Formaldehyde Poems | Examples

Contemplating the Great Beyond

     There are those who squirm
        at the sight of the urn

     Others can’t mask it
        sobbing over a casket

     As for myself, I’m like the elf ~
        floating in formaldehyde on the shelf

Honest Doctor

My doctor is like no other,
he treats me like a brother.
Never unfair nor dishonest
in diagnosis or prognosis;
he tells me all just as it is –
a trait he’s known for best.
During my recent physical,
with expertise and acumen,
he revealed nothing amiss,
my health sound and admirable.
And with beaming pride
of a respected professional
said I’d make a fine specimen
in formaldehyde.

Sour Pickles From New Orleans

His  smelled of semi-soft cheese 
with a low moldy blue undertone 
I had no tolerance for his smell 
for compared to gym socks,
ammonia, 
or barnyards,  
it was pure Eau de Toilet ! 

After a game of indoor soccer   
he'd break wind 
while holding up one leg.  
He smelled of rotten egg 
formaldehyde, 
and sour pickles,  
from New Orleans....

While they chased after him 
with bottles of perfume 
He'd do the armpit fart 
then run away.   
Leaving behind,  
a skunky smell of Cannabis.

His Right Leg

A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.

Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.

The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.

The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.

The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.

Formaldehyde

I have no excuse
And as for my reasons
I will deliver them to you
On silver plates
Glazed with formaldehyde
And we will dance to their eulogies
And feast on their thighs
And you will know that I have always loved you
The way that I said I did

I am sorry that you could not know it sooner

move-in

We moved back into the residence yesterday - we were jubilant - and had a slumb-over last night, to celebrate our reunification. We woke up joyous, on the right side of the same bed (slumb-over), and we’ve been bouncing off the walls ever since.

We’re in the ‘settling in’ phase, restocking our Keurigs, getting our same-’ol furniture in the same-’ol places, picking up our books. In this liminal space, between sugarplums and sutures, our shrinking free-time will sag with increasing weight. Even last night’s normally fabulous martinis began to taste metallically laced with formaldehyde.

Once we’re settled in, our leisure will begin to have the tight, mangled fit of a borrowed jacket. “We’ve got to gear up.” Lisa said, just this morning and even as I type this, my eyes are flitting between my dog-eared copy of Gray's Anatomy and the mcat prep hub.

Classes start in 5 days. Free days burn bright, but disappear in a blink. Time is a precious coin.
.
.
*slumb-over = slumber party

Artificial Intelligence

(political tongue-in-cheek humor) (no political sense of humor...pass this one up)

Artificial Intelligence has been around a long time: before Biden invented the wheel, was first man to step foot on the moon...before he crossed the Delaware to rout out the British, thus saving the colonies. Before Pete Buttigieg made safe the railways of the US.  Before Barack Obama ended Racial Injustice. Before my first wife said that I was an experiment failed (what did she know!?) – before my parents hated the electric guitar (hmm...) – before the Natural High of God was replaced by formaldehyde laced weed. Before Clinton invented bleach. Before Harris saved the Southern Border from invasion, and is now headed to our Northern Border by flatulence filled balloon to make her explosive presence felt there as well (reader, please feel free to comment with your own be-fores)....

Halloween Visitors

 
I put a pumpkin on my porch outside,
and he had a hideous face;
I prepared the many treats, myself and my cat,
so, with things in order- on the sofa we sat.

The kids so cute a smile I had to hide,
little ones I wished to embrace;
then, as it got darker things got a bit scary,
and with advancing footsteps I became wary.

Grotesque zombies smelled of formaldehyde,
was thinking of a hiding place;
I could not quit as on the door they would just bang,
a pale, red-eyed bloodless Dracula- my name sang.

Each new banging had me quite petrified,
the monsters kept up a brisk pace;
at midnight hissing was heard and in came a snake,
he swayed slivering to me- I woke at daybreak !

__________________________
October 15, 2022


Poetry/Rhyme/Halloween Visitors
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1494-594-15
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France

Written for the Standard contest, 12-16 lines of Scary Halloween Rhyme
sponsor, Tania Kitchin, Judged 10/30/2022

Second Place

Uncertain End

Thick darkness conquers each scrambling sense
No longer sure if my eyes are closed or open
If my stagnant limbs are futile, or just tense

Can I compose myself if I count to ten?
Whatever fate this is, who got to decide?
Some God somewhere? Or the work of men.

Am I still breathing? Or am I tongue-tied
It remains irrelevant, only worms will hear
Is it blood I leak? Or warm formaldehyde 

Waiting, will an apparition or vision appear?
Wonders of the mind, or listless pondering soul
How long will my existence remain unclear

Eventuality, faithfully in control
This dirt, this depth, disguises how I did arrive
Do I lay here in pieces, or am I whole
Am I dead.....or am I buried alive.


July 5, 2022
5 stanza Terza Rima contest
Sponser: L. Milton Hankins

Poetry: a Panacea For Poets

The cud I rechewed // in the riverside // was from a sett of dreadful hemlock // that struck the aquifers of my soul.

Blight glue my night // as mournful as the grave-in my streets // silence defeats me.

I weep formaldehyde // I would go mad —naked // struggling for precision.

Until I bite through the pages of poesy // that charges the sapless pulse in my arteries: hope has feathers and many more.

In those poems I chew away murderer's hand // lurking around my shadows & ravaging it beyond repair.

In a short while // I would calligraph about God // for crafting out poets // who are small "god" in his image // I envied // yet, I'm a poet.

Damn me if I ever doubt that poetry isn't a panacea for poets.

Flying Monkeys

How banal is heartbreak
yet the masses belly up to the bar
to imbibe the bitter brew by the gallon
fermented from the pounds of flesh
she's cut away with her pen 
that she keeps preserved 
in jars of formaldehyde

Drunk with disdain
her potion resurrecting their pain
her patrons grab the pitchforks
she keeps sharpened by the door
Silent she watches them stumble out
smiling as she counts the bills in the till

Be Too Kind

Be too kind. Err on the nice side.
Howdy-do neighbor! Smile wide.
Keep your eggs on the sunny-side.
If you run into Bonnie and Clyde?
Remember this— don’t hitch a ride!
Is your blood boiling? Are you full of pride?
Let the golden rule be your guide.
Don’t be bossed. ‘tis cyanide.
Don’t conquer and divide.
Your innocence is not implied.
Don’t soak your words in formaldehyde.
With someone else’s problems, be not preoccupied.
Be friendly and smile— your lips at high tide.
Just be too kind, my friend— err on the nice side.

10/29/2021

Cold Pulsation

Her anger blows 
frigid, like Arctic wind
Tears of hostile disposition flows 
bosom lethal — 
Pulmonary liquid nitrogen

Acrimonious breath
expel serrated exclamations
Jagged exhalation
feels like six below death
Such an icy sensation

Formaldehyde intimation,
cadaver cold pulsation

Got a cryogenic nature
that resides
in an unemotional South Pole 

Frostbite vocals
has igloo vibrations
Freezer burn temperamental flatline
show glacial striations

Sub-zero body language 
Kilimanjaro translate
hypothermia lacerations

Those neon palpitations
has taken nether hold
Arrhythmic separation
breaks at the 
jilted Fahrenheit of six below

Pulsating pain, so cadaver cold


09-10-21

Only the Good Die Young

yes indeed life is not fair
why would the end be any different

we lose the people we love most
it breaks our heart and
shatters it in a million pieces
oh what a void it leaves
only the good die young

imagine if death was fair
some kind of logical exit strategy 
we could wrap our head around
something we could accept
at least vaguely understand
but that will never be

oh no ~ only the good die young
while others freely roam the earth
miserly bitter in their quest
inciting strife at every chance
their itty bitty shriveled hearts
at home sitting on a shelf
soaking in formaldehyde 

oh yes ~ only the good die young
what a waste and somehow
we have to bite our tongue 
we have to grin and bear it
live with the injustice of it all
maybe even find meaning
it’s just the way it is
and not about to change



Read on air by invitation  ~  May 28, 2021  'WORDS & MUSIC'

AP: 2nd place 2022

Submitted on February 8, 2022 for contest A STRAND (1069) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND

Originally posted on May 15, 2021

Virus of Illusion

Can you feel it in the air?
Stunning smile lures you inside 
Cold laughter but no ‘beware’;

Poison like formaldehyde
sticking to your lips like sugar 
as you seek that easy ride;

Medicinal karma cures bad behavior 
Pill mills create easy distribution;
A prescription with a fatal answer 

One dose you see true intention,
the end of the virus of illusion.

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