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Jan 28 · 54
iliad, a poem | no. 8
VIII. trompe-l’oeil

come one, come all
boys and girls
to the menagerie

sip your fill, if it suits your fancy
eat and relish, if you’d like
poke and **** and gawk and gape
oh please do make yourself at home, dear
let this pain and my unspoken words
be your momentary delight

trompe-l’œil
i could never reconcile
real and ruse

make me your canvas
lay your slick brushstrokes
before the paint on my eyes dries

make me your clay
to hold and to touch
master your craft
on my nacreous freckled flesh

make me your cloth
tuck into my glaciated folds
when you feel down
perfumed to hide the rot

pin me up by my wrists to admire
or lock me away with your shame
keep me breathing on
borrowed time and borrowed oxygen
cigarette burn kisses and asphalt smiles

keep the silk on my eyes
that i may see only what you want me to
and learn what it means to play god

you peered down at me
from chiarroscurro temple ceilings
“god or man?”, i could never tell

oh they all want to be me
ashen graphite fingers
worlds bending to my pencil whims
head buried in precal homework
hands tucked into the
holes of our sweaters
fraying laces, scuffed suede skates
swollen ankles, heads through moonroofs
as we coasted on highways and night air

it wasn’t us, but it could’ve been

toasting to our lucky constellations
i let the liquor and brown sugar
burn and stick to my ribs
crystallize into caramel cages
because it got darker and colder quicker
without you, dear
the days swallowed by yawning loneliness
and the fire let me know i was still awake

but it’s hard wearing your heart
on sweater sleeves
splayed out for the world to see

you carved it out with a paring knife
and kept it throbbing with nightstand pills

by law, every process must decay

it is said that which strikes the shell
does not scathe the pearl
but i am the product of imperfections
scraping, gnawing, ripping
like misshapen gears in a clockwork machine

if too, this bloated body was fashioned
by the hands of god

if too, this sickly brown, pockmarked skin
could glow once again

if too, games could remain games
and war could remain war

if too, blood was thicker than water
may these hands be clean

quench your thirst in my fountains
sate your hunger in my briars
dare to **** me dry, dear
(and i will ******* raw)
to relativity: our emotions are never absolute.

inspired by “italian” and “angel” by isaac dunbar.

you know if this is dedicated to you.
II.
the boy at the coffee shop
is, in fact, a barista

he whiles away his time
at odds with metal monoliths
coaxing honeyed shots of espresso
from the scalding machines
and honing his delicate craft

his language is one of
valves, gaskets, filters
copper boilers and pressure

his artistry
in the turning of steam knobs
folding froth into rich milk
the pulling of levers
the milling of fragrant beans
the pouring of flowers

he learnt his calling
when he first sipped that
viscous indian coffee
cut with bitter chicory
softened with caramelized cream
and dark brown sugar

this is what he understood, coffee:
input/output, give/take
ratios and recipes
detailed tasting notes
he spoke to the machines
and they answered eagerly

and the barista thought the world
to work the same way...
till he saw the girl at the coffee shop

questions glimmered in her eyes
and sweet mocha laced her lips
she was nothing like his machines
all hopeful uncertainty and "what next?"

she wears her hair in braided crowns
concealing her mica-freckled skin
behind oversized cable-knit sweaters
scribbling in sketchbooks for hours
she too, honing her craft

he is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others sip their fill
till the cup is empty
and nothing remains

someday he will
go up and talk
to the girl
at the coffee shop
but for now
he is just
a stranger
longing from afar

forever people watching
and forever watched by people

-wren
for context, au stands for alternative universe: a coffeeshop au is a trope where the barista and a customer fall in love.

thank you to jules for the collab :)
I.
the boy at the coffee shop
is a nameless being
with a permanent hold on her

he fills her waking thoughts
with his soft smiles
and brown eyes
light cocoa skin
a sharp contrast
to the white of a coffee cup

every time she's there
he is too
it makes her wonder
if he happens to work there
but in all her time at the cafe
she has yet to see him
put on an apron
and ask for orders

she longs to talk to him
to banter and to flirt
to have a coffee shop au
all her own

but every time
she tries to speak
doubt creeps
into her throat
and stays there

she is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others fill her to the brim
till she spilled over the edges

someday she will
go up to talk
to the boy
at the coffee shop
but for now
she is just
a stranger
longing from afar

forever people watching
and forever watched by people

-j.
for context, au stands for alternative universe: a coffeeshop au is a trope where the barista and a customer fall in love.

thank you to jules for the collab :)
Jun 2021 · 108
iliad, a poem | no. 7
VII. mitosis

i...
i love him
and i will pay with fire and brimstone
maybe i’ll realize
that the plot arc of my life
doesn’t really make any sense anymore
that i don’t know where i’m going
(i never really did)
and i’m falling i’m ******* falling

the potter's wheel lays in disuse
the clay has cracked
much like ourselves
crazed in the heat of our crucible
the teacups are but shards
and no golden lacquer remains
to mend, to smooth sharp edges

we cherish things until
we can replace them

"fragile, handle with care"
i didn’t test in an inconspicuous spot
i didn’t reset to factory default
i didn’t come assembled
but i didn’t come broken either

we were dealt the cards before
we even knew we were players

and i cry for innocence had,
and innocence lost
innocence misplaced,
and innocence taken

my nightmares lathered
in sterile surgeon cyan
after all, we lobotomized machines
could never feel

what pleasures lie,
in those frosty windowed wards!
arched backs, bucked hips
gossamer cauls of flesh unwillingly broken
bulimic hearts, skinny love
i need not drink but the viscous
milken nectar of our lust
what pleasure, achilles!
what pleasure?

what pleasure is there in
the supplication of sutured flesh?
iphigenia, astynome...briseis—
flesh blemished, removed, replaced
housing haunted souls

heracles, phaethon, oedipus, icarus...
are we too consigned to eternal song,
that bitter deathless death,
like our tragic forbearers?
our glory, our hamartia
lies only in our love, philtatos

when wisdom brings no profit
to be wise is to suffer

the proud will be humbled
and the humble will be exalted

quell your arrogance
mitotic spindle

my name means glory to the father
and i am the prodigal son

all is equal in the chaotic omniscience
of mitosis, of death, of entropy, of war

we? we are indivisible.
May 2021 · 28
iliad, a poem | no. 9
IX. cathedral

i am human
i am young and stupid
unusual, tragic, and alive
and this is my penance

you are not mine
to keep, to touch, to hold, to love
i will smile when i want to cry in your arms
and i will laugh when i want to scream
i will be content and happy
everything you gift me
will burn as incense, fragrant within
the cathedral of my heart of hearts

till roses bloom within these lungs
and the incense begins to choke
my minutes, hours, days
they are all yours

i only ask that you don't
drop this heart of mine;
appraise it, dust it off, and
replace it in an unsuspecting alcove
for in its fragility, it has been
broken time and time again
and i'm not sure i have it
in me to mend it once more

addiction
speed
immoral
ecstasy
in the
continuum
of
risk, reward, and rheum
everywhere
there is only You
and i...

am but shattered abstractions
fractured glass
in a mosaic beyond
but i will love You
in the only way i know:
wholly, in life and in death,
always and forevermore

goodbye and farewell,
my darling achilles.
to risk and rheum: the temple smoke consecrates all as the delphic oracle heralds fate.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.
Mar 2021 · 508
iliad, a poem | no. 6
VI. deidameia's danse macabre

we are sick, deidameia
till the end of our days
we are sick with mortality

we are the ants on the pale blue dot
alone in our fruitless toil
we are a godless generation
feigning synthetic emotion
philosophies oh so fragile
dogmatic pins pushed into
unsuspecting cloth dolls

i'm right
you're wrong
i'm lonely

but right now
we stand at the crossroads
of destiny
a former self behind
a well-trodden path ahead

we find nirvana
as the clock strikes thirteen

when my eyes close
i taste oblivion and holocaust
so we dance on the edge
round and around we go
the pauper child, the holy man,
the king, the tiller of the fields:

so you sow, so shall you reap

the dice are cast
the cards are dealt
the matches are lit

this soul has been aching
to burn once again
douse me with kerosene
light me up like
cigarettes to cellophane
choke back the embers
we live on the smoke

i'll hate you till my lungs give out
i'll love you till my body's dust

i've won the world
and all her pearls
i've got the world
except you
to not-friends and not-enemies: to strangers with memories and souls lost.

inspired by the "all for the game" trilogy by nora sakavic,, sofia moulton's cover of the song "broadripple is burning", and "the world and all her pearls" by isaac dunbar. dedicated to an ansha, a zara, and a brian.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.
Jan 2021 · 160
iliad, a poem | no. 4
IV. dawning at the sanctum

We were arms and legs,
ruffled pillows and
twisted blankets
bare writhing bodies
reflected in a warped carnival mirror
glowing embers of a fallen star
Your strokes
tentative and wavering
in an unsteady tremolo

find me where the shy dawn
dare caress the black crystal waters
that sparkled so green
amidst cold oceans of metaphor
and warm, streaky peach jam skies

gift me, make me, break me, grant me
may i find nourishment and sustenance
in suckling the dripping honey
from your velvet rose-tinted lips
slake Your thirst
sate Your hunger
drink from these fountains
and eat from these briars
revel in my sanctum
but let no blessed water
pass my parched lips

i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck
i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece
monet's soleil levant and water lilies
botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots
i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes
and repose in the contours of your body
chiseled with conviction bold
i will trace lines traced long ago
and discover you anew
lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids
sweet aubades of clotted maple cream
embroidered into the
buttery cashmere shearling
of Your lush being
knotted, blistering lilac and rose
in this churning ****** sea
of flames and sculpted ice

bold sensual soft
caress but never kiss
it's five a.m.
and i still can't sleep
we're out of time
there's no stopping what's to come
but the taste of jasmine white tea
still lingers on my tongue
i'm still shouting to the void
and playing piano in the brazen dark
to small but certain happiness: tickling mountain air and sticky nights on the beaches.

inspired by "the starless sea" by erin morgenstern.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.
Jan 2021 · 139
iliad, a poem | no. 3
III. clay feet

the metal nightingales
chirp their heralding serenatas
realizing every lucid daydream
and smelting away every plastic
contingency

to part the molten
gold in Your eyes
is to tempt Fate
but you are Achilles
and i am your patroclus
i will lay down my pride, my life,
every ounce of my being
for You

You shall sit atop pedestals
adorned with bas relief acanthus
conquest and compassion
life and death
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
i will exalt You and Your pride
and wash Your clay feet

You are my first musing
in the morning
and final contemplation
at night
twice and three years
of abstinence
make my body whole and clean
to the heroes, of antiquity and of today: we know only mortality and glory, and i fear for his naivete.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.
Jan 2021 · 155
iliad, a poem | no. 2
II. alpenglow

hushed white
first snow's plush
duvet

inimitable beauty
euphoria
in the florid incandescence
infinitely faceted fractals
a conflagration:
fire on the mountaintop,
oh, these halos in the umbra—
roving alpenglow

paper birch
trembling aspen
bent by sheer roiling passion
into a piazza passageway
leading to Our
cloistered
crystal
kingdom
come

an icy, sharp chemical-like hint
of taste lingers
at the back of my throat
a steady stream of
tears cascading down
my face

i lie on the fallen down,
a snowy duvet under a yielding sun
that gifts the little light and warmth it can

crackling paris green
and steaming water
She does not watch us here

Our breath is one and the same
why are your hands so cold?
You whisper
my beloved philtatos,
they are but a mark
of the rites of passage we endured
and a youth idealized

understand
that i am a worn letter lost
burnished ink that once clung
to a burnished nib
on deckle-edge ecru paper
embossed with gold and filigree
do you dare to open me?
to fire on the mountaintops: for the hearth on chiron's pelion smolders always.

inspired by the breathtaking scenery of alberta, canada.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.
Jan 2021 · 151
iliad, a poem | no. 1
I. quinine and honey

His fight and fierceness
are unrivaled
inviting
like the solace of sleep
to the freezing

addiction, dependence, provocation
i’m washed in the tide
of His everlasting breath
plunging out in rimy clouds
he reached out
and thawed me,
hands interlaced
if only for a moment

i take in His body,
the unleavened bread:
delicate, diaphanous
caramel skin
dappled with freckles
stretched taut over a
light but athletic frame

doused with
mulled wine
an earthy sweet redolence
of spice, sour cherry,
fruit and florals,
smoke, and amber resin

reminders of those cold,
firelit winter nights
flannel button-up pajamas
rosy cheeks and cracked, swollen lips
strong pourover coffee and
steaming jasmine white tea
at five in the morning
when i would shiver
and He would hold me tighter
we were so happy we were afraid

i run my fingers
through His silken
sun-softened sable hair

His heart, however,
holds sentiment
incomparable to my votive
there is only Him

sometimes
even the quinine
finds itself too bitter
that it may yearn for
honey
to drown
it
to honey: so that the last taste after the bitter journey is always sweet.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.
Jan 2021 · 886
iliad, a poem | no. 5
V. the ballad of briseis

my heart is of
the flesh of figs,
and that which
i cannot touch:
grainy sweet
garnet nectar
pretty to behold
but easy to bruise

no god shall speak for me, briseis
for this fig-heart, like the heart of man
craves art as it does god
and though i know you not by name,
but only pseudonym:
blood, words, and love,
we are kindred souls

i'd like to believe that we
are cut of the same cloth
hewn of the same mound of clay
(or cast into the same iron, i suppose
for we became one another's anchor
the day we met)

i once told you, my dear briseis,
that if you taught me symbiosis
i would teach you love
for you found pragma
in philosophy cold
markov's blankets
freud's ego, plato's cave
whereas i found pragma
in alchemy's poetry
chekhov's gun
freud's neurotics, plato's human

it means nothing.

the alchemy lies
beyond the chemicals,
beyond the seed and the egg,
beyond our festivals of atonement,
beyond my prima materia
and your unfulfilled magnum opus

it lies in simple interdependence,
the oceans, the heavens,
the forests, the deserts,
the storms, the famines,
the herds of wildebeest,
the colonies of ants,
the beady dew on the spider web
and the purling river shallows,
our acrid mouths yearning for mother's milk,
the boy who makes us cry at night,
the fiery logs roaring against the cold air,
the hoot-owls and the faces on the wall
(our skeletons never did stay in the closet)
bathed in that slow, hideous wonder
those interplays of love and symbiosis

as i drown and die in reverie once more
pray that the stakes may be forever higher
that i find those eternal elysian fields
so long as our achilles lives to fight again

we are more alike,
than you or i would
ever dare to admit,
briseis

so humor this fig-heart:
hold me and tell me
that it'll be all right
to fig-hearts and fickle fate: we aren't perfect, and that's okay.

~ILIAD~
this series, inspired by the greek epic of the same name attributed to homer and madeline miller's "song of achilles", is a narrative of my life, short as it may be. i [attempt] to explore everything from race to sexuality, to friendships and reconciliation. i hope you take something from this. you can read in whichever order you like, as a series or as standalones.

interpretation of truman capote's "other voices, other rooms", with text taken directly from said work in stanza seven.
Apr 2020 · 467
dawning
I.

We were arms and legs,
ruffled pillows and
twisted blankets
bare writhing bodies
reflected in a warped carnival mirror
glowing embers of a fallen star
Your strokes
tentative and wavering
in an unsteady tremolo

find me where the shy dawn
dare caress the black crystal waters
that sparkled so green
amidst cold oceans of metaphor
and warm, streaky peach jam skies

gift me, make me, break me, grant me
may i find nourishment and sustenance
in suckling the dripping honey
from your velvet rose-tinted lips
slake Your thirst
sate Your hunger
drink from these fountains
and eat from these briars
revel in my sanctum
but let no blessed water
pass my parched lips

i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck
i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece
monet's soleil levant and water lilies
botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots
i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes
and repose in the contours of your body
chiseled with conviction bold
i will trace lines traced long ago
and discover you anew
lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids
sweet aubades of clotted maple cream
embroidered into the
buttery cashmere shearling
of Your lush being
knotted, blistering lilac and rose
in this churning ****** sea
of flames and sculpted ice

bold sensual soft
caress but never kiss
it's five a.m.
and i still can't sleep
we're out of time
there's no stopping what's to come
but the taste of jasmine white tea
still lingers on my tongue
i'm still shouting to the void
and playing piano in the brazen dark
~escapril prompt no. 1
~dedicated to a tayden and a david, and to a lana for seeing me through it all :)
~this will also probably become a part of dichotomy pt. 2
~"crystal water that sparkled so green" -- kipling's seal lullaby
~feedback much appreciated <3
Mar 2020 · 370
heart of hearts
know it won’t happen
i know i’ll be left heartbroken
but darling i don’t ‘crush’
i love

i am human
i am young and stupid
unusual, tragic, and alive
and this is my penance

you are not mine
to keep, to touch, to hold, to love
i will smile when i want to cry in your arms
and i will laugh when i want to scream
i will be content and happy
everything you gift me
will burn as incense, fragrant within
the cathedral of my heart of hearts
idk about this one,, any feedback is appreciated, i plan on adding this as a segment of one of my poems in the soon-to-be reposted dichotomy series. thank you for stopping by! <3
—⋅ < DEUS EX MACHINA > ⋅—
I. Within
progeny of The Stars

cosmic void
regal seething bordellos
of eloping holy light
in its sinewy grasp

darling, we dwell in a
beautiful place
where the paper-thin veneer on
what is, what has been, and what is to be
has cracked and peeled away
divulging the secret cosmos
until matter is no longer matter,
silence, no longer silence

cosmic cold
permanent light
permanent darkness
similarly, simultaneously

out of the ether,
out of the nothingness
compounded within nothingness,
exploded forth energy, time, space

and so was physics,
the story of how our makeshift universe
came to be

II. Coalescent
with physics came energy,
and with energy, entropy—
there was a fundamental need
to form and exist as a whole

from the broiling chaos
coalesced a semblance of order

a thimbleful of electrons and photons
pooling and burbling
abstracted and reified

and so was chemistry,
the story of atoms and
the quantum waltz

III. Altered
ionize the corona
a faint breath of life
found its way

idealize time:
a walk of six billion years
idly made its way into our present

life-forms emerged,
alive as the sprawling acanthus
springing from the grave

furiously clawing at the barren,
fruitless earth
we suckled the heaving ***** of mother nature,
greedily drinking her life-giving milk;
fragments of her being embroidered into cristae
generation after generation

ever-changing
we evolved

and so was biology,
the story of these life-forms
and how they kept

IV. Value & Definition
a thimbleful of love to encourage modesty
since you can't make deals with the universe
accept what you are made of

during your life
the gates of darkness open and lock your soul in order to test you
are you brave enough?
do you dare?

if not, simply lay down your bruised body
kneel on your scraped knees
and pray
you're not inhuman if you have strayed
if your soul has been played by pain

nothing is absolute: not a poem
neither a castle, riches, human power
the oceans, the skies, nor the twilight
in the smallest of intervals~
we are golden urns pouring out of the sun
momentary shadows
decaying naked as we came, in short-lived grandeur

the perfect constellation of the universe:
deus ex machina et machina ex deus

and so was history,
the ongoing story of us
and our cultures

V. Acknowledge
neither absolute nor relative
it simply is, as is, as has been, as will be
god doesn't need to be proven
just think about the way insects recognize humans

just tell yourself this is just physics
tell yourself that chemistry, biology, history
could even begin to define infinity

suspiria de profundis
iridescent harmony of the spheres
in the quiet black, hear those arias of nirvana
~DEUS EX MACHINA~
inspired by my former science teacher's numerous lectures on the poetry of our universe. this one's for you, ms. m. simply beautiful. ty for stopping by.

"and in the salt chuckle of rocks
with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumor without any echo

of History, really beginning."

-Excerpt from Derek Walcott's "The Sea Is History"

Thank you so much, Mikey, for asking me to do a collaboration with you. It's an honor to have done my first HePo collab with a poet as gifted and eloquent as you. Much love, ~Reignier <3

Apologies, know that this note is awfully long. This is my first post in a while and I just want to say thank you to all of you who've been with me since the beginning. Your love and thanks means so much to me. I found what I've been seeking, and I can honestly tell you that I'm back (if school permits lol). Please put any suggested tags in the comments so I can add them.

PART 1 OF 2
Dec 2019 · 807
don’t bother buying roses
darling, don’t bother buying roses
uprooted, torn from the fertile, nourishing earth
they only wither away, glazed with the mourning dew
another bus-ride write. again, not my best... i’ll prolly post again in a couple of weeks, midterms are coming up. it always made me sad when my dad bought my mom flowers. once, they were alight with life, the truest beauty. now confined to a clear water-filled vase, on display for the world, only to die days later. ty for reading. im going to try and stay away from  angsty love poems for my next couple of poems, maybe something happier ;)

^^quick note: mourning refers to tears and is a play on the word morning~
Sep 2019 · 968
always welcome
a small
millennium house
much younger than it looks

a worn brick frame
skirted by a quaint, welcoming
red mulch garden

lace and fine gilt bone china
tucked away in
innumerable glass-fronted
cherry cabinets
bathed in the peachy florida light
streaming in through
clustered windows
framed by luscious,
flowing cloth drapery

pears soap,
soft, satin water,
and ceramic figurines
of angels and saints,
hares and doves

biblical verse, hung on the walls
and photos of relatives
i’ve never met

cushy, paisley-patterned sofas,
always something on the stove

flower arrangements on the mantle
aside a baldwin upright

no, this is not home.
but regardless, i know that here,
i will
always be welcome
a quick bus-ride write... not my best but i still think it’s something ;)
Aug 2019 · 227
hello
hello to my 29 followers...
i wanted to let you know that a couple of my poems will be taken down in the coming days, including dichotomy pt. 1: votive and perhaps the poems in the crossroads series along with gratitude and whatever else i feel needs to be removed.

there are a number of sweet, kindred souls on hp whose writing always amazes, leaving me hungering for more. it's these people that have shown me what it means to be a human being and the virtues of poetic catharsis. how strangers can convey their deepest emotions to other strangers through artful verse. their words inspire. always. i don't have the space or words to sufficiently thank them all, lest i offend anyone dear to me*, but it's these people that inspire me to write.

however, being the stubborn-a-- idealistic pisces i am, i know i can improve. for a period of time, i believed my poetry was actually good (hA nOpe). but after reading the works of some poets on this site, i felt my poetry was absolute s---. i was not writing from the heart. i understand self-deprecation is bad and whatnot but i sincerely know i can do better. i'm taking down all the poems i personally feel are inadequate. they will eventually be 'refurbished' and republished.

for the next month or so, i'm going to try and get back in touch with my artistic self, an artistic renaissance if you will. not just in poetry per se, but the other liberal arts as well, along with extracurriculars and academics. school begins in two weeks and when it does, i want to come back the best version of myself.

thank you for all of your support! reading your comments always makes my day. i'll be back, better than before. again, thank you!

~reignier
*but here's a short list: Darrell Landstrom, Perry, S Olson, Peter Gareth, Jackson Thomas, Terry D'Arcy Ryan, Crazy Diamond Kristy, Lone Chimney Sweep, Bus Poet Stop, Cat, Cné, Bryan Lunsford, Fawn, and 24 other beautiful creatures. special thanks to Jade Storm.
Aug 2019 · 714
Canmore Verse
Look down.
There’s a whole world below,
dug out and timber-framed,
mapped and named.
Its tunnels stretch for miles
under the mountain.

Once it shook with blasting,
screech of train, and whistles.
The coal was iridescent blue.
Headlights on a curved track
burst like shooting stars
out of the deep.

That mirror world is dark now.
The men laid down their tools,
and took the mantrip
to the surface, home.
In the quiet,
hear the mountain sigh.
was in canmore, canada for vacation. saw these words engraved into the sidewalk... thought it was really poetic!

/taken from the canmore city website/
Canmore was named in 1884 by Donald A. Smith, an employee of the Canadian Pacific Railway. The name originates from a town on the northwest shores of Scotland named in honor of King Malcolm III of Canmore. The anglicized version of the Gaelic Ceann Mór , Canmore has been variously translated as "big head" or, more likely, "great head" or "chief".

In 1886 Queen Victoria granted a coal mining charter to the town and in 1887 the first mine was opened.

The North West Mounted Police built their first barracks in Canmore in 1890. It was vacated in 1929 and turned into a private residence. Later, in 1989 the barracks was purchased back by the town and restored.

Through the early 20th century many of the coal mines in the Bow Valley began to shut down. The nearby towns of Anthracite, Georgetown and Bankhead closed down and many of the buildings and residents were relocated to Banff and Canmore. In 1965, Canmore was incorporated as a town with 2,000 residents. I
sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold

blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn

a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles.  sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.

fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder

new-age americana at its finest—

we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to now. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.
never done one of these before! apologies, ik i didn't adhere to form...a creative liberty if you will. ty for stopping by. haibun: haiku poetry and prose.

^don’t ask how i know what cinzano bianco is lol^

part of the last little paragraph thingy was taken from henry wadsworth longfellow’s ‘a psalm of life’.
May 2019 · 378
The One
The Greek philosopher Plato once said that in the beginning, all humans had four arms, four legs, and a single head, on which two faces were interwoven. We were whole, we were empowered, gifted the ability to ask the Gods for the answers to the true questions, those questions that transcended human thought. We flourished, nurtured by the incubator of bliss: a happiness incomparable to anything in existence today. We did not coexist as two separate beings, rather living as The One.

But as humans, we also had this primeval desire, this primeval hunger to achieve and attain. So we flaunted our gifts. Our indomitability soon seized us and we, in our blatant arrogance, defiled the divinity of the celestial beings. The Gods, offended, separated The One, forming two distinctly different beings.

We wept, overcome by our woes, not knowing how to console ourselves. Without our other half, life was not only saddening, but also pointless. Days and days went by, with not so much as even a hint of happiness. Then began a spark in every being. We yearned for our other half, so for our other half, we searched. The reformation of The One became imperative, lest all of the human race live purposelessly for the rest of our days. And so as we searched, from the fading twilight to the dark crevices of our very own natures, we found.

This search is known as love, and it is the closest thing to The One we may experience in this lifetime. It gives each of our lives meaning, each of our lives purpose. This is the story of how a boy and a girl sought and found one another.
an introduction to a story i'm writing lol
show me
with trembling fingers
a shallow breath
what it means
to close a book

take the barren thread
raise me up
adjusting buckling knees

show me
how much you hate me
beyond what words
could say
this one really caught me off guard. thanks to you, Lana, for this masterpiece. about suicide...
i dreamt a little dream of you.
it was somewhere cold and
looking outside through the windows,
it was evident it had been snowing for awhile.

a fading fluorescent read 7:00 pm.
it was dark outside.
we were both inside a dim bathroom.
an ornate claw-foot tub stood in the center,
filled to the brim with water.
a steady layer of steam cascaded off the surface, dissipating into the surrounding air.
you held my hand and guided me to the tub.
we stripped, a small pile of clothing forming to the side.
the water was hot and inviting.

i hugged you and you hugged me.
you ran your finger through my hair and told me everything would be alright.
i shivered from the aching cold that enveloped us.
you simply hugged me even tighter.
‘promise me, this is forever.’
you just smiled.

the most painful part,
was waking up in a pool of tears,
realizing it never happened.

you’d never know,
but i dreamt a little dream of you.
love me. please. it couldn’t have been fake...
I need a moment of ignorance.
But the price is one I can't pay.
I need a moment of clarity.
But, it isn't for sale.
I'd like to discard my cards.
But we get what we get, take what is given,
Live on both sides of the spectrum.
So play to the best of your abilities.
One opponent is already down.
wish i wrote this lol. one of my close friends created this from a plethora of old ela warmups. i thought she deserved some recognition because honestly, this poem is art. title is capped on this one because she’d probably beat me up if it weren’t **** -_-.
Dear Tayden,
         It’s been so difficult to internalize the emotions I feel when I’m around you. Looking at you for even a fleeting moment, I am unable to speak any longer. For me to write this, was in a sense, therapeutic. Never in my life have I been able to communicate something so powerfully abstract and implicit with such thought and definition. Please take only what you need from this.
         Just being in your presence for the last three years has been a blessing in itself. Since I first met you, you have treated me with respect, dignity, and kindness: something that not many people have had the decency to do. I feel most gratified to God that I had the chance to meet you. You truly have given my life meaning.
         You walk in at 8:55, every weekday, a smile on your face. Even if it’s hell outside the classroom, you maintain that smile. Regardless of how late you stayed up working or how sick you are of the day-to-day stress, you still come to school looking perfect.
          I think you’re brilliant. Truly. You emanate this light that everyone just wants to be around. Everyone who talks to you leaves happy, and in a sense, satiated. I anticipate just being next to you because you’re one of the few people that are just as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside.
          My life was this everlasting, directionless abyss. I kept flailing and flailing until at one point, I considered letting go. It would have been so simple to fall into the velvet black. I felt that even if I were gone, not many would pay care.
                                                 But then I met you.
          You, knowingly or unknowingly grasped my hand and pulled me out of this vicious cycle. For the first time in a long time, I felt- embraced. My words and actions are entirely pointless without you. You're why I wake up in the morning. I know that you’re special. Now it’s just a matter of getting you to recognize it.
                                                             ­                           Warmest regards,
                                                        ­                                                      Wren
a couple of my poems have stemmed from this letter. sorry it's a bit lengthy... ijust needed to get this out there. formatting might've ******* up a little bit too, sorry about that. i wrote this out in longhand in spencerian cursive and tucked it and my poem dichotomy in an envelope wrapped in ribbon with flowers fastened around it. i may be a hopeless romantic, but i still am a romantic lol.
Apr 2019 · 553
trust, in its purest sense
trust, in its purest sense,
is giving someone the ability to shatter you,
but maintaining the faith that they won’t.
...
Apr 2019 · 446
the light
let’s stop propagating the darkness,
and preach the light.
inspired by Petal’s ‘What the F***?’
i’ve wrote so much angst i think i’ve been desensitized by it lol. ty Petal for showing me that poetry is more than a domain for the depressed and hurting.
Apr 2019 · 429
grace and mercy
grace is getting more than you deserve,
whereas mercy is not getting what you deserve.
god grants us both.
as said by our youth pastor
Apr 2019 · 523
rifts and ultimatums
she lays on one side,
and he lays on the other.
                                               ✦
she is a beautiful flower against the brutalist landscape,
he, thistle and thorn on a path rightfully left untrodden.
                                               ✦
she is an ornate nib against the parchment, gliding with grace,
he, a metal implement against the wood, etching with fire.               
                                               ✦
she is my first musing in the early morning,
he, my final contemplation at night.
                                               ✦
she is the uplifting ionian in a chord progression,
he, the dark, dissonant sharp iv of the fanciful lydian.
                                               ✦
she smiles,
he frowns.
                                               ✦
i  know i can't keep fetishizing the idea of compromise.
s o  g e t  o u t  o f  m y  h e a d,
and croon the dirge with me.
                                               ✦
no more rifts or ultimatums, please.
please...
i can't be alone any longer.
                                               ✦
don't make me choose right now.
no. NO.
just hold me tight,
and tell me things will get better.
                                               ✦
in my nightstand, there lies a bottle of pills
(some old opioids, i think)                                            
and a paring knife.
                                               ✦
you both are the reason i don't pick up either.
both of you are my lifeline...
no more rifts or ultimatums, please.
just both of you, and me.
                                               ✦
can you love two people at once?
i thought i was better. i thought i was healed. but like a vice that you never truly escape, my past has come back to haunt me. it's alright though. i see a light at the end of the tunnel and writing this helped me get a little closer to it. i just need to wait out the night.

inspired by Scott's "Small Rituals":
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3081847/small-rituals/
Apr 2019 · 405
expression
such a haunting expression,
on such a beautiful creature.
...
Apr 2019 · 988
embrace
when we're locked together
in one another's warm embrace,
all my fears,
all my inhibitions,
they all melt away.
...
Apr 2019 · 1.2k
what cross do you bear?
what cross do you bear?
whisper to me the pains you've repressed,
the regrets that consume you,
divulge to me your darkest sins,
and lend utterance to your woes.

how do you build the ark,
that exists in your mind?
rocking in the arms,
of the slow, swinging seas,
whilst quixotic dreamers,
dance across the sky,
lost in the clouds.

solace in tears,
premonitions in fears,
let me cradle your soul,
and mend,
piece by piece,
plastered poultices,
and golden lacquer scars,
sealing all that ran deep.
let me shoulder your burdens,
so that one day, you may learn
and live alongside them.

so long as molten rock,
anoints our heads,
and flickering flame,
sears our feet,
we shall traverse
the crucible that is life.

each bearing a cross,
and a crown of thorns,
we are beautifully broken,
the faceted protagonists
of faded film noir.

we will prevail.
“No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown.” -William Penn

angst, ik lol, but i just wanted all of you to know that i'm here for all of you. not sure how much i can do for you but i'll certainly try! thank you for stopping by.
Mar 2019 · 415
love(is|si)ck
just a lovesick boy
who's sick of love
unrequited love hurtsssss djsksksksk

inspired by Conan Gray's original song, "Lovesick Boys" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JmL6Z6AiRA - light but bittersweet

i wouldn't blame them though: i wouldn't want to fall in love with me either
Mar 2019 · 974
presence
you’re not here today...
suddenly, the world seems a little dimmer
cliché, ik, but nevertheless true

— The End —