The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Tzara]

Rue Dejean

Lovely.

Sound: bell
Sight: children playing
Taste: bubble gum
Smell: dirt
Touch: pressure of some sort

Little Pink Cartoons

Like Double Bubble chewed,
tongue-prepped, blown

the size of a softball, burst,
a tide rolling

over one's body, the surf
pressing one down into the beach,

making you sand, making you smell
of sea, of earth, of dirt.

Children model castles
out of your skin. In the distance

a church bell rings.
Perhaps now it is now noon, now.


Sight: Dawn
Sound: A distant highway
Scent: Dew on the grass (wet grass)
Taste: Coffee or banana or tea
Touch: A cold metal railing

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Dawn
Sound: A distant highway
Scent: Dew on the grass (wet grass)
Taste: Coffee or banana or tea
Touch: A cold metal railing

Waking up in Ngara

Clement has taken the blanket.
I am cold
Anyway, the sun is rising
filtering through the blue tarp.
There is no point in sleeping longer.

To imagine
that the smell of wet thatch
is a reminder of better times.
When morning cooking
awakened the stomach and the village.

No chickens in the yard wake us here.
Our wake up now
is the distant roar of food trucks.

Later we will stand in line
for CSB
Which we brew into beer
And corn flour
Which we do not eat.

If we are lucky, Clement will trade our ration
that we may taste boiled bananas and bean stew
to remind us
Of our past life

beyond the cold metal railing
of the border post
Just a few miles away.


Taste: soy sauce
sight: superhero
Scent: candlewax
Sound: sniffle
Touch: shiatsu

 

[njoyjade]

Waking up in Ngara
Taste: soy sauce
sight: superhero
Scent: candlewax
Sound: sniffle
Touch: shiatsu

Hero of the Night

Lying next to you I stiffen as the shadow of the flame centers on the face of Storm
Her watchful eyes aglow from the poster that hangs on your wall
You had me last night, bound and tied, while licking the sweet sauce from my belly
Your kisses tasted of delicious soy, as all my barriers began to fall
The candle flame continues to dance as you pour the wax onto my breasts then thigh
I yearn to touch you in return but my arms are spread high
Gracefully you have me again, and again, until I cry from such pleasure
You do not see but feel me snivel and you know you’ve awakened deeper treasure
You loosen the ties and I now cling to your shoulders with all my might
Relentlessly you have me again and again, until the pressure brings our release
Lying next to you I relax as you massage my body knowing that all day, we’ll look forward to the night


Sight: black light
Touch: beads inside cloth bag
Scent: ink
Taste: tangy, tart
Sound: a train

 

[Desejo]

Sight: black light
Touch: beads inside cloth bag
Scent: ink
Taste: tangy, tart
Sound: a train

oh boy...you have me stumped with these words. Gonna have to think about this one!

 

[Tzara]

Sight: black light
Touch: beads inside cloth bag
Scent: ink
Taste: tangy, tart
Sound: a train

Georgetown

The posters glow, way groovy
in the overhead black light. Hans bites
into a lemon Because, he says, tart

is the new normal.
Later, he rinses his palate
with plastic

spring water. Ah, cleansed!
Train tracks come down, ringing,
two streets over.

I do not have to share
the small beads in this leather bag;
they are not ink.



Sight: Open sky.
Sound: Bird calls
Scent: Something floral.
Taste: Cinnamon.
Touch: Wet earth.

 

[njoyjade]

Georgetown
Sight: Open sky.
Sound: Bird calls
Scent: Something floral.
Taste: Cinnamon.
Touch: Wet earth.

Throughout Time

Sigmund’s boutonniere; was yesterday’s memory
Robin’s melody; is today’s delight
Samuels’ splint; will ever be mired
Neil‘s landing; made history in the air
Solomon’s song; beckons from the garden of love


Sight: wood
Touch: silky
Scent: puppy's breath
Taste: mint
Sound: laughter

 

[Desejo]

Picnic

Sight: wood
Touch: silky
Scent: puppy's breath
Taste: mint
Sound: laughter

PICNIC

Paper plates stacked bright on a driftwood table
Iced tea sweeter still with mint
Corn on the cob bathing in butter and salt
Nantucket breeze silky against my cheek
Irish setter perfuming smiling faces with puppy breath kisses
Chime of laughter in the setting sun

Sight: Carousel
sound: gurgle
Scent: Poison
Touch/feel: flutter
Taste: butterscotch

 

[Tzara]

Sight: Carousel
sound: gurgle
Scent: Poison
Touch/feel: flutter
Taste: butterscotch

Bad Poem Written While Feeling Glum

My stomach is always nervy—
which is silly, I know—when
the carousel starts to move.

My balance is not good.
I feel unstable,
as if I cannot protect Virginia,

knotted sweet as butterscotch to her horse,
up and down, up and down,
because I feel I will fall over,

dizzy from the rotation
or the scent of almonds.
I want to sleep,

and still, and still my heart. If I crack
this pill between my teeth,
everything is done:

an irregular flutter in the chest,
a choked gurgle, last breath.
But Virginia needs to be helped down.




Sight: Fireworks
Sound: Something whispered
Scent: Gunpowder
Touch: Damp grass
Taste: Something you would pay to taste, be it caviar, champagne, or something sexual

 

[Remec]

Sight: Fireworks
Sound: Something whispered
Scent: Gunpowder
Touch: Damp grass
Taste: Something you would pay to taste, be it caviar, champagne, or something sexual

The Fourth


The sky sprouted flowers
of fire that burst forth silently,
the sound of their blooming
always just a bit out of sync,

I had adored fireworks since
childhood, but the feel of dew-laden
hillside and the wafting tinge
of sulfur from the gunpowder

took me back again. Even moreso
than the look of glee and awe
evident in eyes and smiles all
around me. The evening was close

to perfect and my youngest snuggled
in. The scent of her shampoo was
all cotton candy sweet and had me looking
for a vendor to buy some for us,

spun sugar being such a missing
part of my diet these days, and she
nuzzled my neck and ear to whisper,
"Happy birthday, daddy."

~~~~~


sight: group of animals
sound: whistling
scent: fresh fruit (your choice)
touch: hair
taste: body salt--like from tears or sweat

 

[Desejo]

sight: group of animals
sound: whistling
scent: fresh fruit (your choice)
touch: hair
taste: body salt--like from tears or sweat

Caravela

Footprints lonely on Caravela
Atlantic stretching all the way to Boston
The wind whistling in palms here
probably the last sound of home
The slaves heard

Cashew fruit fermenting
Wafts from a hidden village
That same miasma probably
Haunted the middle passage
The last smell of home

I dive naked into the surf, unchained
My hair like wet seaweed on my shoulders
Three dolphins leap into the air
Twisting
In glorious freedom

I lick off the sun baked salt
From my white skin
And wonder
How many tears
It took to make such an ocean.

Sight: persian rug
Sound: coffee percolating, or something like that
Scent: a strong perfume, like Giorgio or Poison (or patchouli, for that matter)
touch/feel: strapped
taste: milk (full cream, skim, you choose!)

 

[njoyjade]

Caravela

Sight: persian rug
Sound: coffee percolating, or something like that
Scent: a strong perfume, like Giorgio or Poison (or patchouli, for that matter)
touch/feel: strapped
taste: milk (full cream, skim, you choose!)

Mare Clausum

Milk flows east to the delta
sharing notes with Acqua di Gioia
light color permeates with seduction
a rose of Sharon with mountain views
intertwining mystical waters
patterns of an Ottoman covered floor
fastened together like lovers
searching for the sea


Sight : statue
Touch : gossamer
Scent: clean, fresh
Taste: berries
Sound: of a camera

 

[Desejo]

Sight : statue
Touch : gossamer
Scent: clean, fresh
Taste: berries
Sound: of a camera

Back yard Gladiators

We have made a fort
under the laundry
It snaps in the sun like a camera
Fresher than Downy April fresh
in July

Mulberries bursting flavor
stain greedy lips
We pretend it is Roman wine
stomped with bare feet
Or maybe it’s just
blood

We collect Dandelions
Those gone to seed
tops soft as gossamer
And blow soft silk
parachutes
around green army men

In the distance
a statue freezes
Pretending not to be a doe
before bounding off the path
safe from our catapults
and shields.

Sound: wail
sight: crow
smell: yeast
touch: oily
taste: grass

 

[Tzara]

Sound: wail
sight: crow
smell: yeast
touch: oily
taste: grass

Let Me Try to Count to Five

1.
Crow perches on fence,
feet shifting
nervously, a tennis player
ready to return serve.

2.
Bakery—
the heaven of fresh bread.
The smell of yeast
my sacrament.

3.
Yes, I guess I did
brush olive oil (virgin, though)
over your breasts.

I will clean that up,
with more than just my slick fingertips,

oh, somehow.

4.
You often sigh,
or moan. You chirp
at times. But when you wail?
I bank good times.

5.
Can we just lie still, for a change,
chewing this long grass?

I want to remember the wind.



Sight: A child, or a lover
Sound: Something very repetitive--a jackhammer, a bass line, a propeller
Scent: August (whatever that smells like to you)
Taste: Licorice, or fennel, or dill
Touch: Something furry, be it dog, cat, or woolly blanket

 

[Desejo]

Sight: A child, or a lover
Sound: Something very repetitive--a jackhammer, a bass line, a propeller
Scent: August (whatever that smells like to you)
Taste: Licorice, or fennel, or dill
Touch: Something furry, be it dog, cat, or woolly blanket

1982

You are as beautiful
as Jim Morrison
Black hair and God, those eyes
I cannot stop staring
What you will and what you won’t…

Da da da

An old army blanket
Scratching under my back
The smell of soil and grass
crushed by our weight
What you can and what you can’t …

Da da da

You sucking my neck
Leaving yet another hickey
for me to explain
I capture your licorice tasting tongue
I don’t love you you don’t love me

Da da da

I don’t love you you don’t love me
Da da da

That was the summer you broke my heart.
Da da da

with apologies to Trio: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoZNbVGYl8o

Sight: headlights
Sound: murmurs
Smell: cooking
taste: chai
touch: tapping

 

[njoyjade]

1982
Sight: headlights
Sound: murmurs
Smell: cooking
taste: chai
touch: tapping

Shall We

Enjoy your scent while it mingles with stew;
cooking over an open flame

Enhance your Chai with more milk from the cooler;
it won't taste the same

Embrace your touch to the cadence of murmurs;
as we become great transformers

Embed your footprint on the ground;
tapping to the beat of brass

Empower your headlights my dear;
my snake just crawled into your grass



Sight: ocean
Sound: church bells
Smell: campfire
Taste: figs
Touch: running water

 

[Tzara]

Rather nice.

Shall We...

Sight: ocean
Sound: church bells
Smell: campfire
Taste: figs
Touch: running water

Ohm’s Law

Even the smallest stream
empties into ocean,
donates its little contribution
to eroding our beach.
Often, the rivulet is not much more
than a seagull’s stride,
if its course is small enough.

I always try to step over
running water. When Jason

built the fire on the other side,
he had to get a permit. My,
how life has changed—

think of us, of me!, splitting and eating figs!
They are like little gourds,
all red inside.
Yet I still hear the bells—
well, can’t I? They call

from the church of St. Mary Orthodox,
over quite comfortable hills.


(Sorry, I forgot to add the new words. Yes, dumb.)

Sight: Open water
Sound: Birds
Scent: Something vegetable--floral or rotting or anything else
Taste: Doesn't matter what, but very, very faint
Touch: Something plausibly metallic, like binoculars, a crutch, an I-beam, my c(oh wait a minute--this is getting out of hand)

 

[bogusagain]

Sight: Open water
Sound: Birds
Scent: Something vegetable--floral or rotting or anything else
Taste: Doesn't matter what, but very, very faint
Touch: Something plausibly metallic, like binoculars, a crutch, an I-beam, my c(oh wait a minute--this is getting out of hand)

fate

the seagulls are flocking inland
a swarm of harbingers
picking over the landfill sites
like vultures over a massacre

the sulphurous odours of rotten roots
faint as a memory on the breeze
conjures up a disturbing recollection
of something that never really happened

how many lost persons, who
go unreported, find them selves as carrion?
enough to know the dead don't die
but multiply

I read about the murder statistics
without emotion, as if to acknowledge
the most likely murder one will commit
is the murder of one's lover

there is no apparent need to plan
with guns, daggers or poisons
whatever avoiding action one takes
tragedy keeps to its fateful course

the intricate stitches woven at random
by myriad individuals
run like rivulets across the beach
into the receding sea

into this tapestry we find our footprints
mapped into time and space
permanent and traceable, until
the onset of the next incoming tide


Sight: a junction of roads
Sound: mumbled conversation
Scent: cheap sickly sweet perfume
Taste: imagined but something to do with a person
Touch: concrete

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Open water
Sound: Birds
Scent: Something vegetable--floral or rotting or anything else
Taste: Doesn't matter what, but very, very faint
Touch: Something plausibly metallic, like binoculars, a crutch, an I-beam, my c(oh wait a minute--this is getting out of hand)

Sine Saloum - Djoudj

For an hour now, the tyranny of water
lapping from the roots of mangrove trees
Where oysters clutch in desperation
Liquid miles in every direction

A fish flips a shining tail splash
A crocodile slips from the mudbanks like the devil
A half eaten mango floats by
Orange flesh decaying sweet into the marsh air

We hear them before we see them.

A madhouse of ten thousand birds
Pelicans squaking conversations
Flamingos exploding in argument
Swallows dive bombing in kamikaze rolls

Nunu hands me binoculars
So I can pretend I am Marlin Perkins
The solid metal in my hand
Is a comfort. We are the minority here.

I taste fear in tiny drops at the back of my throat considering the implications.

(Birds can be really, really, creepy. Those beady eyes....).

Whoops...edited because I just realized I submitted this too late. Use the words from the previous poem I guess.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: a junction of roads
Sound: mumbled conversation
Scent: cheap sickly sweet perfume
Taste: imagined but something to do with a person
Touch: concrete

Leaving her
The passengers sit limply, subdued
by the oppression of this
Indian summer. Mumbled conversation
drifts over the rumble of the bus
and I fan myself with a copy of
Samachar to disperse the miasma of
cheap perfume my seat companion
apparently bathed in this morning.

His hair is oiled to his head, his jaw
set like twitching concrete and he
only moves to look through the dust
veiled window as we lurch to avoid
a fearless, or foolish, moped rider
crossing the intersection.

Hungry, I remember the samosa
you wrapped before I left and rummage
in my backpack. I can still taste the
tang of mango on your lips on our last night
together through the unseemly flood of saliva
and swallow my first bite of loneliness.

sight: The Bridge of Sighs
sound: the rustle of silk
scent: recently snuffed candles
taste: strong liquor
touch: something slippery

 

[njoyjade]

originally posted byTristesse
Leaving her
sight: The Bridge of Sighs
sound: the rustle of silk
scent: recently snuffed candles
taste: strong liquor
touch: something slippery

City of Masks

Broken under the high wall unseen,
fallen from celestial stars; landing
on the slippery rocks below.

Proof is in the pieces of cake
half eaten; rich taste of rum
left on lovers’ breath.

Once welcomed fine ladies,
dressed in silk, making sweet
sounds of freedom as they walked.

Bridge of Sighs carried many
toward the darkened room; their last
memory mingled with scent of damp torches.

Sharpened with steel toed boots;
millions of footprints batter
every inch of her square.

Grows taller than expected.
Seashells, like stars, seemed innocent;
invite tomorrows masquerade



Sight: a meadow
Sound: wind; harsh or light
Scent: freshly washed hair
Taste: smokey or sultry
Touch: feathery

 

[Tzara]

Sight: a meadow
Sound: wind; harsh or light
Scent: freshly washed hair
Taste: smokey or sultry
Touch: feathery

Clean

How does clean smell?
A little damp, a little scent,
a little soap
as if she came to bed
just after washing her hair.
Clean looks like a meadow, green
rolling away in waves—
long blades, stirred by the sough
of breeze. Clean needs care,
needs to be touched how a feather
touches air, how the sea slides
over a gentle slope of shore.

Clean tastes, oddly, of smoke
because my lips and tongue are Earth
and after we have kissed and kissed,
she is only, but simply, clean.




sight: hills, mountains, or dunes
sound: insects
scent: something aromatic
taste: salt
touch: something wet

 

[Desejo]

The Pharoh’s concubine

Do not worry
Everything is of the finest quality
Linen, herbs, oil
And your beauty unspoiled

I have lit oil lamps to keep the bees away
For they are buzzing around you
Perhaps there is truth in the song
That you are like honey

I will bathe you
In palm wine mixed with the Nile

You will sleep in a bed of natron
We will taste it in the air for days

I will lovingly massage you
The scent of lotus, myrrh, lavender

Your lashes rest on your cheeks
Over your almond eyes
But from here I can see the dunes
Leading to the valley
Where you will rest

Until they find, I am sure
That your heart is lighter than a feather

Sight: bright light
sound: windshield wipers
taste: pie
smell: lipstick
touch: hair pulled

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: bright light
sound: windshield wipers
taste: pie
smell: lipstick
touch: hair pulled

Saturdays
Her name was Hermione,
She lived in the apartment above
Us on the lower east side.

On rainy Saturdays I was left in her
Care. She’d ply me with almond pie
She bought at “Earthmatters” on Ludlow
Because, she said. “It does.”

I used to watch as she tweezed
The dark hairs from her upper lip
Wincing at each small death.

Her eyesight was already failing
So she’d sit by the tall window
Where the light was strongest.

We could hear the cars pass
Below, tires hissing on the wet road
And, when they stopped at a red,
The slap and slide dance of the
Windshield-dancing wipers.

At four, when my older sister
Collected me we descended
The wide stairs vigorously wiping
the lipstick kisses from our cheeks.

Sight: dogs mating
sound: faint jazz
taste: black cherries
smell: new mown grass
touch: tickling

 

[njoyjade]

Saturdays
Her name was Hermione

Sight: dogs mating
sound: faint jazz
taste: black cherries
smell: new mown grass
touch: tickling

Home in Sixty -three Days

Our tongues mingled together with
the taste of black cherries;
you chose the filling

We heard the phone ring the next morning,
over the alarm clock radio;
you chose the jazz station

We’ve written to each other for the past
Three hundred and one days;
You chose to serve

I breath in the scent of wet grass
Still sweaty and wishing you here;
I chose to wait

I try to maintain normalcy,
we’ll have pups in sixty three days;
they couldn’t wait.

We’ll celebrate our first, you can tickle
my nose with icing from the top of the cake;
I can’t wait

You're due home in sixty-three days,
I'll be waiting;
We chose the date



Sight: airplane
Sound: wind chimes
Taste: savory; comfortable
Smell: electrical
Touch: ragged or coarse

 

[Desejo]

Sight: airplane
Sound: wind chimes
Taste: savory; comfortable
Smell: electrical
Touch: ragged or coarse

Progressive Blues

Can’t look at the sky
Without seeing a plane
One day soon, it'll be
A falling satellite
Or the mother ship.

Can’t hear back porch chimes
That are not a ringtone.
one day soon, it'll be
In our heads
Or implanted our teeth.

Can’t find a real tomato
bursting with flavor and a sprinkle of salt
They come wrapped in plastic
and tasting of nothing.

Can’t inhale sun's breath
From clothes dried in the wind
Clothes come out hot
And smelling of the dryer.

Can’t find a homespun towel
To dry wet hands
There is only hot air.
It hums like a planes
Smells enticingly electric
And is comfortably sanitary.

Sight: scarf
smell: strawberry
touch: scratch
taste: childhood sweet or treat
sound : pop