Thursday, 30 March 2017

Wounded Hearts (February 5, 2014)
Are you
So unsure
In your own sexuality
You need to attack others
Who are?

With passing
Or pending legislation
Which reeks
Of "Jim Crow" laws
Against the LGBT+ community.

Bringing back
A dark and disgraceful period
Of American history
Under the fig leaf
Of religious freedom.

Only this time
You can't use
A person's skin colour
As the basis
For your hatred.

No matter
How you try
To justify your actions.

Hate remains hate.

And your actions
Need to be countered
By gestures.

Which builds bridges
Across these emotional divides
Not barbed wire fences
By the fanatics.

Who's hearts
Are harden
Against love
And understanding.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note; Another poem, from my poetic morgue, which sadly, seems more relative today, given the current political climate, in the United States, and parts of western Canada.

Tuesday, 28 March 2017

Stigma Of Surviving (February 24, 2014)

The chain
That binds truth
In lies.

Of the horrors
In the name of love
And punishment.

Twisting the light
Into a dark parody
Where reality loses
All meaning
Except for pain.

Molding one's soul
Like clay
On a potter's wheel
With deft hands.

As the banshee wails
The bedroom window
Heralding the death
Of another innocent.

No one hears
Or cares
Until too late.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: I'm a survivor of child abuse, by a family member, who was, a child, themselves. The abuse was dismissed, as sibling rivalry, by my parents. In recent years, researchers have come forward, in saying, what was thought, as sibling rivalry, in some case, is really abuse/bullying of one sibling, over the other(s). For many years, in my life, I have experienced suicidal thoughts, low self-esteem, and low self-confidence.

I know, not all of this, is strictly related, to my brother's actions, against me, but also includes the bullying, I had to endure, on and off of the schoolyard, by other children, around my age, starting when I started kindergarten, in 1975. Only, to end, when I transferred to another high school, at the end of grade 10, in 1987. Still, for the next 3 school years, almost constantly depressed, to the point, I was attempting to take my life, by pushing a knife, into my ribcage, hoping to puncture my heart or lungs. Only stopped, due to the lack of arm strength to push the knife, into me. 

Outside Of The Gender Box (March 28, 2017)

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 166-7

In your binary world
There are 
No shades
Of gray.

Everything is:


Fitting neatly
Into pigeonholes
Of your mental construct.

Rejecting anything
Outside of these parameters
As blasphemous.

And yet
Life teaches us

Gender is
Running across
A spectrum.

In how
We express ourselves.

As male 
Or somewhere

Of our chromosomes
And hormonal chemistry.

As stated
On a lab report.  

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Friday, March 24, 2017, I accidently deleted an almost completed version of this poem, before my appointment with my eye specialist, concerning damage done to my eyes, due to Type II diabetes. At this moment, I don't need corrective glasses, but like life, that may change, when I see her, again, in September.

Over the past 3 days, have reconstructed this poem, from memory. Normally, I write my first draft out in long hand, in one of my notebooks, before transferring it, into one of my email accounts, to get a date stamp, for completion. My handwriting is neat, but very small, to the point, one could say, I'm writing, in code, with it. Especially, as the schools aren't teaching today's' children cursive, but focusing, instead, on typing and printing. 

Guess, one day, it should be, the topic of a poem, by me, with a photo, of my handwriting. 

Monday, 27 March 2017

Grow A Pair (Of Balls) (March 27, 2017)

In the supermarket
I hear you.

A young mother
Her three
Or four years old

Promising him
A reason to cry
If he doesn't stop.

Bringing back
40 year old memories
Of my own experiences
As child.

How boys are
To publically express 
Their emotions.

In being
The strong silent type
When expressing
Sorrow or sadness.

To do otherwise
You're labelled
As a sissy.

Or worse
By society.

Bottling up
The grief.

Leaving it
To eat away 
At you.

Had you been born
As female
The rules are

Therisa © 2017

Author's noteAfter six months of starting estrogen, as part of my HRT, I was asked, what the biggest change, which I have noticed, so far. To which, I answered, being freer, in expressing my emotional self, without the fear of physical or verbal attacks, for doing so. 

Friday, 24 March 2017

Audacity To Dream, Again (March 24, 2017)

At last
An island of wisdom
In a sea of ignorance
Does cradle Washington DC

As the antithesis forces
Of a nurturing 
And caring nation
Bow their heads
In defeat.

In the withdraw
Of President Trump's
American Health Care Act
From the floor of Congress.

How long
Before insanity returns
To haunt us?

A newer
And uglier form
Ever imagine.

For the price
To dream
Is eternal vigilance.

Darker days
Are ahead.

We can awake
From this nightmare.

To begin
The healing.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Friday, March 24, 2017, Republican leaders pulled the bill from the House of Representatives, that would have repealed former president Barack Obama's Affordable Care Act, replacing it with American Health Care Act. A bill, many critics have described, as harsh and unjust, in penalizing the poor, the young and elderly, with excessively high premiums, for these groups of people.

Wednesday, 22 March 2017

A Letter To Whomever (April 5, 2014)

Dear Whomever;
What you are
About to read
Isn't a justification
Of my reactions.
The situations
I have faced
During my life.
For those
Who don't know me
I was born
A girl trapped
Within a boy's body.
Like most trans-people
I knew
At an early age
My body is
The few happy moments
Of my early childhood
Which I can remember.
As a 4
Or 5 years old.
Exiting the bathroom
With a towel
Around my armpits
Like mom.
Mom dusting me
With her rose scented
Talcum powder
Just like she does
After a bath.
Or using the foam
From a scented bubble bath
To give me
A chest like her.
Even now
A small smile
Graces my lips
At these memories.
A hot summer's day
In August 1977
A Sunday
To be exact.
When my dreams
Came crashing down
Like a toxic avalanche
Of hate and fear
Upon me.
Learning the hard way
"Little boys" shouldn't be
Wonder Woman
While playing superheroes.
Pedaling away
In abject fear
As fast as
My little legs could
Back home.

Never again
Shall I let her out
Into the light.
For the danger
Is too great
If I want to survive.
As the verbal
And physical blows
Rained down
Upon my body and soul
Like an unrelenting hailstorm.
Ever deeper
Into Hell.
Keeping quiet
For 28 years
While Death appeared
The perfect solution
For my pain.
Until November 15, 2005
When the shackles
Fell from my body
At dad's graveside.
Relearning a truth
I had buried
So deep
Within my soul.
I am
A woman.
As the tears flow
Slowly eroding
The decades of self-hate
I had bottled up.
Must admit
This treacherous road
Which I travel upon
Is filled with many sorrows
And joys.
Able to break
A lesser heart
Than mine.
When rejected
By love ones
Who should be
Supporting you
During a trial
Like this.
But the truth has 
Never been
An easy mistress
To truly embrace
At any time.
As the past 9 years
Have proven to me
Forced to relearn
What true friendship is.
As the little girl
Is released
From her decades-long
And into the light
To play.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem taken, from my poetic vault, previously unposted poem, to any site. Occasionally, I will write a letter, in the form of a poem, to express thoughts or ideas that tradition forms limit me, from doing.

Depression (January 16, 2014)

A dense mental fog
Swirls before my mind
Embracing me
Within its pea soup consistency.
Dulling everything
Around me.
Draining life's
Rich palette of colours
That were once
Bright and vibrant.
Turning my world
Into a monotone orb
Of grayness.
Wanting to scream out
In angry protest
But nothing emergences
From my lips.
A feeble cough
Or two.
Ever further
Into the darker depth
Of myself.
Where sleep becomes
A weapon to use
Against me
By you.
As you play
With my emotions
Like a skilled concert pianist does
With a Mozart concerto
Before an enraptured audience.
The crescendo is
Still to come
Before your departure date

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem taken, from my poetic vault, which deals with my constant battle with depression, and its influence over me.

Monday, 20 March 2017

Betrayal (March 20, 2017)

Broken faith
Endless tears
Tortured love
Ruined dreams
Awash with guilt
Years lost
Anger internalized
Longing for death.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: A writing exercise, to see, if I write each line of verse, in this acrostic, with two words, and still make sense when read. 

Friday, 17 March 2017

An Ending (August 8, 2013)

Sexually assaulted
By you.

Your actions
Raped my mind
And soul.

In destroying
A child
Filled with hope
And Dreams.

As my tears
Forms a noose
Around my neck.

Each new tear
Adds an additional loop
Until thirteen is reach
And tightened.

As the trap door

Therisa © 2013

Author's note: Originally posted, on a peer support PTSD site, as part of my trauma diary, here. This poem deals, with the summer of 1985, and the violence that I experienced, at the hands of my younger brother, and I feel towards myself, about it.

Running To Nowhere (July 29, 2013)

Can feel
Your slow ascent
Upon my defenses.

Poking and probing
For any opening
Which your talons
Can rip my soul

Fighting against
My impulse to flee
To anywhere
But here.

As I hear
The panting of
Your hounds pursuing
As they lunge
And nip my heels.

Tripping me
As my feet stumble
Over each other.

My bloody hands off
On my shredded jeans.

It means death
To stop
And surrender.

Even if
I run out of space
Which I can tread.

Therisa © 2013

Author's note: Originally posted, on a peer support PTSD site, as part of my trauma diary, there.

Releasing Dark Fears (March 17, 2017)

Out of sync
Body dysfunctional
With reality.

As if
I don't belong

Like an Internet troll
Who's pretending
To be
Someone else.

Someone will call me
An imposture
Or worse.

Telling me
My experiences
Of abuse and hate
Are imaginary.

From the pages
Of a horror story
One can buy

Tossed away
When done.

Found unbelievable
Even for

Into the delete bin
Of your computer
Or smartphone.

     *   *   *

You call me
Justifiably paranoid.

Never once
Did you acknowledge
My attempts
To share my past.

You sought
To exercise 
Your fear.

Asking the same question
After session.

As if
You don't believe
My answers.

If you're trying
To anger me
It won't work.

My high threshold
Before I will react
To you.

And yes
I do know
You're transphobic
By the manner
You interact
With me.

As witnessed
By my housing worker
During our last session

Handing over
The psychological assessment
For my application
To Ontario Disability Support Program.

An assessment
With many glaring errors
By you.

     *   *   *

Tell me

Are all abuse survivors
Justifiably paranoid
By our inability
To make direct eye contact?

In blaming ourselves
For the actions
Of others?

In the destruction
Of our innocence.

Of our abusers' words
By our inner voice
That repeatedly call us
Rude and shameful names.

Like a record
That's constantly 

The anxiety/panic attacks
We experience
In crowded situations
Due to past abuse/bullying.

In which
The crowds
These abusive actions.

Catching us
In an endless loop
On our personal PVR
Available on demand

A struggle
That often ends
In a graveside service.

As the private
Become public.

For those
Who surrender
To the pain.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Wednesday, March 15, 2017, I had an appointment, with my therapist, and the above poems, are some of the topics that we talked about, during that session. Before anyone thinks, it was all grim, I had the therapist laughing, at my puns, play on words, and one-liners. 

Like many of my therapy poems, I need to explore my feeling, in a manner, I couldn't or didn't have the time, in the session, last Wednesday. And yes, there were several times, I found myself, on the edge of outright crying, as I opened up, about this part of my life.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Summer's Last Hurrah (March 14, 2017)

Couristy: Tourism Toronto

Tasting bitter-sweet
Like sips of lemonade
Freshly squeezed.

As days
Grow shorter
And nights

We walk pass
The turnstile
Our ride tickets
In hand.

To the midway
We ran
Like Usain Bolt
In the 100 m race
At the Olympics.

Calling dibs
On which rides
We wanted.

Only stopping
For bathroom breaks.

As we nibbled on
Candy apples
And multi-coloured 
Cotton candy.

The sky thundered
With the sounds of jets
From the airshow.

Forgetting the rides.

Our eyes scanned
The horizon
Like radar installation
Searching for 
Another jet flyby.

RCAF Snowbirds
And USN Blue Angels
Performed death-defying
Aerobatic flight formations.

As time 
Lost meaning
'Til last jet contrail
Over Lake Ontario.

Ride tickets

We search out
The various buildings
And their exhibits.

We could taste
The world
In the Food Pavilion
North American style.

If you wanted
A limited menu
From selected countries
To satisfy 
Your foodie needs.

The agricultural building
Proudly displayed
Award winning animals
Raised by 4-H members
With their ribbons.

Day grows short
And us
Cranky and tired.

One last tour
Of the carny booths.

The barkers try
To entice us
With their games 
Of skill and chance.

Hoping for
An easy mark
As they offer
Large stuff animals
To the winners.

We walk by
Heading towards
The Go trains
For home.

School begins

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Been about 30 years, since I last been to a fair, in the Canadian National Exhibition (locally called, the X), in Toronto, with my family, on a Labour Day long weekend, as my dad wanted to see the air show, as he served in the RCAF, during the 1950's and 1960's, before he left. The X runs, for the last 17 days, of the summer. before the new school year begins, on the first Tuesday, of September, after Labour Day.

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