Short Antiseptic Poems

Numbing
Cleansing
Gin goes down like an antiseptic
Burning away memories of you...

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To treat an ulcer that was peptic

My Doc gave me an antiseptic 

Then he made it quite clear

That it goes up my rear

I think you could say I'm a skeptic...

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Cut the cancer,
Lance the boil,
Oil the rash,
Gash the unnatural growths 
Inside your soul.

And splash on sentiment, afterward:
Cheap antiseptic, but it won’t sting....

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I am wearing a calico face mask,
it has pretty red and blue flowers,
reminding me of spring showers.

It softens my face with color,
doing away from the antiseptic look,
adds a bit of whimsy to all the gobbledygook....

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Intellectual hygiene…
the Poet declines

That dull antiseptic,
that deadens your mind

Once washed and then scrubbed,
the truth a charade

Academic consensus
—the Muse in her grave

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)...

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Her book was disturbing,
  in an antiseptic kind of way

Cleansing words of their reluctance,
  periods gone—commas laid

         “Tribute To Joan Didion’s
       ‘Slouching Toward Bethlehem’”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2017)...

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The  silence

And  the  antiseptic  air .

The sound  of  pain

In  that  dreaded  chair .

Your  jaw  now  dead

With  a  tongue  to  choke .

"RIGHT ! ,  you're  next  Seán " .

The  voice  that  broke

The  silence .





Inspired for Brian's rondel contest ....

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I will tell you my lies
Bow only to her
I can between the blurs and frazzles in my sight
hide
I hate September does that make me antiseptic
Move the button
that ends it all
For that might be my call
Failure gave up on me
Restricted my support
Change the meant to be
or was that mental bee...

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Door knobs are special for me
And I like to clean them all especially
Washing and wiping with antiseptic so well
No germs to spread I can tell

One day the corona virus will be gone
And we’ll remember it in story and song
But will I be able to break the habit
Of cleaning door knobs regularly because of it.

© Paul Warren Poetry...

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hospital's antiseptic ambiance,
   temple of impeccable hygiene,
      the oracle, the doctor, still not in;

the wallclock  looks bored, tired of ticking,
   drags time at an arthritic pace,
      anemic hands round its palsied face;

white coterie thrums down the hallway,
   doc's rounds complete, all waiting in place
      for his diagnostic curse or grace....

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hospital, with its antiseptic ambiance,
our top temple of impeccable hygiene,
its priest-oracle, the doctor, 
not yet in.


weary wallclock looks bored, tired of ticking,
pulls and drags time at an arthritic pace
with anemic hands around its 
palsied face.


at last, white coterie thrums down the hallway,
doc's rounds complete, everyone must wait in place
for his crucial diagnostic curse 
or praise!...

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A poet was making such clatter.
His friend ran to see what's the matter.
“I must clean all,” said he 
“or my poems can't be
in Antiseptic Pentameter.”

His friend laughed at all of the chatter.
The other didn't grasp the matter.
“Eat Italian,” said he
“so your poems will be
in Antipasto Pentameter.”

“My problem with gluten's the matter
and why I must make so much clatter.
I'm allergic you see.
I'd get shakes and would be
writing in Spastic Pentameter!”...

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