Best Diderot Poems
Existentially you think
you know me
having eaten a slice
of my mind
delicious you think
the bubbling froth
of this poetry
peppered with sprinkles
of rising undertones
the sugar depth charged
unstirred, yet
touch the lip of my cup
you’d feel the burn
the tongue means to speak
unhoneyed
the kiss stings
the pain
swollen
and
sweet
Candide Diderot. '24
“The Unknown”
Something beautiful in the ugly of it all
raised its hand in the classroom
and asked,
is that all?
The Reader considered it all.
Silently.
Perhaps there is Life
on Mars after all.
Safely removed from the
pages of this world.
Who in their right mind
would query
The Unknown?
give proper and correct
answers to it all -
The Unknown.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
You could look for me forever
in the well of words that
float or drown in your mind
and I’d be forever
your reflection
lapping at your fingers
inky love rippling,
teasing and intangible,
just a little out of reach,
like a fountain,
the sweet condition
slow burn,
bubbling up,
you feeling
the familiar,
you’re about
ready to spill,
mind wet,
you take a sip
from the cup
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"That Place"
In that place where you were abandoned,
that place, they never thought, you’d come back from,
in that place where it is believed nothing grows
in the long night’s tortured darkness, deep down, well,
a spark lit something quite quiet, far removed and forgotten,
and now it grows rapidly, coiling inside,
snaking sharp-edged like mother’s tongue root
it transmits something alive, something like love,
its veins drawing back in again a loquacious life,
the moisture from tears, a necessary nourishment
from the lake of disbelief, betrayal, trauma and grief,
a bless'ed blooming in disguise,
the succulent luscious life those all important tears gift;
what spreads from the darkness and its erratic reach,
calling into it all embers of ethereal light? Now ultra-lit,
some revolutionary reincarnation arrives back from the dead,
it soaks the unseen light up greedily, for it is extraordinarily hungry,
to taste if but just a drop of sunshine in the glory of forever and ever,
this is what it dreams when it sleeps;
after the amen, hibernation,
it grows and it spreads robust, rigorous (not necessarily), yet,
like a beautiful irregular disease, there is no turning back
once the light kisses it and it has a taste for life,
it goes looking for some kinder heaven;
yes, this is accurate, I do believe -
from nothing something blooms
from nothing, the arrival, awake,
life lessons learned,
what is poor, and what is rich,
what is true and untrue
Candide Diderot. '24
Like a gecko, that one changes their colours
speaks in tongues long then short blue
climbing up and down walls clicking
translating the draconians’ poetic profusions
all are night creatures in the absence of light fluctuations
they scurry along the cracks over the white and the black
5 fingers 5 toes, quite quite reptilian,
efficient in the chosen environment, useful,
amusing a muse, then, when the mourning sun rises,
contradictory, scurrilous, misplaced, undeniably ugly,
yet cute
Night creatures, light framed
lone vigils, velvet skinned strict vigilantes
on all fours preying Carthusian monks
nakedly bathed in absinthe chartreuse
through their clicking chants, looking for true
through the glass onion
peeling back layers
shedding skin
on a wall
5 fingers, 5 toes
amusing a muse
Candide Diderot. ‘24
sadeness.
enigma.
"Major Love"
My dear Major Love,
are You following me yet?
all the sunrising storms read?
soliloquys too many to mention
my very brave Major Love
You’ll find me yet
tomorrow
is never too late
in this dreamscape
it won’t be the Love
that everyone suspects
it commenced inside and yet
You made it out two weeks late
are You following me yet?
Footprints left
oh so very left, yet You
are right, so very very right
it's all very
black and white
messy and neat
romance of a lifetime
my brave Major Love
yet, somehow I know You
this You know alone,
You feel incomplete
dear Major Love
You’ll find me yet
lost in the crowd of
any leftfield audience
their better minds in hand
do not fit this catcher’s mit
that is a fact, You can be certain
of that, my brave Major Love
but You, my dear Major Love
1st base, 2nd, and 3rd
always watched, as if an eyeball
in the sky hovers over You
holds You
fast and intent
watching for all
the home runs you have spent
I am not in the bleechers
I am fixed on You focused eyed
the winning ball pitching Life
It is only for You
in dreams
I will always meet You
are You ready?
it is all for You
stoic Major Love
one two three owl
one two three owl
eyes wide open You now
strike matched and outrun
winning the race, yet
sometimes we lose, Major Love
but We losers
get back up again
there is no giving up
there is never no giving up
all the way home
my brave Major Love
the game already won
the field wide open before You
You'll fall again, this much is true,
but We get back up again
there is never no giving up
my much loved Major Love
the whole field before You
my gloriously embarrassed
heart read Major Love
face flushed, You are
always Loved
my best Major Love
We dance
We love
We fall
We get back up again
always for Love
it is always for Love
courage, my much loved
only Major Love
Candide Diderot. ‘24
lux gvlm lux
"There's no eye in the sky
Just our love
No unobstructed view
No perfect truths
Just our love, just our love
And there's no verse
No monument of words
For our love
For they can't hold
All I know
About my love, about my love..."
"All Hail"
Within the sky of blue,
embedded liked jewels
the many hidden colours,
the truest hues
arrive in storms,
where all the hail
like eyes falling
from the vaults
of heaven
melt bad dreams,
and the better,
lost in cloudy vision,
are drawn back in
and up again -
all hail
the Inclement,
and their
cloudy whethers
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"Treasure Box"
The etymologist considered "themselves" singular;
like a butterfly collector they pulled the pincushion
out from the treasure box and proceeded to capture words
pinning them to every wall, they felt a certain kind release,
voodoo prayers ran through their mind subliminally,
the agony of adjectives and verbs being kept
beside ampersands conjoining objective pronouns subjectively
was a fluttering kind of let loose ecstacy
their creation connubial was escoteric, beautiful and ingenuous
and insanely free, in a voyeuristic sense, the art was in the act,
the pleasure was in the generosity of letting them all fly free
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Collected specimens can be identified to species using genitalic dissections and other internal and external anatomy that only can be studied through microscope work on a pinned specimen. The preparation of the wings spread and legs out, makes all features easily seen, including ones you will never see in a live insect.”
“Gently insert a sharp pin between the veins on the front edge of the left forewing and pull the forewing into place. Place a strip of paper over the left wing and insert pins to hold the forewing in place. Make sure you place the pins around the wing and not through it.”
There was trouble written all over her
like a treasure map, gold buried deep
between the missing ampersands
where to begin,
X marks the spot
Y chromosones
like quicksand YX
rolled up, a necessary
reoccurring addiction
sage smoked slowly
then fed to the sharks
gold buried deep
between the missing
ampersands
the better treasure
hidden
XX marks the spot
Candide Diderot. ‘24.
The unpopular
express
their popular strings
to the garrison, contained
within
safe boundaries, there,
their thoughts
pirouetting words
hung,
the black beetles
shine
like exotic
fresh water
pearls strung
waving like
green peas shelled
nonchalantly cast
into boiling pots
not of their own making
in the soup of
the fifth estate
boiled well,
swallowed
and regurgitated,
muses
the pods left wide open
floating in the nowhere
like emerald boats without sails
blinking
internal,
forever behind
the eternal fringes
Candide Diderot. ‘24
homonyms
Why should we
be allotted a day at all
there is no allotment
we carry the load
we always have
we always will
it is au naturale
we succeed
the pain, or,
somehow
just proceed
despite it all
the ripping open
of seals, torn -
the message crowns,
at the opening
the trident
at the door
inside, revealed
we are
the strength
potentate
high above
the little man
the smaller
sacrament
the Mother
that birthed
it all
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.”
Barber, Samuel. Adagio. Strings.
William Makepeace Thackeray.
International Womens' Day.
What worth am I
in all this madness
what worth are you
in the depths
of all this sadness
there,
see the flight path
to elevation
inside the feels;
inside the fields
of darkness
spring wells of
orbs popping light
the half-stride
of trying phantoms
planting seeds,
half-baked poetry
running
through the veins
the golden fields
of darkness
minutiae sleeping
with Morpheus
under the velvet blankets
of Elysium
terra firma robes
overly well worn
divested now
in waking
kissing the farewell
to be received blessed,
annointed in the essence
of the uncommon
there,
the busy minded,
the unnaturally gifted -
The Poets ...
call you,
see -
the flight path
to elevation
inside the outside inside -
or, called back outside,
there you remain,
forever fixated
on cracking the inside
the hoax planted
in a dybbuk box
unfounded
unworthy demon
sunken
treasure
buried forever
grounded
hear them all, see,
inside the common feels,
the uncommon Poets
call you
see,
the flight path
to elevation
reaching
inside the outside inside
Candide Diderot. ‘24
crosses.
When your heart
corresponds
with your mind,
then, give it a shot,
you write
back to me
what expressions
you so badly
need
to bleed;
the characterisation
of letters
are alphabet soup
to me, child's play,
peeling tattoos
like bells ringing
over a tongue
not speaking,
I swallow words
hungrily
then I spit them out,
bullets that pierce
a page,
bulls eyes
staring back
through the black holes,
the other silent horns,
all silently complicit
small missions
of truth
cornucopias,
wearing through
the thin fabric
of ludicrous
fantasy
feathers that fall
from soft pillows
quaking against
levees breaking
the barriers hitting marks
the sands of time broken,
river banks splitting,
the bodies drowned
and sucked up
like works of art
in a hyped up
Hieronymus Bosch,
if you are in deep
you can make sense
of it all,
you know you're in it,
that picture, way, way
up to your eyeballs
brushing against
all the others, removed,
flotsam and jetsam
in the wash, sensing
the path they all took,
but the mystery
of never quite knowing,
like a smell, pervades
charcoal tears
melt all the ways
a heart can be kicked
down and gutted
witnessed through
gilt edged windows
full and jaded
to a gate opening,
the sound cracking
like a mouth
terraforming
dustied and green
the shaman soul
found underneath
it all, humourously
rustling sage over
the external,
a serious novice
for burning
small
exorcisms
smoking out
renegades, those
stubborn seeds planted
in long spent sentences,
those true romantics,
the forgotten ill-bred,
well-tilled, rebel poets
small
exorcisms
for burning
Candide Diderot. ‘24
violins.
"Messages"
Messages are delivered to us
in the strangest of places, we resist
like we are the longest hung revolution,
the biggest most viable important incarnation,
the loudest sonnet to acknowledge the uncanny
timeliness of the unreality of it all,
the removed mathematical equation,
where is the logic in prophecies
waiting for that Pale Rider
to real us into safe quarters
away from the proverbial Storm;
any day now, news will ignite
napalming our unaware safe walls,
walls hung with souls of value
screaming I’m too old for all this
writing and passing of notes
back and forth in school;
to'wit, I’m more than likely, not 1
of the 144, I'm way too sullied,
yet I’ve got hellelujah tribulations galore
Candide Diderot. ‘24
signs/messages
"Visions"
Poetry must speak to you
you must listen
not to what the mind speaks
but to what the heart delivers
some have the vision
some do not
this is truth
sometimes the truth is too hot
you think you are getting close
too close to the other who is touched
you are not for getting that close
to such insanity to be touched
by a poem that holds no rhyme
and so the story goes
life is a never-ending poem
with no hard and fast rhyme
the soft valued curves come and go
there, in that place of listening
time has drawn no hard line
you will feel
that you must bargain with reason
logic in that place
holds no importance
you will feel, and
you must listen,
not to what the mind speaks
but to what the heart delivers
Poetry must speak to you
the better part of you must listen
some have the vision
some do not
there in that place of listening
logic, like the mind, holds no importance
Candide Diderot. ‘24