The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Angeline]

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

Exile

There is a void,
a time to sweat
cool and ossify.

Let tears return to the Sky.
Let Earth keep what remains.
Silence is a shrinking
embrace.

When I am fractured,
suspended in obsidian
the brittle heart of it
a quiet weight,

I recall how bright
shimmers the air before rain,
then pattering drops
fall from the veins
of leaves.

taste: martini
smell: petrol/smoggy air
sound: bell
touch: smooth wood (as in something finished, carved or varnished: wood made into something)
sight: road (city/country/suburb/desert/whatever appeals)

 

[darkmaas]

taste: martini
smell: petrol/smoggy air
sound: bell
touch: smooth wood (as in something finished, carved or varnished: wood made into something)
sight: road (city/country/suburb/desert/whatever appeals)

::

Remember the summer
my darling Babylon
we bought that Jag
Mark IV Saloon
all rust and running boards
and crossed the prairie
just one endless road
disappearing over a horizon
razor straight
we cut such a figure
racing that cloud of blue exhaust

Armand drove
like some maharaja’s driver
holding the wheel
a sacred mandala
mahogany
polished by a million turns

We made martinis
in the back
real martinis –
Bombay gin and ice and just a whiff
of dry vermouth

Sophie read Forster
we called her memsahib
maharani of Saskatoon
then she read Hemingway
“Ask not for whom”
became our mantra

I suppose it would have made
a better story
to have quoted Kerouac
but why worry when there’s Bombay in the boot.


::

Taste: lipstick
Sound: breathing
Touch: lace
Smell: sin
Sight: a lovers back

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

The glaring lights a memory
in this darkened room.
The satin and lace corset
he’d worn for the show and
thrown carelessly away
as if it was his life.
The greasy feel of lipstick
smeared on his mouth
like visible sin reminds him
of the choices he has made.
Patient breathing, perhaps a
sigh behind him and he turns
to curl to this new lovers back
knowing there will be a mirror
image sooner or later.

Taste: wasabi
Sound: saxophone
Touch: varnished wood
Smell: baking bread
Sight: glimpsed nudity

 

[Remec]

At Camp

Taste: wasabi
Sound: saxophone
Touch: varnished wood
Smell: baking bread
Sight: glimpsed nudity

Summer camp was never
just a home away from home
Mom had wanted us to do and be
involved in more than what
home could provide. So it was

a funny mix of specialty places,
a week here, two weeks there,
almost never the same from one
summer to the next, but the only
one I ever find myself back in

was that last one...when I was
getting ready for senior year,
already eighteen and so full of myself,
I would lounge on the porch swing,
smooth wood beneath my hands,
sharing a bit of wasabi touched

take-out from in-town while a
cool breeze wafted off the lake
and even cooler sax wafted from
the P.A. system as the head mistress
tried to lull the camp to bed with
her collection of Bird albums

but we would stay up until dawn
would be threatening to arrive, and
the smell of baking would begin its
own wafting across from the Mess,
mingling its scent into the baby shampoo
Helen used on her hair that would

fill my nose while I cuddled her close
and did my best to see flesh through
the gaps in her button-down shirt,
and under the edges of her frilly bras,
A time I still kick myself about, even now.

~~~~~
Sight: orgasm
Sound: sucking
Scent: candles
Taste: chocolate
Touch: mesh of some sort

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Pornography

That cotton mesh vest he’s wearing
oh boy, his abs apparent, amplified
chocolate nipples rampant with arousal
She’s blonde and buxomly bosomed
he seems to like that, squeezing and nuzzling
like a greedy puppy as she grasps his
urgency milking it mercilessly
When she moves to suck his hugeness
he arcs and grabs her head
keeping her on him until he orgasms
leaving her with rivulets of cum
like candle wax on her twin moons.

Sight: Circus
Sound: crying
Scent: peppermint
Taste: burnt toast
Touch: warm skin

 

[darkmaas]

Pornography
That cotton mesh vest he’s wearing
oh boy, his abs apparent, amplified
chocolate nipples rampant with arousal
She’s blonde and buxomly bosomed
...

Yikes!

Put down the the mouse a stand away from the screen.

Alright, who are you and what have you done with Tristesse2?

Don't make me cite you for egregious alliteration!

::

 

[runningonblade]

At The Circus On A Tuesday

Sight: Circus
Sound: crying
Scent: peppermint
Taste: burnt toast
Touch: warm skin

I had spotted a circus that was on my way
Home from work on this one particular Tuesday
And decided to go over to that circus and
Check out the many things that are so grand
Even in such a freakshow type way.

But before I was about to buy some cotton candy,
I had suddenly heard a sound that was not dandy.

It was the sound of a girl crying her eyes out over
Something bad that had happened to her.

I followed that sound to a babe named Sandy
Whose perfume has the smell of pure pepperment
Which I had noticed when I asked about her predicament.

And when she told me that she saw her fiance with another
Woman, she lowered her head and placed her hands over
Her eyes before crying over what her love ment.

"I know how you feel. Yesterday, I made the mistake
Of having burnt toast for breakfast. I let myself take
One bite and realized that it tasted awful before I tossed it
Into the trash can along with some other inedible shit.",
I said to Sandy in a successful attempt to make
Her laugh before I had touched her warm skin and she
asked, "Would you like to come into my trailer with me?"

And after I gave a nod, both Sandy and I went into the trailer
Where she stripped off her clothes and exposed her
Naked body and fingered herself right in front of me.

And after I saw myself becoming attracted to this one woman
Who looked exactly like a porn star named Jenna Jameson,
I also got naked and jerked off before she placed her hands on my hips
And kissed me straight on the lips
Before she smiled and said, "Time to turn you into a real man."

That was when we laid our naked bodies on the bed and she
Began to suck my swollen dick and-- in turn-- allowed me
to do the same thing to her wet pussy with my hands on those
Huge tits of her just before we sat right up and I chose
To start sucking on the nipples of those mounds and see
Her whole face light up with wonderous sexual pleasure.

Then, after I gave such a hard fucking in the ass to her,
I rolled Sandy over and started drilling my dick into her pussy
So deep that it caused to scream with such delightful glee
Before I gave myself no choice but to shoot cum all over
Her chest and belly from my cock and we fell right to sleep
On that bed without having her slap my face and call me a creep.

That was before I woke up, got dressed and kissed Sandy on the cheek
Before I stepped out of the trailer and went up the peek
To my place where I had breakfast before going to work on the heap.

Sight:Comic Book Store
Sound:Video Game
Scenterfume
Taste:Cheeseburger
Touch:Wet T-Shirt

 

[Angeline]

PS Cheeseburger

<snip>


Sight:Comic Book Store
Sound:Video Game
Scenterfume
Taste:Cheeseburger
Touch:Wet T-Shirt

I'm skittish in the hipster shops
curated comics, vintage games,
cunning stage set, retro props

all bones of childhood remains
dross remade renamed renewed,
curated comics, vintage games

for carefree youth, nubile tattooed
Marley wet t-shirt, low-slung bells,
dross remade renamed renewed

repurposed relics ghostly shells
graveyard prices, step right in
Marley wet t-shirt, low-slung bells,

the girl's patchouli scented skin
a model me who never was.
Graveyard prices, step right in,

a photograph that time undoes.
I'm skittish in the hipster shops
a model me who never was
a cunning stage set, retro props

Sight: green
Sound: loud
Scent: baking
Taste:cold
Touch: hot

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

room 'n board

Missus Green. florid and loud,
is baking quiche which she
pronounces "kitch". In her hot
kitchen she sweats and swears
but we know, as we flinch,
that it will be great cold with
a tomato salad tonight.

sight - photograph album
sound - crickets
scent - hot pines
taste - bitterness
touch - stickiness

 

[Desejo]

Time

sight - photograph album
sound - crickets
scent - hot pines
taste - bitterness
touch – stickiness

Memory

Time captured in laminated pages
Both shinier and more muted than memory
And quieter.
Bonito and Tuqui, hands around calabashes of palm wine
but I hear no laughter, no wind, not even
the mad hum of thousands of crickets
has persisted.

I have no laminate image
Of this moment. Of Now.
But there is scent, and sound.
Inhaling the smells of the yard
It occurs to me that Bonito and Tuqui
Don’t even know
What pine smells like.

Yet we wash similar bitterness
In sweet palm wine
In artisan beer

And memories stick.
The sap of a pine tree
Is not unlike the sap of a mango.

****
Sound: vacuum
scent: cleaning
sight: wide hips
Touch: something scratchy
taste: kool aid (or some other artificial sugary drink)

 

[Remec]

Sound: vacuum
scent: cleaning
sight: wide hips
Touch: something scratchy
taste: kool aid (or some other artificial sugary drink)

Trapped

Something is off,
spring cleaning passed
by a while ago, but the
bouquet of bleach fills
the room right from the
foyer, and that rumbling
white noise from the
nearly ancient Hoover
echoes and reverberates
throughout the place;

I shake my head, maybe
this is just cleaning, and
not some half-hearted
tab at turning a new leaf,
but when I walk into the
so-called family room, my
eyes take notice of nothing
but her bent form, tight
yoga pants accenting both
hefty cheeks and hips as
broad as my shoulders;

I can't help but swallow
my words and drink her Kool-Aid.

~~~~~
Sight: Hand
Sound: television
Scent: meatloaf
Touch: silk
Taste: ashes

 

[HarryHill]

Sight: Hand
Sound: television
Scent: meatloaf
Touch: silk
Taste: ashes

Hand scrolls the page,
ear shuts out the drone of CNN,
eye reads
that last final line, (smiles)
the punch line,

and I can't help but remember,
her silken underthings underhand,
the smell of her meatloaf,
and the terrible coffee she made
that tasted like ashes.
She was good with a Hoover too.


Sight: two dogs humping
Sound: laughter
Scent: gunsmoke
Touch: cellophane bag
Taste: salza

 

[darkmaas]

A belated and dyspeptic mother's day poem

::

Sight: two dogs humping
Sound: laughter
Scent: gunsmoke
Touch: cellophane bag
Taste: salza

::

Sun rise
in Paradise

Two mongrels in your yard
humpin’ up a metaphor
maybe more

Burnt smell
like gunpowder in your hair
Is it Chinese new year?

Kitchen table laden
with dime bags and whiskey bottles
jetsam from a half remembered party

Half closed eyes
weeping last night’s mascara
I taste leftover salsa
on your lips
offered half heartedly
taken out of respect
for your mother’s burden.

::

Sight: thunderclouds
Sound: wind
Scent: peat moss
Touch: sheepskin
Taste: breakfast half remembered

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

After the oatmeal, still warm
in his belly, he shrugged into
his greasy old sheepskin coat
and bent into the wind.
Off the road, his footfall softened
by peat moss and heather, he
quickened his pace, needing
to breath hard, clear his head
after a night of misleading dreams.
There had been no warning, no thunder-
clouds on their sunny horizon,
just a sudden absence when he
returned to an empty house, and
the note. She even took
the dogs.


Sight: store windows
Sound: military music
Scent: perspiration
Touch: baby's head
Taste: malted whiskey

 

[njoyjade]

Sight: store windows
Sound: military music
Scent: perspiration
Touch: baby's head
Taste: malted whiskey

Taps

Kaleidoscope reflection from
Store front's fragments of broken glass.
Nervous moisture drips heavy upon tortured souls
Tapping feet in cadence to sounds of new life's cracking skulls;
Malted breath hidden within a coat; hoping to prevent enemy's of tomorrow.

Sight: Cape
Sound: rippling
Scent: berries
Touch: sticky
Taste: vinegar

 

[Desejo]

This is dopey, but I want to start writing again...


Sight: Cape
Sound: rippling
Scent: berries
Touch: sticky
Taste: vinegar


Batman, mon amour

Gotham beams displace
the full tryst moon
in shadow calls

bursting to the cave
his thighs twang in ripples
of steel
tandem capes fly behind
his black, mine red

Fighting the good fight
mon amour, my dark knight

He smells like blueberries
but when I lick his sticky abdomen
he tastes of cider vinegar
which I adore.

*****
Taste: sesame
sound: gurgling
scent: fire
Sight: something supernatural
touch: sand

 

[Tzara]

Taste: sesame
sound: gurgling
scent: fire
Sight: something supernatural
touch: sand

Greece

The courtyard is cool
in the low sun of morning,
and a breeze, damp with sea,
has scattered sand beneath
my bare feet, fine grit on stone.
I spread tahini and honey
on thick chunks of bread—
sesame and sweet blend
with the rich and dark coffee
old Lydia has placed on the tray.
Then you appear, gowned
in sheerest silk through which
your breasts and hips beckon
for us to return to bed
and the lazy tangle of love.
In a blink you are again gone.
The smell of phosphorous and ash
remind me you flew home
full five days before.

The gurgle of the fountain
muffles the distant surf.




Sight: Rusting metal
Sound: A scuffling noise
Smell: Burning tobacco
Taste: Something bitter
Touch: Something smooth and cold

 

[Desejo]

Greece

Sight: Rusting metal
Sound: A scuffling noise
Smell: Burning tobacco
Taste: Something bitter
Touch: Something smooth and cold

River Crossing, Ingore

We reach the salt river at dusk
tires caked in red earth
deep grooved tracks
lead to the rusted ramp

Mudskippers dot the banks
beady eyes and eel tails
execute push ups in formation

a bloodshot eyed soldier
checks our papers
gun hanging off his back
Like an overripe mango

the ferryman waits
On a cracked plastic chair
Smoking local tobacco
puffs cloud his grey scalp

his assistant shuffles
in too large flip flops
mahogany forearms knotted
with the weight of diesel jerrycans

I bite into a cola nut
as the raft groans away from shore
Marcello hands me a cool beer
it seems to burn my hand

A fisherman casts his net
Over the black water
A perfect arc over purple shoulders
Appearing to catch the sun

Here, there is no electricity
but the beer is always cold.


****

Sight : hand made carpet or floor covering
Sound: whirr
Taste: something that is really bad for you
touch: you choose
smell: roasting

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: Rusting metal
Sound: A scuffling noise
Smell: Burning tobacco
Taste: Something bitter
Touch: Something smooth and cold

Dese jo beat me to it so use those senses.


He is afraid, a bitter taste of
bile rising.
It's a different fear
from home, dreading the sound
of his father's scuffling footsteps
as he stumbled drunkenly in with
yet another reason to beat him.
The warmest places are hard
but smooth, the cold seeping in
through his thin jacket.
The police and security guards
have ousted him, half asleep, from
several business doorways and
he needs to sleep. A vacant lot,
abandoned car, rusted metal and
mold. He lights his last toke, its
glow a small comfort.

__________________

 

[greenmountaineer]

River Crossing, Ingore

****

Sight : hand made carpet or floor covering
Sound: whirr
Taste: something that is really bad for you
touch: you choose
smell: roasting

World War II Soldier Found (Reuters)

Conscripted aborigine,
Attun foraged thirty years,
stabbing snakes in strangler trees
he roasted on a bamboo spit
the while he prayed they weren't diseased
and thought about the shrines he made
of combat bootlace camouflaged
that looked snakes in strangler trees.

Sometimes there were carcasses
whose tags were those of dogs they said
he dragged to where the GI's slept,
two days through five kilometers,
and if the night was full moon bright
he prayed for ocean pea soup mist
to leave a mangled body there
before he etched a cross in sand.

They'll take him to the capital
for pictures with Suharto San
on carpets that will chafe his feet,
but Attun can not sleep tonight
while newsmen do inside their tents
because he sees so many ghosts
hanging down from helo blades
that look like men in strangler trees.



Sight : fire escape
Sound: car horn
Taste: pizza
touch: bed sheets
smell: garbage

 

[Angeline]

Sight : fire escape
Sound: car horn
Taste: pizza
touch: bed sheets
smell: garbage

After the Dance

I am your special angel
glued at hips arms
round neck waist leaning
swaying soul music pulsing
into us. Between

my fingers the tab
of your oxford shirt
my head on your shoulder
traffic breezes honks three
stories down you bend
me over iron bars push
your tongue in my mouth
we taste pizza cigarettes
we grind someone whistles
below applauds and throws
a bottle smack on the trash
bin shards fly we climb
back through the bathroom
window.

In the summer night
my sheets all sweaty dreaming
of your moves, Marvin's silk voice.

Sight : ocean*
Sound: ocean
Taste: wine
touch: sea shell
smell: ocean

* You can only use the word "ocean" once.

 

[HarryHill]

Some crazy kinda haiku

Sight : ocean*
Sound: ocean
Taste: wine
touch: sea shell
smell: ocean

* You can only use the word "ocean" once.
..
Far waved surface comes
Fast racing combs, teethed with froth
Crashing breakers cannonade
Flung spume collars Dixie cup
Drink tannic red, finish of salt
Stumble into the surf cold
Toss cockles hard as your heart
Back to the ocean of loss
Breathe the sea air of despair
Far waved surface comes
..

Sight : a memory (internal)
Sound: remembered
Taste: faint
touch: record, 78lp
smell: rain

 

[njoyjade]

Memory Plays

Sight : a memory (internal)
Sound: remembered
Taste: faint
touch: record, 78lp
smell: rain

Eight ball in the center pocket;
you made the winning shot.
Set for the next game;
I impatiently aimed my cue.
Inhaling mist from a raging storm;
thunder echoed when I struck.
Your aching thumb slid from my mouth;
hint of chalk rests on my tongue.
Five memories wait for us;
steel needle plays The Naked Dance.
http://youtu.be/KBPea0F_AGo


Sight: glasses
Sound: chimes
Taste: garlic
Touch: foil
Smell: camphor

 

[Desejo]

Sight: glasses
Sound: chimes
Taste: garlic
Touch: foil
Smell: camphor

Tourist, Chiang Mai
*click on listen link*

The faint taste of roadside garlic lingers
Wafts of tiger balm mix in
As we pass tourists getting foot massages
The tired, sore-feet of tourism

And then silence.

Gold foil like the breath of buddha in my palm
I close my eyes and just

Listen


A young orange-clad monk passes by
smiling through steamed glasses.

*****
Sound: Kitchen sounds
Taste: Nostalgia
Scent: (open)
Touch: Skin
Sight: Smile

 

[Desejo]

Let me know if the link is not working , I had some trouble with it.