The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[KathrynMartin]

Auto Alert

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

Unimportant urgency dings,
a crow call across the perfect plane of deeds
exacts desperation.
Tepid words, crack my focus
as if I had bitten into a pear
there, on the corner and found -
nothing.

Sight: bark
Sound: a low hum
Scent: linen
Touch: cold
Taste: refreshing

 

[Desejo]

Sight: bark
Sound: a low hum
Scent: linen
Touch: cold
Taste: refreshing

These are hard words to fit together....thinking about it!

 

[darkmaas]

Sight: bark
Sound: a low hum
Scent: linen
Touch: cold
Taste: refreshing

low hum of laundry
cat claws on cedar bark
(a phallic scratching post
to save your mother's overstuffed legacy)
linen sheets damp and cold against my thighs
all clues that you have left our bed

ah the refreshing scent
of fresh coffee

damn cat might be forgiven

::

Sight: carmen
Sound: whisper
Scent: ylang ylang
Touch: silk
Taste: whiskey

 

[KathrynMartin]

Sight: carmen
Sound: whisper
Scent: ylang ylang
Touch: silk
Taste: whiskey

Antananarivo, 1962, under spinning blades
I reached for my keys;
your heavy lids threw a shadow
screaming need ringed by yellow and green

Later, Diego an old guitarist
murmured Habanera tremor
Across my breasts -
in lascivious steps under the Canaga tree

We sipped harsh amber
from chipped glasses before I dragged your hand
for a hungry snatch


Sight: Cerulean
Sound: whistling
Scent: arrid sand
Touch: careful
Taste: flint

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Cerulean
Sound: whistling
Scent: arrid sand
Touch: careful
Taste: flint

It whistles, dips, and suicide dives
a mutant housefly kamikaze roll
Black on cerulean

Clouds paint, careful, above the sea
Seeming to create shadow creatures
Black in azure

It is a sharp beach, strewn in chipped rocks
The air tastes of prehistoric flint
waiting to spark fire

In a Banzai spinning dive
falling in a final burst of flames
The flint rocks crack. The world smells of roasted sand.

****

Sight: exceptional eye color
sound: nagging
scent: burnt food
touch: sticky
taste: open - you choose

 

[Remec]

Sight: exceptional eye color
sound: nagging
scent: burnt food
touch: sticky
taste: open - you choose

fresh air stopped
just inside the front door,
no smoke,
just the lingering shards
of what might have been
grilled cheese, maybe
pizza,

before I could make it
to the kitchen, the
prattling could already
be heard, myriad ways
of saying "I told you so"
within the space of a
single breath,

taking a peek around
the corner, I smile as
one bright violet eye
meets and then her
darling face turns to
roll both of them in
my direction,

I touch the wall before
entering, but she shoos
me with a shake of her
head and I step away,
going to wash my hand
of whatever I picked up.
sniff
lick

Yeah, pizza, definitely.
~~~~~

Sight: caduceus
Sound: trumpet trill
Scent: motor oil
Taste: glue
Touch: grass

 

[KathrynMartin]

Sight: caduceus
Sound: trumpet trill
Scent: motor oil
Taste: glue
Touch: grass

Discarded Sludge

lame box on wheels
in comfort of discarded sludge
drag broken heroes in pine planks
that reek the boil of broken bones.

my blind eyes blinded
by the foggy etch of rod
and serpent in it’s glassy side;

and so they rest caressed
by gnarly roots
while I behold the touch
of softest green –

and weep


Sight: tracks
Sound: song of wind
Scent: the dry of threshed wheat
Taste: grass
Touch: a rivet

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sight: tracks
Sound: song of wind
Scent: the dry of threshed wheat
Taste: grass
Touch: a rivet

The citizen next to me
on the D line, 7:21 a.m.,
wearing a blue knit cap over
silicone silence
gliding against silence
rumbling against the song of wind
which is a rumble and a wail
longing for green that springs water
on the longing tongue. Swallow.

Did you swallow?
The boy next to you
slicing through the grass next to you
knows. He knew before you even stepped
on the first stem, at the edge
of the field that you would
and you did. Denim hems stiffen
against the wind at the top of the steps.

We submerge again into our own beat and once seated, I reach
the inside waistseam with my thumb as my finger
circles its rivet.

 

[Desejo]

Miss Glitters.... you forgot the new words
Or maybe they got swallowed....

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Hah! So they did!!

Ok here goes.

Sight: dangling chain
Feel: wet hair drying
Smell: something burning
Sound: wood splitting
Taste: rosehip

 

[njoyjade]

Hah! So they did!!

Ok here goes.

Sight: dangling chain
Feel: wet hair drying
Smell: something burning
Sound: wood splitting
Taste: rosehip

Devil Lived

Born with an evil look in his eyes,
Devil he was named .
His valor only increased his worth ,
companions we remained.

Freedom and will we had from birth
his spirit so like mine;
I spiked his oats with rosehip
it helped his coat to shine.

Inhaling embers of admiration,
he was filled with pride.
His nostrils flared, we'd lose our breath,
on our daily ride.

Mane like chains of silver,
his sweat dried from the sun.
We splintered every bridge we crossed;
our goal was having fun.

Devil was my angel,
our kinship will never be sieved.
His colts and filly's share his look;
a horse named Devil Lived.




Sight: empty room
Sound: echo
Scent: earthy/robust
Taste: astringent
Touch: corduroy

 

[Desejo]

Chez Samsa

In his empty room
Gregor crawls the walls
his favorite pathways
outlined in sticky brown traces
from his active feet
At dinnertime his shiny head peeks out
from under a swatch rejected corduroy
from his seat in the half open door
His family talk about how he has changed
the conversation echoes
in the crawl space between dimensions
He can smell the decaying vegetables in the trash can
under his fine mandible his tiny mouth
emits astringent liquid, in anticipation.

****
sound: radio station
taste: cheese
touch: splinter
sight: sunrise
smell: morning

 

[darkmaas]

sound: radio station
taste: cheese
touch: splinter
sight: sunrise
smell: morning

Cheese slice on egg McMuffin
bathed in the cheery muzak
of classic rock radio
the caffinated ullage of our culture
welcome a new day in suburbia
like the dull itch of a deep splinter
annoying but not bad enough
to take the time to dig it out

Memories of a different time
watching the sun's red glow
through the mist and smoke of cooking fires
the morning scent of boiling rice and sambal
when you and I
lost our way


::


Sight: horizon
Sound: sixty cycle hum
Scent: brimstone
Taste: tasteless
Touch: stickyness


::

 

[Remec]

Traveling

Sight: horizon
Sound: sixty cycle hum
Scent: brimstone
Taste: tasteless
Touch: stickyness::

Idle time, once again,
the yellow-gold sunset
has begun to settle into
a wide palette of orange,
red, and purple all
mingling at the fireball
on the horizon, and I
lean against the window
peering past my reflection,
wondering what I'm doing

on tour, alone again,
while my ears are filled
with the rattle of engines
playing as if they were Joe's
Fenders sending out that
peaceful sixty cycle hum he
always failed to stifle during
mic-check. I notice the smile
in the glass as his last
blow up comes to mind--thrown
coffee cup splashing against
the sound board and sparking
a thousand-dollar repair job
that still smells of brimstone

every time we used it, time and again,
and how it had felt to clean up
spilled latte mingled with foam
from the extinguishers. My fingers
were tacky for weeks, it seemed,
and the smell killed off my taste buds
for even longer. Which was helpful,
since airline food sucks bad enough.
even on a chartered flight.
~~~~~
Sight: soft light
Sound: tinkling
Scent: cinnamon
Taste: lemon
Touch: pine bark

 

[darkmaas]

Sight: soft light
Sound: tinkling
Scent: cinnamon
Taste: lemon
Touch: pine bark

::



lips press, lemon tart
cinnamon thighs glow on pine bark sharp
sweat beads, tinkling chimes



::


Sight: blind
Sound: deaf
Scent: fear
Taste: bile
Touch: silk

 

[Angeline]

Sight: soft light
Sound: tinkling
Scent: cinnamon
Taste: lemon
Touch: pine bark

::



lips press, lemon tart
cinnamon thighs glow on pine bark sharp
sweat beads, tinkling chimes



::


Sight: blind
Sound: deaf
Scent: fear
Taste: bile
Touch: silk

Fear smells like chalk
only just acrid.

In the aftermath of innocence
silence mingles bile then blood
with bright morning as if
they flew silken and winged
toward the Sun and an ocean
of blindness engulfed them.

Sight: cigarettes
Sound: bells
Scent: sandlewood
Taste: water
Touch: feather

 

[Remec]

Sight: cigarettes
Sound: bells
Scent: sandlewood
Taste: water
Touch: feather

Carly always hated when she
had to visit her in-laws by herself,
the house was even older than
Betsy and smelled of all her
worse candles---especially
sandlewood, and it never
failed that her firggin' bird
would manage to drop
feathers (or worse) on her
shoulder when it decided
she would do for a makeshift
perch.

Betsy always hated when her
stupidest son managed to be
out of town when it came time
for a visit and she had to spend
so much of her day being cordial
to her even more stupid, if possible,
daughter-in-law. The sound of her
front door tinkling made her look
down the hall and through the foyer
and, sure enough, there she was.
A clouded image through the glass,
merely long hair, rounded hips,
and an ever-present, extra long,
menthol bobbing in the hair between
her fingers.

~~~~~
sight: people playing a game
sound: really old rock and roll
scent: stale sweat
taste: garlic butter
touch: ice

 

[darkmaas]

sight: people playing a game
sound: really old rock and roll
scent: stale sweat
taste: garlic butter
touch: ice

::

Asian kid is standing
playing eight games of chess at once
with the Russian geezers
who usually own the room

They're sweating garlic
and Cyrillic oaths

He's channeling
some muzak Elvis

There was a time
it might have mattered
might have been a slice
but now I'm cranky
three fingers in bad whisky
fishing out the ice.


::


sight: koi
sound: burble
scent: peat moss
taste: anise
touch: slippery

 

[The_Fool]

sight: people playing a game
sound: really old rock and roll
scent: stale sweat
taste: garlic butter
touch: ice

::

Asian kid is standing
playing eight games of chess at once
with the Russian geezers
who usually own the room

They're sweating garlic
and Cyrillic oaths

He's channeling
some muzak Elvis

There was a time
it might have mattered
might have been a slice
but now I'm cranky
three fingers in bad whisky
fishing out the ice.


::


sight: koi
sound: burble
scent: peat moss
taste: anise
touch: slippery

Electric koi
playing coy with the children,
kissing fingers
and toes
dabbling in the water.

I wish I didn't hear her sighs
over the burbling
of the fountain.
Wish I could see her eyes,
but she has turned her head away.

Dry kisses,
arid lips tasting of anise.
Almost bitter,
where once they were sweet
red berries liquid to the taste.

We are two, leaning against
the north side of the tree
crushing moss
instead of seeking sunlight
tangled together as one.

She must of just put on lotion.
Skin slippery to the touch,
where once it was smooth,
warm on a summer day
and she was not sliding away.

sight: marble
sound: shutting door
scent: old books
taste: coffee
touch: aged wood

 

[darkmaas]

sight: marble
sound: shutting door
scent: old books
taste: coffee
touch: aged wood


::

Hercule in the Library

The staccato of her heels on marble
deaden as she crosses the carpet
the pointed click of French doors closing
then silence as he considers
that certain je-ne-sais-quoi
of a carnal act
behind French doors

Damask leather bindings
their scent a musty counterpoint
to the fat and urgent odor of her lust
polished oak against her thighs
morning coffee on her lips
a flake of chocolate croissant
caught in a cashmere web
a metaphor perhaps



::

sight: shiny black
sound: hiss
scent: rain washed
taste: bitter
touch: steel

 

[HarryHill]

Ebony beast on side of highway
Steel steed has gone lame and cold
Gleaming under torrential sky
Hissing tire a bitter song

sight: great vistas
sound: train
scent: forested
taste: cold
touch: rough

 

[Desejo]

Little Engine that Can

Blood thrums and whistles
like the little engine who could
breath emitting poofs
I think I can I think

I can

finally reach the top
thawing blood
drips in my throat
and with a deep
pine-filled breath
I crawl
to a boulder, rough
ice age tumbled and

I feel the mad urge
in my bones
of a suicidal deer, but
when I see the immense horizon--

I know I can.

----
Sound stringed instrument
Scent musty
touch old wood
taste tea
sight mirror

 

[darkmaas]

Sound stringed instrument
Scent musty
touch old wood
taste tea
sight mirror

::

Tea with my aunt
the scent of musty lavender
and remembrances of a dashing Cossack.

She sees my smile
distorted in reflection
from the polished samovar
floating splendid
on a hard sea of mahogany.

"Your grin is out of place.
You find it hard to imagine
me a lusty widow.
There was a time young man,
I might have played you like a cello."


::

Sound: sirens
Scent: exhaust with a dash of sewage
Touch: rain
Taste: adrenaline
Sight: neon

 

[Desejo]

::

Sound: sirens
Scent: exhaust with a dash of sewage
Touch: rain
Taste: adrenaline
Sight: neon

Driving to Dinner in Banda Aceh

It’s only drizzling
says Bobby
as we get into the becak
sliding along the red viynl seat
in the open cart behind
the motorcycle driver

At the first growl of thunder
the driver pulls on his rain hood
folds down the plastic sides
to protect us, but
in seconds
between the rain and the puddles
my white t-shirt is drenched
God knows what the
Sharia’a police would do
about that

the air emits wafts
petrol, rain, and clogged canals
our laughs burst out
in riptides of adrenaline
the sheer joy
a deluge
warm rain flooding in
past Achenese Kopi houses
lit up in neon where men drink

And we all forget, for a moment
to wait in terror for the
next wave.
This time sirens will drown
the wail of prayer.

Sound: held breath
sight: something falling from the sky
Smell: you decide
touch: fine carpet
taste: Soup

 

[darkmaas]

Sound: held breath
sight: something falling from the sky
Smell: you decide
touch: fine carpet
taste: Soup

::

Salene Speaks

Outside it’s raining cats and dogs

Inside, a table set for luncheon
with two chairs beside the fire

“Victor Darling,
I am afraid …”

She’s taken off her spikes
and toes caress the Axminster
as lovers might
breathless in the moment

She waves her spoon
a dagger
to punctuate her thoughts

The scent of indecision
hangs in the air
like threadbare pantaloons
on skinny shanks

I hover
a culinary bodyguard
my only weapon
in prandial defense
a ladle.

“… the soup,
it needs some salt”

::

Sound: distant thunder
Sight: red hot glow
Smell: brimstone
Touch: naked flesh
Taste: salt