The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[njoyjade]

Walk in a Lavender field

Sound: something falling
sight: red shirt
Scent: candle
Touch: worn wood
Taste: autumn drink

Side by side;
our bare legs mold to
the old oak swing
you built years ago.
All is quiet except thoughts;
falling into our minds
after being connected.

Skin on skin;
our bare shoulders rest on
the red flannel shirt
I bought years ago.
All is still except breath;
spiked with cider
we made and perfected.

One on one;
our bare bodies join in
the familiar rhythm
we started years ago.
All is dark except candles;
fragrant with memories
stored and collected.


Sight: performance
Sound: loud
Scent: faint
Taste: flat
Touch: clothing

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sight: performance
Sound: loud
Scent: faint
Taste: flat
Touch: clothing

Jesus Christ where is the hydrant or the ashtray or the
scooper to contain this acrid pile of burning some
charity might allow to be characterized as soul?
Pull the curtain on it, the sirens wail

so deep into the ears they bleed. Bows and golf claps
all around as the vicar dips his scarf in blood so bright
we can see RED in the rafters, even smell the bare trails
of Myrrh though the blood up here, dispensed in its tiny
cups, is but cardboard damp from dew of the vine.

Mary testifies and I wonder
Was it that awful, the brush of panties back on
after the troops passed? It took so long
to gather your "thoughts," then. Faster now
by satellite.

Taste: olive
Scent: cedar
Feel: rough wood
Sound: silver spoons on china cups
Sight: fabric blowing

 

[Desejo]

Taste: olive
Scent: cedar
Feel: rough wood
Sound: silver spoons on china cups
Sight: fabric blowing

Overheard Conversation at the University Coffee Shop

Wallahi, they think of us only in long robes blowing in the desert
A camel or two with wide veiled women perched on top
And of course at Halloween we become a towel on the head over dark glasses
Or bellies with explosives taped around fanatic stomachs.

Yanni, it seems pointless to explain that
We know the smell of cedar high in the Golan heights
feel of splintered plywood school desks in Gaza
scavenged from crates since wood is banned as a security risk
weep over olive wood made into souvenir crosses in Jerusalem

And the diaspora eats olives from crystal dishes in London.
Can you hear the cling of silver spoons on Spode over the wail of martyrs?

Sight: too early christmas decorations
Sound: groan
Touch: something piping hot
Taste: despair, or hope
Smell: outdoors

 

[nonfictional]

In vapid despair she waits, paces,
ventures outdoors, races,
while the soup in the kitchen pot
simmers, tasty and piping hot.

She waits for something real, forlorn --
a soft touch, a human groan,
Christmas decorations decked out too early,
a letter from a lover, signed "Dearly, --".

 

[nonfictional]

Oops! For the next poet:

Taste: tangy
Scent: thyme
Feel: sticky
Sound: dull thud
Sight: green sky

 

[Desejo]

Oops! For the next poet:

Taste: tangy
Scent: thyme
Feel: sticky
Sound: dull thud
Sight: green sky

Welcome Nonfictional! And apologies for this...but I can't resist:


Captain James T. Kirk

had an unusual perspective
On the prime directive

He was always on the look out
For species who put out

So one day on Planet Claire
A blue woman, boots in the air

Her smell is like thyme
Her skin tastes like lime

He is about to embed his prick
in that place where his fingers stick

but there is a dull thud
Kirk rolls unconscious into the mud

He wakes to an expression most wry
Mr. Spock, framed by green sky

You took a blow to the head
Lucky you are not dead

And by the way, she was a guy.

Sight: blood
scent: air
taste: breath mint
touch: tapping
sound:alarm

 

[njoyjade]

Sight: blood
scent: air
taste: breath mint
touch: tapping
sound:alarm

We Only Want to Continue

Our lips clamp tightly together,
as friction creates a current that's
inhaled with every breath.

We only want to continue and race toward the sirens,
tapping into each other's discomfort zone;
time and time again.

Our nails are polished by
flesh that's scratched and scraped;
from vindication and victory combined.

We lick each others' afflictions
with mint laced tongues;
soothing wounds, accepting every scar.


Sight: a peach
Scent: airplane glue
Taste: sweet &/or sour
Touch: chains
Sound: growling

 

[nonfictional]

Desejo, ha ha! Very nice!

 

[Desejo]

Sight: a peach
Scent: airplane glue
Taste: sweet &/or sour
Touch: chains
Sound: growling

Street Children, Kathmandu


The bideshi takes a picture
of Birendra and me
behind parked rickshaws
for our begging smiles
he gives us 1000 rupees

And our smiles become brighter

Now,now we can buy precious
Dendrite, squeeze it out in offerings
sealed in plastic bags and inhale
to forget the hunger
the cold, and fly with gods

I fly to the peach trees of Lalitpur

reach out my god-hand to pluck one
taste it sweet on my tongue
silencing the dog growl of my stomach
turning the iron chains on my body
into Brahmin gold

*****


sound: bird call
Scent: oranges
Touch: fur or furry
Sight: strong light
taste: unexpected (whatever!).

 

[Remec]

sound: bird call
Scent: oranges
Touch: fur or furry
Sight: strong light
taste: unexpected (whatever!).

Caught

My mother's kitchen clock
was how I knew I was out
of time. A series of hoots from
some unknown owl echoed
through the quiet house. I
sprayed the carpet once more,
crisp orange scented mail-order
cleanser still sickly sweet but
passable instead of bludgeoning
my brain via my nostrils, and did
my best to finish wiping up the
blotched furry rug we'd inherited
when I was still a child. The tell-tale
glow of headlights reflected
off the dining room's mirrored wall
from the kitchen window, and made
me stand up to face the music. I
swallowed nervously as the front door
opened, eyes rolling back for a moment
at how much puke taste, even after
thirty minutes, was still in my saliva.

~~~~~

Sight: candy canes
Sound: puppy
Smell: winter
Taste: pine
Touch: tinsel

 

[nonfictional]

Candy canes wrapped in lugubrious plastic,
an abandoned puppy rasps plaintive.
Winter sheds its tinsel unease
amid the crunch of pine nut salad
and ornaments decorative.

 

[nonfictional]

Sight: fire
Sound: splash
Scent: armpit
Touch: rough skin
Taste: bland

 

[KathrynMartin]

Sight: fire
Sound: splash
Scent: armpit
Touch: rough skin
Taste: bland

among the dash of drops
the rough, hewn touch
and heady musk drives
weakness, dull upon my lips
Into the smoky flick’ring flames

Sight: Cold
Sound: tinkle
Scent: aromatic
Touch: slippery
Taste: metallic

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Cold
Sound: tinkle
Scent: aromatic
Touch: slippery
Taste: metallic

He is oddly hunched over, as if cold
she supposes he is reading
but recognizes her phone
resting in his hands, one thumb numbly
scrolling through sms messages

The room she left warm and perfumed
in clove and amber oils bubbling
over a bed bath and beyond candle
is plunged into the cold howl of
his eyes -- a glacier above chattering teeth and
gray frostbitten fingers

The candle wavers and sputters dead
she stands still as a doe in a snow field
waiting

The phone lights up in a merry tinkle tinkle
You have a message! she desperately grabs at
the case-- but it slips like an eel and falls silent
into frozen waters

Through the open hole
of her mouth
She tastes the metal of a sharp hook
and lies limp on the ice
waiting

*****
Sight: glitter
Sound: scratching
Scent: burnt popcorn
Touch: unwanted
Taste: fear

 

[Desejo]

messed up...see correct version below. How come I can't delete my own post?!

 

[Desejo]

OK - I have NO idea what I did, but I managed to delete my final post.
I give up...someone else do the words!

 

[Minervous]

Sight: glitter
Sound: scratching
Scent: burnt popcorn
Touch: unwanted
Taste: fear

Election Night

Electric bright confetti falls
from the infinite ceiling
of the ballroom. DJ Britewing
scratches LPs
and monologs
on our long walk
over the slackwire strung
between Here and I want to be.

Fear still doesn’t taste any better
than an energy gel—

and, God, burnt popcorn is no flavor
anyone seeks

even while trying to avoid the thrust
Dr. Smithson makes
under my skirt.

Sight: Open sky.
Sound: Waves.
Taste: Breakfast.
Touch: A book.
Smell: Salt air.

 

[Neonurotic]

Sight: Open sky.
Sound: Waves.
Taste: Breakfast.
Touch: A book.
Smell: Salt air.

Impermeable

The sky is wide open as is my mouth
while her unrequited love falls
and splits the ground.
Thunderstruck in the snow in the
only place in the world where it can.
This salty land, blowing wind
and ice that stings my eyes. Laughing,
or crying, I don't really know,
don't care, she confessed .
Sunrise sweet coffee and cake sits bitter,
like words that should've been said
long ago. It's too bad I already moved on,
coat tails waving at the shins, snapping
in step, one step at time until gone.


**You don't have to use the actual words for this, an example of the words works here.
Sight: Envy
Sound: Lust
Taste: Greed
Touch: Wrath
Smell: Pride

 

[Desejo]

**You don't have to use the actual words for this, an example of the words works here.
Sight: Envy
Sound: Lust
Taste: Greed
Touch: Wrath
Smell: Pride

Meanwhile in Gaza

The cameraman drops and rolls
just in time -- he has the shot but
has not been shot
And so faces on competing news stations
twist in envy offscreen and back to
solemn frowns of outrage on the air
and in the air

bombs explode in blood lust
unleashing anger too long stifled
in dust clouds of rage over this land called holy
three thousand years of tears evaporated and condensed
falling on the still barren still
angry earth where now

a rocket is launched with a final slap on the side
channelling vengeance, memories of
those lost in blood that the desert sucks up endlessly
blood mopped up endlessly in ghettos, in camps
like a perverse misplaced sponge on the hot brow

of an 18 year old soldier in a jeep packed with uniforms
smelling of fear and pride and nervous cigarettes
the same smells of the enemy room
where a teenager ties a ripped kaffieyeh
in a band around his head and rushes into
the burning city where tonight

the leaders will dine on hummos bitter with greed
for water, my friend, for water.
Look now at the fenced lawns and orchards blooming
in the desert and the dust and filth here
For divine bequeathment, my friend. Look ye now at the ancient borders
of Eretz Israel, given to us from above.
For power. For power.

****
Sight: something handmade
sound: alarm
smell: a workshop
taste: warm drink
touch: something polished

 

[Remec]

Sight: something handmade
sound: alarm
smell: a workshop
taste: warm drink
touch: something polished

Cleaning Day

Cleaning day has come late
this year, later and later seems
to be the trend these days, I
just nod when told it really isn't
because of the holiday or the
fact that my mother is expected
over in less than a week; just nod
and go about the task of dusting
shelves and things on shelves,

stowing each into bins or trashing
them entirely. Not as easy as it
seems. Take this...thing...molded
work of clay made for me one year
for Father's Day...there's no visible
glaze, but it's smooth and feels
good in my hand, although I think it's
supposed to be an ashtray. Ironic,
as I stopped smoking shortly after
Rowan bacame pregnant and haven't
smoked within the children's lifetime.

A buzzer from the kitchen lets me
know I can take a break, so I get
a glass of warm cider--that time of
year, and all, besides, I never drink
coffee except at work. While mixing
the cup, the wafting scent of wood
comes in from the garage. We call it
that although there's never been a car
in it and it doesn't even have a door
for vehicles anymore; just a place to
stash things and do some puttering,

which is why it smells of sawdust and
paint and oil soap--aromas that put
just the right extra tang to the apple
and cinnamon in my drink. Well,
back to work. Dust settles so quickly
in a house with both kids and cats.

~~~~~
sight: football
sound: snapping
smell: burning
taste: seafood
touch: wool

 

[KathrynMartin]

sight: football
sound: snapping
smell: burning
taste: seafood
touch: wool

two dimensional virtual reality
out-of-home grown on a pig skin
as the last sting of patience
cracks my hump
the sour ashes stink – as if
yesterday boulliabaise
was scratched against the sides
of my tongue

sight: alley
sound: running water
smell: wet cotton
taste: sour cabbage
touch: twill

 

[Desejo]

sight: alley
sound: running water
smell: wet cotton
taste: sour cabbage
touch: twill

Dessert

I did warn you about my penchant
For walls and alleys, right?
That one right there will do
just fine
No, I don’t care that it is raining
What else is new in this town? It's
just fine and

The gurgle of the water rushing
onto the ground
spilling, spreading
as I spread the opening
of your twill trousers open
with my fingers
is like the gurgle in your throat
before you, also
spill

Gulping in the smell of
your wet cotton shirt afterwards
I realize that the taste of the
sauerkraut we had for dinner
is exquisite when shared.

*****
Sound : cheering
Scent: leather
Touch: enamel
Taste: Twinkie or other soon to be extinct snack cake
Sight: coffee cup or mug

 

[KathrynMartin]

Sound : cheering
Scent: leather
Touch: enamel
Taste: Twinkie or other soon to be extinct snack cake
Sight: coffee cup or mug

on the corner, hard ironwork pressed
against my bum, catching the musky scent
a passing stranger trails behind
a glance across the steamy rim my lips
catch the hard chipped edge metallic
hoping to morph the roar of weekend warriors on the field
to a crinkle in disrobing softness for my mouth

Sound: clickediclack
Scent: Oil
Touch: bunched papers
Taste: last night wine
Sight: yellow

 

[Desejo]

Sound : cheering
Scent: leather
Touch: enamel
Taste: Twinkie or other soon to be extinct snack cake
Sight: coffee cup or mug

on the corner, hard ironwork pressed
against my bum, catching the musky scent
a passing stranger trails behind
a glance across the steamy rim my lips
catch the hard chipped edge metallic
hoping to morph the roar of weekend warriors on the field
to a crinkle in disrobing softness for my mouth

Sound: clickediclack
Scent: Oil
Touch: bunched papers
Taste: last night wine
Sight: yellow

Hmmm....I am getting enamel, cheering, leather, and the coffee cup (nice touch there)...but where is the twinkie? (I'm kidding. I just hoped to see someone posting something about a ho ho or a twinkie, or something else that should have been extinct long ago!) Of course if you are not American you may have no idea what I am talking about

 

[Desejo]

Sound: clickediclack
Scent: Oil
Touch: bunched papers
Taste: last night wine
Sight: yellow

Dubai: the Intellectual

The hungover intellectual vomits
into the marble toilet
before he dares face the mirror.
The yellow of his eyes
protests his excesses and reflects
outwardly the revelation that
last nights souring wine has already made clear:

The next Arab Spring will begin
with the clikediclack of stillettos
tapping out messages from under black abayas
On the marble floors of the malls.
It will begin when the bellydancer
remembers the scratch of the bunched up bills
shoved into her gaudy bra top with greedy fingers
the coins shaking clikedlyclak. Clickedly clack.

Already it smells of burning oil.
It is easy to leap to clikedly clack.

**************
Sight: email
sound: exasperation
scent: something fruity
touch: lukewarm
taste: spoiled