The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[PandoraGlitters]

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

Four feet behind her
stride, my gaze rides the hem
of her sheer scarf
which bobs and waves goodbye
to those of us she has passed,
steeping in her strawberry wake.
She is the Isadora reborn who knows
now not to take a bus and walks
grand scale harmonics pulling
trees and swings, taxis and drummers
into sync, trailing peace and prosperity
behind into the hands of a galactic
chiropractor. Pop! Pop! Rapid
succession alignment on the hips
that swish summer right to your lips
ripe as a Mexican mango. If
I could only walk fast enough, I
would scratch her lottery
ticket and capture
an armload of win.

 

[Desejo]

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

Four feet behind her
stride, my gaze rides the hem
of her sheer scarf
which bobs and waves goodbye
to those of us she has passed,
steeping in her strawberry wake.
She is the Isadora reborn who knows
now not to take a bus and walks
grand scale harmonics pulling
trees and swings, taxis and drummers
into sync, trailing peace and prosperity
behind into the hands of a galactic
chiropractor. Pop! Pop! Rapid
succession alignment on the hips
that swish summer right to your lips
ripe as a Mexican mango. If
I could only walk fast enough, I
would scratch her lottery
ticket and capture
an armload of win.

New words? My head is spinning from this one...

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Ooops! Forgot the new words! Ok here goes:

Sight: shadow
Sound: guitar music
Taste: lime
Touch: pebbles
Smell: sun warmed skin

 

[njoyjade]

Ooops! Forgot the new words! Ok here goes:

Sight: shadow
Sound: guitar music
Taste: lime
Touch: pebbles
Smell: sun warmed skin

Infinite Memories

Our memory will be filled with times just like this;
the two of us enjoying each other’s company.

When light from the full moon dances across the water
in perfect cadence with your fingers as they glide across the guitar.
At twilight, the bon-fire adds heat to our sun-warmed skin.
Oysters pop,sizzle and steam next to the flame as I listen, wait and watch.

Moonlight and firelight create a perfect silhouette of your shadow . I see
the outline of your tongue as you lick your lips.
I’m amazed by your graceful movement as you choose the first oyster
that opens, sprinkle it with lime, and offer it to me. I pray that the memories
of this night will be the last ones ever forgotten and hope to remember every
detail of the pebbles beneath the sand.

Our memories will be of when we enjoyed each other’s company
and viewed times like this as infinite.




Sight: thunder storm
Sound: cats or kittens meow
Taste: sour, tangy
Touch: hard wood
Smell: coffee

 

[Desejo]

Sight: thunder storm
Sound: cats or kittens meow
Taste: sour, tangy
Touch: hard wood
Smell: coffee

Laura and Almanzo in the Kitchen

Dark clouds roll in over the prairie
the morning flashes in lightening
The rain pounds on the zinc roof

My arms ache mildly
as I knead the bread dough
watching the show outside

The smell of coffee brewing
is what wakes you
The irresistible draw
of seducing a woman in the kitchen
is what keeps you

Soon enough its not only the bread that is rising

Our bodies fit together
in a tight puzzle
like pieces of the wood floor
under our bare feet

The taste of your skin puts sourdough to shame

Complete bliss
of rainy morning second sleep follows
With a contented meow the cat
makes a nest in the blankets
tangled at our feet.

Sight: river
sound: someone calling
smell: soap
touch: something sharp
taste: fresh something

 

[Angeline]

Infinite Memories

Our memory will be filled with times just like this;
the two of us enjoying each other’s company.

When light from the full moon dances across the water
in perfect cadence with your fingers as they glide across the guitar.
At twilight, the bon-fire adds heat to our sun-warmed skin.
Oysters pop,sizzle and steam next to the flame as I listen, wait and watch.

Moonlight and firelight create a perfect silhouette of your shadow . I see
the outline of your tongue as you lick your lips.
I’m amazed by your graceful movement as you choose the first oyster
that opens, sprinkle it with lime, and offer it to me. I pray that the memories
of this night will be the last ones ever forgotten and hope to remember every
detail of the pebbles beneath the sand.

Our memories will be of when we enjoyed each other’s company
and viewed times like this as infinite.




Sight: thunder storm
Sound: cats or kittens meow
Taste: sour, tangy
Touch: hard wood
Smell: coffee

These mountains
hold the sky in such
a reassuring sprawl
of green, a deep stoic
firmament of centuries,
tangled. Hickory nuts

and pecans just patter,
flowers wink and snicker
pink purple even
thick rainclouds frown
at a grey distance,
clapping over the far

drift of some hollar
for now. The Sun falls
in a splash of lemon
lavender then fireflies
float onto the deepening

night. Mac the tabby
slips across the porch
mewing hello and I
search the sky for Diana,
watch for an arrow,
a shooting star.


(sorry, coffee said it didn't want to play...)

See: carnival
Hear: traffic
Smell: gasoline
Taste: freebie, your choice
Touch: feather

 

[Tzara]

See: carnival
Hear: traffic
Smell: gasoline
Taste: freebie, your choice
Touch: feather

Summer (Object-oriented Programming)

Lob the dart up
to puncture the balloon,
Ned says, and he knows
how to beat the game.
He worked as a carnie
two summers ago—
it took him all around
the heartland fairs
in Iowa and Illinois,
Indiana. He learned
the smell of gasoline
meant they’d started
up the Gravitron,
where a feather’s
touch became lead.
Still, you can hear
them queue; loud as ants
scuttling over a dead drug lord,
waiting to be pasted
on the wall of our ride
by centrifugal force.

I am part, but not part
of this horde,

yet a warm scone,
filled with raspberry jam

instantiates heaven.




Sight: A city street
Sound: Music, loud or soft, hip-hop or classical or whatever (even jazz, Ms. A. )
Scent: Heated tar
Taste: A soft drink (name it), beer, or wine (name white or red)
Touch: Grass or asphalt or glass

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

See: carnival
Hear: traffic
Smell: gasoline
Taste: freebie, your choice
Touch: feather

I love your poem, Ange.

School's Out

The final day of school feels
like a carnival. Colours seem brighter,
sounds louder, even the sun shines.
She feels light as down skipping
through the slow traffic, drivers obeying
the school zone sign for once. She inhales
the scent of gasoline provided by the waiting
parents in their idling cars. Behind her
are the books and rules, in front unfettered
time, a freedom only summer brings that
she can taste it already. All too soon her desk
will beckon and new students gather, their
report cards accumulate, waiting for delivery.

sight: the sea in the distance
sound: a door slamming
smell: hot pines
taste: blood
touch: stickiness

 

[Tzara]

I love your poem, Ange.

I did too, and beat you by two minutes, Missy.

I would suggest that whoever writes the next poem just pick between the trigger words Tess and I have selected. Collisions on this thread are a almost a given.

Nice poem your own self, Tessie.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I did too, and beat you by two minutes, Missy.

I would suggest that whoever writes the next poem just pick between the trigger words Tess and I have selected. Collisions on this thread are a almost a given.

Nice poem your own self, Tessie.

Thank you and SNAP - I really should look before I post.

I don't mind colliding with you.

I challenge poets to incorporate all 10 senses.

 

[Tzara]

I don't mind colliding with you.

Actually (nudge) I might rather like (nudge) that collision (nudge, nudge).

I know I am not known for my subtlety. It's an American trait. We is a straightforward and ambitious people.

 

[Angeline]

I love your poem, Ange.

School's Out

The final day of school feels
like a carnival. Colours seem brighter,
sounds louder, even the sun shines.
She feels light as down skipping
through the slow traffic, drivers obeying
the school zone sign for once. She inhales
the scent of gasoline provided by the waiting
parents in their idling cars. Behind her
are the books and rules, in front unfettered
time, a freedom only summer brings that
she can taste it already. All too soon her desk
will beckon and new students gather, their
report cards accumulate, waiting for delivery.

sight: the sea in the distance
sound: a door slamming
smell: hot pines
taste: blood
touch: stickiness

I did too, and beat you by two minutes, Missy.

I would suggest that whoever writes the next poem just pick between the trigger words Tess and I have selected. Collisions on this thread are a almost a given.

Nice poem your own self, Tessie.

Thank you both. I've taken to writing poems on my nook. I have to tap away more carefully but the upside is I can sit on my porch and just write what I see. Sometimes.

And you are way braver than me. I barely managed four senses in my poem. Ten sounds like a sestina to me, in terms of committment.

 

[Desejo]

I cannot resist a challenge - ten words used below.

Ten words

Beirut is boiling
the famous cedars fill the air
with incense of intolerance
The fresh hot tar on the road
smells of trouble

There are metal ships
on the distant sea
Men in drab uniforms
fill our streets like ants

We drink Pepsi and wait.

I have bitten the inside of my mouth raw.
The sweet cola and blood mix
like a battle elixir
The sticky glass bottle in my hands
feels like a crusaders bludgeon

Eminem rages on Abed’s radio
It won’t be long until mother complains
And pleads for Fairouz
Like all teenagers, he will slam the door
When he leaves.

Sound: doorbell
scent: wind (whatever that means)
sight: a ghost
taste: burnt toast
touch: wet

 

[Tzara]

I cannot resist a challenge - ten words used below.

Ten words

Beirut is boiling
the famous cedars fill the air
with incense of intolerance
The fresh hot tar on the road
smells of trouble

There are metal ships
on the distant sea
Men in drab uniforms
fill our streets like ants

We drink Pepsi and wait.

I have bitten the inside of my mouth raw.
The sweet cola and blood mix
like a battle elixir
The sticky glass bottle in my hands
feels like a crusaders bludgeon

Eminem rages on Abed’s radio
It won’t be long until mother complains
And pleads for Fairouz
Like all teenagers, he will slam the door
When he leaves.

Sound: doorbell
scent: wind (whatever that means)
sight: a ghost
taste: burnt toast
touch: wet

Prince

My father’s ghost
avoids the castle’s ramparts.
He simply rings the bell,
and we open the front door
to his spectral form. This was
his house, after all, though very 50s,
chic for its time. Like
that low howl
of wind under the eaves: Quite Bates Motel,
and I do so love my mother.

There is nothing rotten with our state.
Hell, we are not even Denmark,
just a minor possession
too far north
for anyone to notice. Care.

But now the cook has burned some toast—
Ophelia’s, I think.
Laertes says he wants to spar
with me this evening
and I wish I had buttered her burnt bread
more liberally, because

our dairies are productive, anyhow,
and our cow's teats always heavy and damp.



Sight: Monochromatic color
Sound: A uniform musical sound--a single note, chord, phrase (e.g. ostinato), theme
Scent: Industrial air--dull, but not unpleasant
Taste: A spice, the more exotic the better
Touch: Dryly artificial

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Monochromatic color
Sound: A uniform musical sound--a single note, chord, phrase (e.g. ostinato), theme
Scent: Industrial air--dull, but not unpleasant
Taste: A spice, the more exotic the better
Touch: Dryly artificial

Do-buy

They build islands
shaped like date palms in the sea
An oasis of sand in salt water

They commission this alchemy
from behind tinted windows
breathing in chemical air fresheners

Poisoned by black gold
their souls have dry-wicked the desert.

Give me the life salt of the dead sea
mixed with oil, za’atar and fresh bread

Let me drink qa’hwa poured from high
by Um Rakan’s weathered hand

Let my heart soar in the beauty
of the muzzein calling the magrib without a microphone

Let me recline on hand woven pillows under the sky
and witness the evening miracle

of the sun transforming the desert
into pure gold.

Sight: blood
Sound: glass breaking
Taste: almonds
Smell: jasmine
Touch: satin

 

[champagne1982]

Do-buy
...
Sight: blood
Sound: glass breaking
Taste: almonds
Smell: jasmine
Touch: satin

Before The Epitaph

What bitterness is this that slides
across my lips? Each minor blemish
heightened when snagged on tightly
woven cloth reminds that petals,
perfect in satin finish, scent
the still night. The lamplight dims
so now the drop of blood, suspended

on the ampule, shines black. Sensuous
love who feeds me this arsenic kiss,
drifted in with the sparkling break
of the dose, now I taste the almonds
and wonder if this sleep be heaven
and if angels choose jasmine perfume.

Sight: fly fisher
Sound: river rapids
Taste: wild strawberries
Smell: damp mulch
Touch: cool breeze

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sight: fly fisher
Sound: river rapids
Taste: wild strawberries
Smell: damp mulch
Touch: cool breeze

patient by the rapids'
silver rush hushing

still poised for the flash
Flyfisher snaps

precisely there in the mouth
the Trout tastes his own

blood bright wild O
is what death tastes like

Trout flings mulch up
flips it into the breeze

strawberries finish dry on
Flyfisher's air kissed lip


New Words:

Sight: something shiny
Touch: a hidden hole
Sound: rain on a tarpaulin
Taste: rosewater
Smell: something curried

 

[Desejo]

New Words:

Sight: something shiny
Touch: a hidden hole
Sound: rain on a tarpaulin
Taste: rosewater
Smell: something curried

Lunch in London

Rain on the stretched canvas overhead percolates our conversation
With rushes, pauses and complex melodies

You pluck a wild English rose from the trellis and stare as I inhale
beads of cool water roll off the petals into my mouth

Roasted cardamom pods and cloves flood the air in a glorious orgy
Slow food is as good as foreplay

True enough the shine of your wedding ring gives me pause
I worry where this ends but then

Under the table you have ripped a hole in my panties
and your fingers are worrying instead
Oh God

New words
Sight: slight smile
sound: boiling liquid
scent: something frying
touch: embrace
taste: dumplings

 

[Tzara]

New words
Sight: slight smile
sound: boiling liquid
scent: something frying
touch: embrace
taste: dumplings

Albert Cuyp Market

Despite the lush gurgle of boiling oil, the air awash in scent
Of Vlaamse frites and mayonnaise,
I choose to eat the siomay,
To be a little different.

Her smile is barely there, evanescent as a wraith
That fades with morning’s rosy light,
I know that smile means that tonight
She will writhe in my embrace.



Sight: Flowers
Sound: A clock (ticking or bells or something like that)
Scent: Dew/wet grass
Taste: Coffee or tea, with or without milk/cream/lemon, etc.
Touch: Brick or stone

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Flowers
Sound: A clock (ticking or bells or something like that)
Scent: Dew/wet grass
Taste: Coffee or tea, with or without milk/cream/lemon, etc.
Touch: Brick or stone

Wuthering Heights, deleted scene

Heathcliff please, let’s get off this moor
The only nice thing about it is the heather
Otherwise its bracken desolation and death

Remember the murder victim
We pulled out of the bog
Tanned leather, he was

The poor man looked like a Christmas pudding
Trussed and tossed in black gravy
With a heavy stone around his neck

Wouldn’t you prefer London
The civilized sound of Big Ben counting off hours
Instead of the banshee wind that wails eternal here

Besides, you need a new overcoat
This one is damp and smells like the steaming cut grass
The cows eat in the barn

In London, I would pour your tea in Spode china
add milk and sugar cubes
And spread fresh clotted cream on your scones.


Sound: turning of a door knob or a key
Sight: clothes on the floor
touch: something sharp
Smell: windex or cleaning fluid
Taste: oranges

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sound: turning of a door knob or a key
Sight: clothes on the floor
touch: something sharp
Smell: windex or cleaning fluid
Taste: oranges

two finger key in your hand
you were careful as your toes
trampled my hip huggers

after you felt the
keys in my pocket
your tender foot kicked
the jangle bowling over blue windex
they use for tampon commercials

then you bowed deep to nibble sweet
mandarin from Wu Hu

New words:
Sight: ruffles
Sound: bowling pins knocked over
Taste: ketchup
Smell: aftershave
Feel: wax

 

[Desejo]

New words:
Sight: ruffles
Sound: bowling pins knocked over
Taste: ketchup
Smell: aftershave
Feel: wax

Strikes are marked by an X

The idea is not to perform
a Fred Flintstone ballet and
throw yourself down the lane
like a stone anchor

But to release your grip
knock down that army
of senseless clay soldiers
in a visceral crack of joy

Then we could celebrate
by wearing poetic ruffles to a local diner
tasting each others words in ketchup:
At least 57 herbs and spices there

Or we could sit out in the drizzle
under the wax coated canvas jacket
that I am sure you have
and just talk.

I’d blame pheromones
or the lure of Drakkar noir aftershave
for my Jezebel plotting
But I don’t think scent can travel that far.

Sight: boxes
Sound: sniffling
Taste : baileys
Smell: dust
Touch: marble

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sight: boxes
Sound: sniffling
Taste : baileys
Smell: dust
Touch: marble

our skins sleep smoothly
cool under bamboo chop blade fan
shadowing flats and curves
in its slow whorl mocking deadliness

stroke this marble hip with your heavy
hand ignoring the slow whine
of morning tires the hiss of water
spraying dust to mud

behind the building on Frederick Douglas
Boulevard intrusion sniffles
clears its throat makes its cruel
announcement of day and duty but

keep eyes closed as I slide over you
tight and wholly alive until morning slides
half way back into night then open
to the small silver boxes dangling between

breasts that brush the hard rise of your chest
until you lift us both against the interior wall
gratefully blind to any time but this despite
foreshadows of Saturday Baileys and Sunday Times

New Words
Taste: cocoa
Scent: bergamot
Sight: stained carpet
Sound: giggling
Touch: crinkled foil

 

[greenmountaineer]

Bedroom Memories

of Lady Grey tea and Godiva chocolate
remain after forty-five years of marriage.

"I prefer Peppermint Patty," he'd say
with a grin on his face not lost on Patty.

He'd crinkle the wrapper foil into a ball
to jump shoot it in the waste paper basket.

That was Harry's game; she had one too,
giggling like puppy love running to fetch it

knowing full well the next move was Harry's.
There on the spot it was always fantastic

for which there might be a lick and a promise
using the Hoover to tidy it up.

Many years later she tells cocoa white lies
to Lily at Christmas who's come to see Pop Pop

and does what her love has always made right,
washing his stain with holy soap and water.


Taste: Sauvignon Blanc
Scent: engine exhaust
Sight: subway exits
Sound: alley cats at night
Touch: silk fabric

 

[Desejo]

Taste: Sauvignon Blanc
Scent: engine exhaust
Sight: subway exits
Sound: alley cats at night
Touch: silk fabric

Jakarta

Rich barefooted soul mixing kampung brown calves and white Javanese vampires in one glorious primal pancasila soup

The swamps of Batavia still haunt in sepia dust floating on the concrete and filtered in air conditioners from the years of living dangerously; the minefields of corruption, faith, ethnicity and tolerance navigated with the skill of Madurese sailors and Balinese dancers.

Here fumes from 12 million vehicles are inhaled as the stench of progress; hope more potent than the pillars of the forever unfinished sky train that stand like roman ruins telling tales of human greed

Here the socialite at a wedding - jet hair piled high, clad in a silk batik sarong and lace kebaya. The reception will serve Sauvingon Blanc infused with mangosteen, passion fruit and smoke, to accompany nasi kuning and petit fours.

The unlikely magic of a four passenger circus ride mounted on a bicycle
or a masked monkey dancing on the side of the road

Where girls in sky high heels and bandage skirts mix with sisters in jilbabs decorated with jewels and the faithful and unfaithful share sincere smiles of welcome and whores and preachers all wish you well

Where you brave ojeks swerving like mad dengue ridden mosquitoes through the traffic, the rush of it in your hips and arms around a driver you do not know past billboards ten times the height of the woman who walks under them with a bag of krupuk with unparalleled economy of movement, because its hot.

Jakarta cries out believe, move, love, live.

And when in the alleys behind skyscrapers lined by food carts short tailed cats scream at night the laughing children will chase them away.

Sight: someone walking alone
sound: waves
scent: nostalgia - whatever that means to you
touch: gritty
taste: Tropical fruit