s

Whether or not
You want to admit this
Marilyn Manson
And Lady Gaga
Owe their careers
To the Thin White Duke.

And yes
The "Material Girl"
Madonna does

Like Iggy Pop
Who's considered
By many
As the "Godfather"
Of Punk music.

Is David Bowie
For the emerging New Wave
And Goth genres
Of the mid-1970s
To early 1980s.

With his fashion flair
And gender queer persona
Of Ziggy Stardust
From the late 1960s.

As a teenager
In latter half
Of the 1980s.

Never realized
How much of my life
Was influenced
By him.

Exposing society
To the emerging transcommunity
With his androgynous look
Of Ziggy Stardust.

To which
I can never repay him
With these words.

In knowing
Your time
With us
Enriched everyone
Beyond measure.

For blessing us.

Therisa © 2016

Author's Note: It was 7:30 am, on the local radio newscast, on CBCRadio1 Toronto, I hear the sad news of David Bowie's death, at age, 69, from cancer. At first, I was shocked, upon hearing this, then saddened, as the reality sunk it. I wrote this poem, Monday afternoon, during my subway ride, to the art studio, where I have an art program, to help me, deal with my mental illness and sense of isolation. I waited, until today (January 12, 2016), before edited the above poem, hoping, the time away, would give the emotional perspective needed, to view this poem, for editing.

The two videos, which I have chosen, are: "Let's Dance" and "Modern Love". For I think, David would want us, to celebrate his life, and the best way, to do so, is with music and dance, hence, "Let's Dance". And "Modern Love", I just the entire tune.

Saturday, 9 January 2016

The Road Taken (January 8, 2016)

Never thought
I would be
Looking back
In a positive way.

On losing
My apartment
And ending up
In a homeless shelter.

I can laugh
About it

Never realizing
How big
Of a barrier
Moving to Toronto
Would be.

And psychologically
In my liberation
Of you

In beginning
My life
As a woman.

No longer
Needing to hide
In the darkest gender closet
Filled with fear
Of being discovered.

Will admit
I wasn't prepared
For the culture shock
That greeted me
At the woman's homeless shelter.

With chronic anxiety attacks
And depression
In a brutal environment
Like a fish
Out of water.

Being pre-everything
In regards
To my transitioning.

Beyond knowing
My true name

Taking extra precautions
So no one saw
My ugly male body.

Fully dressed.

Someone would see
Or react
To me
As a male.

I wouldn't survive
In a man's homeless shelter
Without being raped
Or brutally beaten up.

Feeling safe.

I had my own apartment

To further
My self-exploration
Of the feminine side.

My true self.

Therisa © 2016

Author Note: June 3, 2007, found myself, at the front door, of a woman's homeless shelter, in downtown Toronto, with a suitcase and duffel bag, filled with woman's clothing. Interesting enough, my mom never asked me, if I wanted to move out, to the country, until I got myself, back on my feet, again. A move, in retrospective, would have signed my death warrant, given her negative reaction, to coming out to her, as a trans-lesbian. Being forced to be dependant on her, for transportation for all of my medical appointment.

Forever, My Love (December 31, 2015)

How I long
To be
In your embrace
My love.

My damned soul is
Eternally safe
Within your touch.

Chasing away
Those daemons
Which haunt me

Making my life
A living Hell
Of the cruelest kind
That knows
No end
But death.

As I lay
In your arms
My last breath taken.

To inhale

For my name is
Forever more
Upon your soul.

On your lips

Therisa © 2015

Author notes: This is my favourite track, from Nishwish's cd, "Once". And sadly, it's Tarja Turunen, last recording with the band, before she left.  Personally, I think she has the best vocals for the band.

Donald Trump (January 2, 2016)

Bill Day, December 15, 2015

The world is
Around me.

It feels like
I'm watching
An old Movietone Newsreel
From the 1930s. 

Instead of
Being shown
In black and white.

It's broadcasted
In Technicolor
On a cable news network.

As if
The world is
A bizarre case
Of deja vu.

With Las Vegas, Nevada
And Richmond, Virginia
Taking the place
Of Nuremberg, Germany
And Rome, Italy.

Even though
Today's date is
December 15, 2015.

In replacing
Jewish people
With Muslims
As the scapegoat
For America's problems.

As the level
Of vitriol and hatred
Is being spewed
By this crass billionaire.

Playing upon
The nation's xenophobia
And want of isolation.

That distance
And closed borders
Can protect them
From extremists.

Never realizing
This rhetoric is
Providing recruiting material
For the fanatic
On both sides.

Only thing missing is
The sound of jackboots
Marching down
The streets.

As the people stand
With stiff arm salutes
"Sieg Heil".

Therisa © 2016

Author Notes: Sigh. This poem took longer to write, than I care for, but I could find the right headspace needed for it. Especially, given the recent events, in Europe and North America. I do hope, the American voter realizes, the fear that Trump poses to global peace, with political stance. I say this, as a child of an immigrant, who came to Canada, in 1952, as a teenager, barely speaking any English.

Who's That Girl (January 2, 2016)

Few moments ago
I was described
As a "girlie-girl"
By another tenant
In my apartment building.

It's true.

I love
To take long bathes
With lavender
Or other scented fragrances
In the water.

A single candle burn
By the side
Of the tub.

In preferring
The sweet scent
Of Vanilla Black Cherry
Or Blueberry baked goods.

It's one
Of many labels
That I have trouble
In accepting
For myself.

As I find myself
At time
With these labels:

And "difference maker".

To name
A few.

Leaving me
To wonder
Who's this person
People are talking about.

For I see
A woman
Who's struggling
With major physical
And mental health problems.

The true answer
In the middle.

Therisa © 2016

Author Note: On November 15, 2005, is the day, which I came out of the gender closet, as a transwoman (ie transsexual), after several emotional and stressful months, while standing over my dad's gravesite. Since then, I have swung, both ways, from being, a girlie girl, to an androgynous look. Especially, on those days, which my anxiety or depression levels are ballistic, as a result of my PTSD and memories of abuse.

Music (September 3, 2012)

Your siren's call
Drawing me

Seducing me
With your spell
To the water's

Pulling me
With each note
Into your web.

My soul
To your care.

My body moves
To your rhythm.

To awaken
With it's echo
In my soul.

Therisa © 2012

Author Notes: An older piece, written, during the Labour Day long weekend.

Lucky Star (January 2, 2016)

An origami paper star

Oh Star
On my blackest night
You shine
Like the brightest light
In the Heavens.

As you lay
Upon my lap
Your black fur
With my tears.

The love and gentleness
I have shared.

Your arrival
Four years ago.

As a rescued kitten
Who had been
Physically abused
And tossed aside.

Even now
You follow me
Around the apartment.

Like a lost soul
Seeking a place
To call
Your home.

Whether or not
You realize it

You have
A place
To call

In my heart
That cold November night
In 2011.

Move over
And share my bed
With me.
Therisa © 2016

Photo of Star, as a kitten

Thursday, 7 January 2016

To Be Loved (January 2, 2016)

A simple request
Is all
I wanted
From you.

And yet
It turned out
I asking
Too much
From you.

As if
I wanted you
To give me
The world and more
With my wish.

Never realizing
How hollow
Your words are
When spoken
To me.

How naïve
And stupid
I have been
To think
You would change
At all.

To continue 
Receiving your love.

Would be
An act of suicide
On my part.

As my soul drowns
In silent tears
And frustration.

Shall I
Ever find
This wish
Of mine?

I don't know
The answer
To that question.

Therisa © 2016

Author Note: This poem is, how my mom has pushed me, away, since I came out to her, as a trans-lesbian. I had to break off contact with her, because she didn't want to be seen, in public, with me. Also, she fears me, as if, I'm a genetic monster, to her. Never mind, the anxiety attacks, I had to cope with, before and after each visit, with her.

Saturday, 2 January 2016

Avenue Of Broken Dreams (December 18, 2015)

It's month end

As I walk
Down the Danforth
On my monthly pilgrimage
For food money
And transit tokens.

Striding past
A once thriving Mecca
For small independent businesses.

No more.

Dust mice and spiders
Hold their daily courts
In these abandoned shops.

One looks
"For lease" signs
Have sprung up
Like a field of Dandelions
Assaulting ones eyes.

The lucky property owners
Have found
Their "Sugar Daddies"
Or "Sugar Mommas".

In rich developers
Seeking to build
Condo towers
With their gentrification

Leaving the community
Bereaved and poorer.

As part
Of its soul
Is left behind
To die.

Therisa © 2015

Author's Notes: I live, in 1 of 13 communities that the city of Toronto and various NGOs have labelled, as "high priority neighbourhood", which translates, into English, as high levels of poverty, with the lack of resources and willpower to change this. Even convenience stores have gone bankrupt, here.

Merry Christmas, Therisa (December 30, 2015)

There are times
I must admit
That I feel like
A complete fraud.

As I struggle
With my mental
And physical health.

What others see
In me.

Finding myself
A part of my life.

Left alone
And buried
In the deepest cravat

As the memories
Are flooding
In my mind.

Of those dark years
Where Hell was
A place on Earth
For me.

Did I do
To raise his irk?

In such
A manner
He needed
To physically
And psychologically
Attack me?

Other then
Being the eldest.

I know
These "what ifs..."
That blow across
My mindscape
Are a deadly toxin.

The years
Of painful healing
I have endured.

And yet
Like a small child
I can't stop picking
At these scabs.

In trying
To cleanse
My diseased body
From this tainted past.

Therisa © 2015

14 Roses (December 6, 2015)

Steady stream
Of bitter and angry tears
Flow down my face.

As Canadians observe
The 26th anniversary
Of the Montreal Massacre

Marc Lepine
Ripped off
Our veil of ignorance
And silence.

In his killing
Of female engineering
Students and professors.

Please stop
If you think
This is
An issue
Limited to Quebec.

Given their past
Of deadly assaults
Upon post-secondary institutions.

It stretches
From the Atlantic
To the Pacific
And Arctic coastlines.

We identify

Or Queer.

For too many
It's part
Of our daily lives
This violence.

Author's notes: for more information, please check out, the following links:

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