The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[GuiltyPleasure]

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

Witches

They meet under moonless skies
gathering as the red, hot glow
of the day still lingers
and thunder echoes from the mountains.
Naked they come as in birth
perpetual dance, trance like until salt
sweat glistens in the brimstone
threat of the fire.

Sound: jazz
Sight: long hair
Smell: jasmine
Touch: rough stone
Taste: blood

 

[darkmaas]

Sound: jazz
Sight: long hair
Smell: jasmine
Touch: rough stone
Taste: blood

::


One has to wonder
what music should accompany
the taste of blood.

Hollywood would have us believe
that Mr. Bach and his organ
provide the only background
suitable for the event
300 pipes to serenade
a death both violent and sensual

but surely
it's a delicate and private moment
more suitable for quiet harpsichord
or a soft light jazz
that bends and flows
like long and slightly tousled hair
the scent of jasmine dabbed behind an ear
the upturned neck
skin white and smooth
in contrast to the rough stone crypt
a gentle caress along the vein
lust softly slaked
in a minor key


::

Sound: sizzle
Sight: terracotta
Smell: lime
Touch: cool breeze
Taste: maraschino

 

[Desejo]

The Emperor's lunch on Elba

Le cipolle sizzle in olive oil
Anna will add them to the roast chicken
It is my favorite lunch.

I look out over this silly island
hundreds of terracotta roofs
nothing more. Some sheep.
Such a campagnard ending.
Hélas.

The Maraschino pours clear
from my silver flask
it was with me in Eylau, that hell.
Closing my eyes I feel the glacial
breeze cut like a sword through this heat

But then an impolite waft
of lime blossom
reminds me
where I am, and of the battle
I have lost.

******
Sight: bowl of fruit
sound: corny music
taste: honey
scent: something strong
touch: sticky

 

[KethKessel]

....Untitled....22 Jan 2013...

There is her smell
strongly scented in the air
and loved so well
dancing to the loud and corny sounds
of Weird Al
with a bowl of fruit in her hand
her honey taste knows no bounds
Lips sticky with the fruit of the vine
Kissing a beloved woman in.....
my mind.
sight:fall leaves
sound: hushed whispers
taste: bitter, sweet
scent: fresh air
touch: down(feathers)

 

[darkmaas]

sight: fall leaves
sound: hushed whispers
taste: bitter, sweet
scent: fresh air
touch: down(feathers)

::


the leaves are all brown
there’s snow on the ground
baby it’s cold outside

coffee on my lips
hot chocolate on yours
whisper in your ear
better lock the door
cause’ baby it’s cold out there

the air may be fresh
blowin’ in from the west
but baby it’s cold outside

twice around the woodstove
then twice around once more
let’s try a warm up tango
leave those flannels on the floor
hop on under,
my old eider down
snuggle right up
let’s hear that cooing sound
cause baby, baby, baby,
.... it’s cold out there


::


sight: sunlight on snow
sound: rustle
taste: raw
scent: woodsmoke
touch: bare skin

 

[Desejo]

Meeting Peter in Siberia

We talked sometimes
quietly swapping heartbreaks
over coffee
No one would call us close friends
But that is what we were.
Close, not claustrophobic

I recognized him, one day
walking toward me
the blinding dazzle of snow
between us narrowing
in every rustle of my parka
it seemed an endless expanse.

We met. Just that once,
Just that cold day,
We kissed.

his mouth on mine
tasted of raw iron and blood
His cheek on mine
For a minute
Scratching stubble memories

He smelled of woodsmoke
Of flannel and wool
And books

He smelled right.

******

Sound: false laughter
sight : single glove or mitten
touch: tap to get attention
taste: champagne
smell: smoke

 

[darkmaas]

Sound: false laughter
sight : single glove or mitten
touch: tap to get attention
taste: champagne
smell: smoke

::

After the Prom

your tap upon the door
“Let me in, Armand”
you trip across the threshold
your dress all crumpled
one of the embroidered gloves
that race up your arms
like lace tattoos
is torn

a sloppy embrace
your lips champagne kissed
cigarette smoke in your hair
you lift your skirts
and straddle me
laughter dipped in venom

and then you’re gone
and I stand
your scent fresh musk
upon my fingers
holding a wounded scrap of lace

::

This one was hard. The single glove brought only visions of Michael Jackson. I see in hindsight that this poem is maybe a reflection of the first poem I posted on lit. just over a decade ago. (Shameless plug.) Same theme, different voice and ten (perhaps rather wasted) years. Sigh.

::

sight: ebony
sound: echo
taste: lip balm
scent: inexpensive perfume
touch: denim

::

 

[Desejo]

Kuta Beach, Bali

You think Eat, Pray, Love
endless rice fields stretching
in brilliant green oceans
then climbing terraced hills

You think women in sarongs
and girdled lace Kebayas
walking in small steps
fruit balanced on glossy hair

There are fake ebony bottle-openers
shaped like dicks, piled high in shops
you hear car horns
not the echo of waves

Australian surfers
lick their coconut lips
at the denim covered promise
that feels so tight from outside

Yes, you will find stone temples.
But the incense does nothing
to hide the cheap
alcohol-diluted scent
of Kuta.
*****

Sound: floor creaking
sight : shadow
taste: something bitter
scent: wine
touch: fur

 

[darkmaas]

sound: floor creaking
sight : shadow
taste: something bitter
scent: wine
touch: fur

::

I heard the creak
of footsteps on the porch
and went to see

I found her crouching
in the dappled moonlight
wearing only panties
and a fur hat
that would have made
Rasputin proud

I squatted
down beside her
She smelled of sweat
and cheap prosecco
“You OK?”
a shit-faced grin
“I’m in heat”

“Let’s go inside
I’ll put some coffee on”

::

sound: distant piano
sight : embroidery
taste: salt on skin
scent: ivory soap
touch: flannel

 

[HarryHill]

Far behind the next series

took a while to post

Sound: false laughter
sight : single glove or mitten
touch: tap to get attention
taste: champagne
smell: smoke


False laughter
escaped from her lips
as I made lewd innuendo
Twitch of eyebrow
What did he say?
Huff of realization
Flashing slap of red
Glove returns backhand
no gentle tap
Champagne cool splash
drips from face
Woman stalks away
Smoke seems to drift
behind her
Another date goes
down in flames

back to the previous challenge


sound: distant piano
sight : embroidery
taste: salt on skin
scent: ivory soap
touch: flannel

 

[nueva_belleza]

There was a saltiness to the hidden skin behind her left ear
remnants of the time spent at the water's edge
Here, in this room
memories of their time already escaping
leaving behind only cloudy visions teasing like the long forgotten song
of a distant piano

She is naked, save the sheet retaining her modesty
strands of her hair falling so precise
they are easy to mistake as part of the embroidery
Hair that smells sharp, reminding him of the ivory soap
once abandoned in a hotel room

No one writes songs about flannel sheets and the warmth they hold
wars are not waged
She will one day forget the easy comfort of these arms
As the minutes become years they will no longer recognize one another
across an empty street


Challenge
sound: buzz
sight: glow
taste: bitterness
scent: baked apples
touch: mesh

 

[darkmaas]

sound: buzz
sight: glow
taste: bitterness
scent: baked apples
touch: mesh

::

Twenty floors above
the neon glow
and ceaseless buzz
of traffic in the streets below
my ballerina
has been baking.
Her mother’s strudel
fills the air
a long way from Berlin.

She’s almost naked
stands posed in just a tutu
as if for Degas himself.

We do not have
that much to say
the taste of cinnamon
and bitter wormwood
coats our tongues
thickens the air
and time itself.

I mix another round
of opalescence
and run my fingers through the tulle
black against her pallor.

You need some sun my Babylon.

::

sound: silence
sight: glare
taste: salty
scent: hickory
touch: polished smooth

::

 

[Angeline]

sound: buzz
sight: glow
taste: bitterness
scent: baked apples
touch: mesh

::

Twenty floors above
the neon glow
and ceaseless buzz
of traffic in the streets below
my ballerina
has been baking.
Her mother’s strudel
fills the air
a long way from Berlin.

She’s almost naked
stands posed in just a tutu
as if for Degas himself.

We do not have
that much to say
the taste of cinnamon
and bitter wormwood
coats our tongues
thickens the air
and time itself.

I mix another round
of opalescence
and run my fingers through the tulle
black against her pallor.

You need some sun my Babylon.

::

sound: silence
sight: glare
taste: salty
scent: hickory
touch: polished smooth

::

It's a broken Sun promise
to rouge my lids a lazy
glare relieved by branch

and leaf to drift slow aloft
where the dips that stumble
the hills are wood-smoked

twig crack, bark and birdcall
my Innisfree smooth stones
of my isolation.

Nothing like a hurricane. No Sandy,
salt's a thing on my plate in my tears

after all

the ocean is mountains
miles away.

sound: classical music but identified by piece (e.g., Ravel's Bolero, etc.)
sight: ice
taste: comice pears
scent: sweet almond oil
touch: pearls

 

[champagne1982]

sound: classical music but identified by piece (e.g., Ravel's Bolero, etc.)
sight: ice
taste: comice pears
scent: sweet almond oil
touch: pearls

Click the link in the title to hear the inspiration...

Opus 28, Raindrop Prelude

Stretched fingers flex and crack
as teared eyes cloud in the dying
phrase like a storm sighing
a final drop on a breath
of spring thawed gutter.

A bowl sparkles like frozen
drips off the eaves in the sun;
broken through the scattered
nimbus, highlighting the crisp
snap of juicy pear that weeps
a version of sweet nectar
plumping velvet flesh.

She prays it will stay white
like the dress standing
patiently in her room,
her fingers playing the pearl
buttons strung along the graceful
curve of spine like the notes
of the melody she weaves.

A Christmas wedding cake
scents the air with almond
fondant and a thousand
treasures tucked within.
Yet still she plays a song
of a single drop on a journey
toward a great vastness --
a metaphor, perhaps, of steps
she will take on the morrow.

sound: a door closing
sight: a dog's tail wagging
taste: oranges
scent: sage
touch: flannel

 

[Desejo]

sound: a door closing
sight: a dog's tail wagging
taste: oranges
scent: sage
touch: flannel

Ode to Uncle John

Cookie Boy shares the path
of daily incantation
the swing of his golden tail
rustling grass

No, dammit, No.
Step,by, Step
The scent of mudcrusted boots
sharp in morning air

Ahead a deer stops, watches
Birds fly closer and cry out
No, dammit, No
No, dammit, No

I hear them before I see them
Cookie Boy bounds through
The woods to greet me
with a flannel-tongued lick

Inside, my mother offers Uncle John
oranges, sliced into neat smiles
He sits awhile, talks about birds.
His scabbed fingers shake like wings
Smoking cigarettes to the bitter filter
pockets the ashes

Never talking about it.
Never has.

When he leaves slams the door
No, Dammit, No.


Sight: bottles of water
sound: fan
scent: mould, or something like that
touch: gritty
taste: smoke

 

[darkmaas]

Sight: bottles of water
sound: fan
scent: mould, or something like that
touch: gritty
taste: smoke

::


I’ve been away too long.

Sophie welcomes me
from behind the counter
and steals a kiss.
Campari and a hint of unfiltered cigarette
dance for a moment on my lips.

I take the sofa by the door
all coffee stains and mildew.
It’s usually empty
because a howling vent
blows summer’s grit or winter’s chill
straight down your neck.

It’s mostly students
clutching their phones
sacred talismans
to ward off loneliness
and their water bottles
like Kalahari bushmen
planning some sojourn
into the wasteland – I think of Eliot
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
In my absence
the erogenous has shifted
from low slung jeans
and a slice of midriff
to tights and tall boots
a modest improvement

perhaps.

I’ve been away
but not quite long enough.


::

sight: fat tourists
sound: loud laughter
scent: hot and close-pressed humanity
touch: moist skin
taste: salt and tequila

 

[Angeline]

sight: fat tourists
sound: loud laughter
scent: hot and close-pressed humanity
touch: moist skin
taste: salt and tequila

Tijuana, 1998

I click heels on concrete
in the tunnel a guard says American
Girl, his laugh echoes I'm reborn
to Gomorrah noisy streets redolent
of funk and cumin. Neon hips switch
blink red: Girls XXX Gringos
spill from their fanny packs
and shorts, clotting the farmacias
crowding la calle. Men, mustachioed,
entreat me from doorways catcall
besame chicka besame. A bottle
crashes and someone shrieks. Music
plays, caliente.

I buy you Cuban cigars very dear,
permit a dark man to lay silver
and amber on my flesh. His hands
are warm and moist on my neck.
I drink tequila pin up my hair
and flash the necklace. When I leave
a different guard says American
Girl and lets me pass, cigars hidden
deep in a pocket, salt in the air on
my lips but I don't look back.

sight: school of fish
sound: jet
scent: fried food
touch: wet
taste: chili peppers

 

[nonfictional]

Breakfast begins with the aroma
that hangs in still air before
the downing of whole fried catfish
in chili pepper sauce
while cruisin' the bayou
in hot wet robes and a jetboat
watching schools of the slow fish
scamper by.
O Louisiana I long for thee.

 

[nonfictional]

sight: elevated highway
sound: church bells
scent: diesel
touch: denim
taste: gooey

 

[Desejo]

sight: elevated highway
sound: church bells
scent: diesel
touch: denim
taste: gooey

Grey Elephant, Bangkok

picks his way through madness
like a gigantic grey cat
accepts 5 Baht from a delighted child
with a touch of his distressed-denim trunk

Overhead cracked ash highways
groan under the weight of a city
on 15 foot high legs

He lumbers on.

The smell of Durian reaches
cutting through the diesel fumes
like temple bells ring clear
over car horns and digital beeps

Goodness.
He finds it--
Sliced on a plate at the corner Spirit House
between bottles of bright red Fanta and jasmine garlands
Sweet custard intoxication
that could only be improved
served sliced on a bed of sticky rice.
*********

Taste: bitter
Sound: Public Announcement
Touch: carpet
smell: skin
sight: folded towels

 

[champagne1982]

Grey Elephant, Bangkok

Wonderful poem!

*********

Taste: bitter
Sound: Public Announcement
Touch: carpet
smell: skin
sight: folded towels

Encounter In Olive Drab

Last night you protested
into the floor after I rolled
you onto your belly, determined
to show you what I love
and you find so repulsive.
Two towels beneath your hips
lifting your wonderful ass up
and giving your hardened cock
something to cum into, softer
than the synthetic twist of nasty
green every hotel decor screams
is neccessary on every floor.
Nostrils flaring as the heat
of you invaded my senses,
your scent reminiscent of bitter
salts that lingers after tequila
shooters, my tongue insinuated
and coaxing pleasure as I coerce
consent to go there and let you
feel insertion, invasion, intrusion
of that place your masculinity
avoids finding joy in. I love you.
"Now boarding Gate Thirty-Two."
Our kiss farewell still tastes
of bitter tequila and of intimacy.

Taste: mint
Sound: chickadee calls
Touch: cold metal
smell: cloves
sight: rime frosted twigs

 

[Angeline]

Taste: mint
Sound: chickadee calls
Touch: cold metal
smell: cloves
sight: rime frosted twigs

Appalachian Spring

Mornings aloud silly symphony
ter-whoop screetch low grac grac
chickadee rattles the underbrush
cardinal mockingbird swoosh
kudzu vine to hickory branch.

The small bones of winter
have fallen rotted to sweet decay
coaxed worm and bud now shy
purple flowers bear the brunt

of wind but stand among
greening trees a silent mountain
that fades in and out fog blue
smoky insubstantial endurance.

Mornings Mac stalks the glen
tail swishing into the clover.
I drink mint tea listen for silver
to chime with the breeze wait
for the mountain to reappear.


Taste: salumi
Sound: applause
Touch: brass
smell: perfume
sight: twinkling white lights

 

[darkmaas]

First we take Manhatten ...

::

Taste: salumi
Sound: applause
Touch: brass
smell: perfume
sight: twinkling white lights

::

Cured meats on china plates
and salty almonds
in an etched brass bowl
Prosecco in a silver bucket
the beads of condensate
breaking her reflection

she picks an almond
and a whiff of musk
picks up an eddy
and crawls between us

I run my thumbs
over the lines that cross her wrists
souvenirs of two years
of runway lights and polite applause
on the catwalks of Milan

but that was then
Six feet without the heels
all skin and bone and thigh gap
oozing fierce
in lace and silk cut on the bias

and this is now
standing softer and more vulnerable
naked and barefoot
on the carpet
licking salt from her fingertips


::

Taste: mint jelly
Sound: clink
Touch: linen
smell: Angostura bitters
sight: mirrored glass

 

[wakingDown]

::

Taste: salumi
Sound: applause
Touch: brass
smell: perfume
sight: twinkling white lights


Salted and strong an acrid tang bringing thirst
the cries of those that see and wonder
cold but warming quickly in firm grasp
a chemical camouflage to hide the rot
the pinpoint moon reflections on the water below

 

[wakingDown]

taste: sweat
smell: wet leaves
sound: rain
touch: obsidian
sight: heat haze