The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[kitten1964]

Lazy Morning

The phone rouses me from slumber.
I look at my lover, sleeping.
The cotton sheet barely covers his body.
I smell eggs and the burnt sugar of molasses
as I get up, hazy-eyed, to stop the ringing.
11 am, and the day begins.



Sound: alarm
taste: coffee
sight: cityscape
Scent: rotting vegatation
touch: iron

 

[Remec]

Sound: alarm
taste: coffee
sight: cityscape
Scent: rotting vegatation
touch: iron

Walking

The sound is feeble, like so
many things these days, I
ignore it since it wasn't one
of my alarms but the last
gasp of battery power in a
bit of Detroit statuary. I do
kick myself and look out over
what passes for a skyline,
making note of other possible
energy sources, Energizers don't
really go on and on, but they
last long enough compared to
sticking coiled copper and magnets
in tubs of acid. I grip the hilt of
my machete a touch firmer, the
iron against my palm making itself
known since so much of the leather
wrapping has worn away. So much
has eroded, but the kudzu still holds
sway as it moves into the empty
orchards and garden plots where
the breeze spreads the fact that
everything is spoiling on vine and tree.
I pop a couple espresso beans, savoring
the taste of coffee I never have time
or facilities to brew, and head out
to check on what set off the alarm
after all. Might not be mine, but doesn't
mean it might not be important. Maybe
I should have gone with Rick, after all.
~~~~~

sight: a pet
sound: animal noises
smell: bleach
taste: something sour
touch: leather

 

[todski28]

sight: a pet
sound: animal noises
smell: bleach
taste: something sour
touch: leather

:Tribute To a Friend lost

you were my first friend
a hug, a gentle lick on my cheek
lapping up ice-cream shared
or my tears as I told you my troubles
you listened like no one else


here I sit, in the creaky leather chair
remeniscing in my mind
the times we would play,
when I could sneak you into my room
and tell you my little stories
keeping each other warm

I can hear your panting whines
tears fall, because I love you still
even through the sterile stench of
bleach

I lie to you even though you,
in your own way know I lie
you'll be fine
I promise
the sour taste
as the needle enters

It took six hours to dig,
until two am I toiled
cutting away tree roots and branches
hands torn and bleeding
so you could lie beneath your favourite
place

overlooking the ocean
and the paddock
where you chased rabbits

Sight: a fire extiguisher
sound: phone ringing
taste: sugary drink
touch: lips
scent: perfume

 

[twelveoone]

sight: a pet
sound: animal noises
smell: bleach
taste: something sour
touch: leather

:Tribute To a Fried lost

you were my first friend
a hug, a gentle lick on my cheek
lapping up ice-cream shared
or my tears as I told you my troubles
you listened like no one else


here I sit, in the creaky leather chair
remeniscing in my mind
the times we would play,
when I could sneak you into my room
and tell you my little stories
keeping each other warm

I can hear your panting whines
tears fall, because I love you still
even through the sterile stench of
bleach

I lie to you even though you,
in your own way know I lie
you'll be fine
I promise
the sour taste
as the needle enters

It took six hours to dig,
until two am I toiled
cutting away tree roots and branches
hands torn and bleeding
so you could lie beneath your favourite
place

overlooking the ocean
and the paddock
where you chased rabbits

Sight: a fire extiguisher
sound: phone ringing
taste: sugary drink
touch: lips
scent: perfume

regarding your relationship with poetry:
good luck with it
you are there
you are there
and I doubt if this can be improved much
you know the economy of words

 

[kitten1964]

Her Mouth

Sight: a fire extiguisher
sound: phone ringing
taste: sugary drink
touch: lips
scent: perfume

We sit in the cantina,
Sugary drinks making my mouth pucker.
Scent of your perfume teasing my nose.
A phone keeps ringing, interrupting
My perusal of your lips.
My finger reaches out to touch them,
petal-soft,
with the lipstick I love so well.
"Fire-extinguisher red, right?" I ask you,
pointing to the one hanging on the kitchen wall,
although I'm sure the lipstick is really named
"Red-Hot Mama" or "Little Red Dress"
or some other advertising nonsense.
You giggle and slide your hand up my leg.
I gulp my drink, suddenly thirsty,
and ask for the check, pronto.

Sight: dark clouds
sound: birds chirping
taste: strawberries
touch: velvet
scent: clover

 

[KatieJones]

Sight: dark clouds
sound: birds chirping
taste: strawberries
touch: velvet
scent: clover

The mourning
dove’s questions
who, who, who,
part the velvet
leaves of the silver
maple where I sit
without answers
amidst the purple clouds
of clover, envious
of the bees
and their sense of purpose
stealing honey
by a trail of wild
strawberries, the final drops
of summer’s blood.

I eat one
before it stains
my fingers and think
sometimes
death is sweet.

Sight: round bales
sound: bat wings
taste: banana
touch: mosquito bite
scent: hay

 

[Tzara]

Sight: round bales
sound: bat wings
taste: banana
touch: mosquito bite
scent: hay

Heartland

Even in the half-light,
the bales looked like sculpture
raised like a moon
over the cut fields.

You took off your top
and bra, and I skimmed
your chest, your breasts,
even the speed bumps

the mosquitos left
on your perfected skin.
The flutter of bats
devouring insects

mimicked our rhythm.
The grassy scent of hay
masked my acrid semen.
Afterward, as we kissed

under God’s star-filled sky,
I could still taste
the banana you ate in the sundae
at that Dairy Queen in Fairfield.

Scent: Perfume, delicate or overbearing--your choice
Sight: A skateboard or scooter
Sound: Muzak
Taste: Vanilla
Touch: Sanded wood

 

[KatieJones]

She sits on a swing
and lifts her feet to miss
the snow. Like her
the park is defined
by absence. A set
of forgotten bones
bleached by the sun.

Gone
is the carousel’s musak
and the perfume of youth
mixed with popcorn.

Snow falls as she walks
the cement pathways stained
with spilled tears,
slushies and dropped
vanilla cones. She ends
her journey
on newly-sanded bench
with a ghost on either side.

They watch
as a boy skateboards
by them, a tumbleweed
from her past.

Scent: must
Sight: piles of whatever you want
Sound: airplane engine
Taste: strong alcohol
Touch: hair

 

[Remec]

Scent: must
Sight: piles of whatever you want
Sound: airplane engine
Taste: strong alcohol
Touch: hair

Between Flights

They didn't have the best
of what might be called
a break room, but it was
fine with Jerry since he
wasn't exactly on what
could really be called a break,

Just a pause between one
lay-over and the next, landing
in the middle of BFE and cooling
his heels in a dark, musty corner
of a maintenance shed, hands
pressing against the soft curls of

Whatever-her-name-was today,
pieces of her uniform and his piled
side-by-side, never mingling, very
much the way their bodies would
soon be piled together but still mostly
just doing their own thing, He taking

A moment to unwind mid-shift, and she
finding something to do with herself,
besides listening to jet engines, without
involving passengers wanting her to
bend her over and never, practically never,
tasting of anything but stale alcohol.
~~~~~

sight: a dim glow
sound: a dull roar
smell: dried fruit
taste: darkness
touch: something damp

 

[Wintermute01]

sight: a dim glow
sound: a dull roar
smell: dried fruit
taste: darkness
touch: something damp

The Last Tear
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun, having set,
Leaves twilight dimness cooling,
Diffuse and coating all,
Yet weak and dying.

From over the horizon,
A distant roar begins its rolling,
As the ocean, source of life,
Comes to reclaim its own.

In this final moment,
the aroma of once plump berries,
Remind him of that autumn,
When she stopped time.

His mouth, dry for the moment
Holds a primordial taste
recognised by all prey, from deep time
The dark taste of helplessness.

He holds her now, tightest
For the very last time, with such love,
As the ocean brine, drowns her tears,
And becomes his final touch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sight: A lone poppy
sound: A child singing
smell: Baking bread
taste: Mettalic
touch: old cotton

 

[todski28]

If anyone knows what Muyang is on about feel free to poet it

sight: A lone poppy
sound: A child singing
smell: Baking bread
taste: Mettalic
touch: old cotton

Memories

She was my first, my lone poppy
her first song Row, Row, Row your boat
so much pride at each accomplishment
I still have her first cotton onesie
So tiny, I like to pick it up sometimes

her first steps tinged with dread and admiration
she fell banging her lip, I can imagine
the mettalic taste of blood
I almost cried with her, her pain
cut me to my soul

Now she runs through the house
demanding attention
she reads to me
she helps (hinders) baking bread
she has grown,
beautiful
gorgeous

You never feel so needed,
or so helpless
as when you have a lone poppy.


sight: light
sound: music that you detest
smell: oil
taste: greasy
touch: stapler

 

[KatieJones]

The Devil You Know

The oil pan cracked
and its contents
along with my dreams
of Christmas ran
down our driveway.
I watched the black
fingers reach
into the sewer and envied
escape. I fractured
long ago but hope
bleeds unnoticed
into the air and sometimes
we already live
in the sewer. From the top
of the stairs I listened
to his girlfriend snore
to a skipping record
of I Saw Mommy
Kissing Santa Claus
while our orange Christmas
lights shone down
on presents pulled
from our own closets
wrapped with a stapler.

Hohoho he said, slamming
the bucket of Kentucky
Fried Chicken on the table.
The grease dripped
down the sides
and I wondered
when the weeping
would end. How to warn
my little sister Santa
wasn’t real and explain
for us the best present
would be if he cracked
open his Jack Daniels
early and slept forever.


Sight: boulders
Touch: something sharp
Smell: wet grass
Sound: voices in the distance
Taste: white wine

 

[Wintermute01]

Sight: boulders
Touch: something sharp
Smell: wet grass
Sound: voices in the distance
Taste: white wine

Lakeland Ascent
============
Climbing up Striding Edge,
On to Helvellyn's peak.
So easy in summer,
When the aroma of wet grass
Warmed by briefly intense summer heat,
Fills the air.

The breeze carries chatter
Of families on their day trips,
Tasting picnic Chablis, on the summit.
And of scouts earning badges,
By decoding maps, compass, and the land.

The pollenated haze
Makes distant boulders look soft and rounded,
Almost welcomingly comfy,
Like spindrift candy-floss
From the Kendal fair,
Released and resting here.

In the winter though,
Oh the winter,
This beautiful creature kills.
Wind driving sleet so hard
That the grains form horizontal needles.
Knives of sharpened stone
Pleasantly cut my frozen hands,
Reminding me that, for the moment,
The beast can't carry me off.

Each step, release and regrip,
Movement, blink and breath,
Must be calculated and planned,
There is no margin for error,
Not here and not now.

So onwards, we labour
Upwards, slowly and carefully,
towards the invisible summit,
Which faith alone tells us is there.

Becoming ever more exposed
Until it is just us,
alone, vulnerable.
Huddled downwind in the shade of a boulder,
On this alien, now flat, place.
This summit,
This peak,
This halfway point.

We journey down towards Thirlmere.
Leaving the summit to its sinister solitude.
Failed in its manslaughter,
The mountain yields and the winds abate.
Perhaps being saved for the next contestant.

Through gaps in the cloud, the lake comes into view.
Its growth assuring us that we are getting closer.
Closer to that for which all climbers long -
Steak and Ale Pie, chips, a pint for me
And a chilled white wine for you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sight: Something physical yet unobtainable
Touch: Hair
Smell: Fresh soap
Sound: A car driving away
Taste: Salt

 

[todski28]

Sight: something physical yet unobtainable
Touch: hair
Smell: fresh soap
Sound: a car driving away
Taste: salt

"Almost infidelity"

So again
We hop onto this merry go round
The whirl and spin of what we can't have
Wedding rings our handcuffs

Chaining our desires
In a trap that Houdini wouldn't escape
We flirt outrageously,
Claiming it's ok to window shop
As long as you don't smash and grab

You flick your hair exposing delicate
vulnerability
Would I but have the chance to inhale
The intoxicating scent of vanilla soap
Mingled with you

That I could once taste your salty flesh
And listen to you growl in your throat
That we could abandon propriety
Frolic like animals in heat

But I laugh a hollow laugh
Shut your door
And listen to you drive away
My desire trailing you
Like cans
Trailing a wedding car.

Sight: something that inspires hope
Sound: sex
Touch: toes
Smell: fabric softener
Taste: leather

 

[Remec]

Sight: something that inspires hope
Sound: sex
Touch: toes
Smell: fabric softener
Taste: leather

Not Stockholm


A proper ball-gag must have
been outside the budget,

it's the idle thoughts, mental
randomness, that stick with a
person after something traumatic,

Have my toes always been this
much in need of having their nails
clipped? I can practically feel them
leaving little piercing slashs wherever
I flex my feet.

After a while, even wadded up leather
apron tastes pretty good as it sits in
your mouth and makes intimate friends
with your tongue and lips. Friends
that they won't be becoming anytime soon.

Not that there's been any abandonment,
mind you, or neglect--outside of limited meals,
limited bathroom breaks, and oh-so-very limited
space with in which to lie...or it it lay?

Whatever.

Other than my being here, it seems to be just
another day. I can smell the Downy as laundry
gets done. I can hear the muffled panting of
bodies in heat, and that special sort of squeak
bedsprings make when someone is thrusting
into someone else over and over again.

Or maybe she's riding him?

I lean back and try to do something other
than sleep, taking heart in the smallest of
things.

They asked me what I wanted for dinner.
My music tastes seem to mesh well with theirs.
The last time I was taken through the work room,
I could see that all the assorted knives, drills, and
unidentifiable (but nasty looking) tools has all
been put away.

That's got to be good, right?
~~~~~
sight: cats
sound: squeaking
scent: wet dog
taste: stale water
touch: something woolen

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Not Stockholm


A proper ball-gag must have
been outside the budget,

it's the idle thoughts, mental
randomness, that stick with a
person after something traumatic,

Have my toes always been this
much in need of having their nails
clipped? I can practically feel them
leaving little piercing slashs wherever
I flex my feet.

After a while, even wadded up leather
apron tastes pretty good as it sits in
your mouth and makes intimate friends
with your tongue and lips. Friends
that they won't be becoming anytime soon.

Not that there's been any abandonment,
mind you, or neglect--outside of limited meals,
limited bathroom breaks, and oh-so-very limited
space with in which to lie...or it it lay?

Whatever.

Other than my being here, it seems to be just
another day. I can smell the Downy as laundry
gets done. I can hear the muffled panting of
bodies in heat, and that special sort of squeak
bedsprings make when someone is thrusting
into someone else over and over again.

Or maybe she's riding him?

I lean back and try to do something other
than sleep, taking heart in the smallest of
things.

They asked me what I wanted for dinner.
My music tastes seem to mesh well with theirs.
The last time I was taken through the work room,
I could see that all the assorted knives, drills, and
unidentifiable (but nasty looking) tools has all
been put away.

That's got to be good, right?
~~~~~
sight: cats
sound: squeaking
scent: wet dog
taste: stale water
touch: something woolen

We brought you in
some old dog, discarded
and forlorn soaked to the skin
from where you'd crawled
under the porch
to escape a late Summer downpour.
In payment you shook
stale water over the kitchen,
the cats hissed and swore
and squeaked a protest
as the intruder
now warmly wrapped
in an old sweater
hungrily ate their dinner.


sight: boys fighting
sound: ice cream van jingle
touch: gravel
smell: curry
taste: tea

 

[todski28]

sight: boys fighting
sound: ice cream van jingle
touch: gravel
smell: curry
taste: tea

"ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOLLAR"

a stale belch of tea, mingled with steak
The icecream van cuts and runs
it's music tinkling off into the distance
smell of overpowering curry spices
come from the kitchen
all these things are noticed in the minute
before the fight started

Still this is what they hired me for

another dumb scrub
that wants a crack at the title
flexing and posturing
like some rooster in a fair ground
strutting back and forward
fuck, fuck, fuck
or is it
cluck, cluck, cluck

hard to tell these days,
so much of the same old,
wonder if he's going to be
the bleeding heap in the gravel
or has my luck run its course?

only one way to find out.....

sight: ground
sound: gasps or moans
touch: teeth
scent: alcohol
taste: vomit

 

[Remec]

sight: ground
sound: gasps or moans
touch: teeth
scent: alcohol
taste: vomit

Vantage

It's a brisk wind,
surprisingly so, since
there never seems to
be much evidence of
breezes up here.

I look about, all the ants
massing on the ground
below, with their flashing
blue lights and scurrying
about debating whether
safety airbags would be
helpful or not.

Amusing, to be sure.

A second surprise is the
way I can still taste regurgitated
remnants of the night's meal,
my tongue slowly caressing each
tooth in a drying mouth, but
my shirt smells more of weak
tequila and strong rum instead
of hours-old puke. Good thing,

I'd hate to be smelling of
a Last Supper like that one.

Leaning forward, I am tempted
to fling arms wide and proclaim
myself King, but forbear to enact
the cliché and glance back at the
the gasp of the first responder
to make the climb. She's cute,
but much too young for this.

I hope she gets over it.
~~~~~

sight: people united by their clothing
sound: chanting
scent: potpourri
taste: sweat
touch: slimy

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Vantage



sight: people united by their clothing
sound: chanting
scent: potpourri
taste: sweat
touch: slimy

Aunt Gladys said she never
had so much fun
as when huddled
in an air raid shelter
with Yankie Airmen
where they sang and chanted
ridicule of the bombs
crashing overhead.

Emerging to shattered houses
the sweet smell
of potpourii in an abandoned parlour
and firemen slimy with sweat
battling over broken lives.

Sight: flooded fields
sound: ticking clock
scent: furniture polish
taste: peppermint
touch: bubble wrap

 

[Wintermute01]

Sight: flooded fields
sound: ticking clock
scent: furniture polish
taste: peppermint
touch: bubble wrap

Setting Up Home
----------------------
Moving in together
Our first home away from homes,
Parents told us, "No!", Forbade us,
But what did they know
We were seventeen for fuck's sake!

That little house
amongst those fields,
How cheap it was?
That winter We found out why,
When our house became an island.

The few things we'd packed
we treated carefully,
Covered in bubble wrap
Which, we later used in place of a TV,
Oh! the fun you can have going pop!

First we unwrapped the clock
Its ticking driving us insane,
Then we unwrapped the tea set
Cheap, from Woolworths,
Finally, we unwrapped each other
Frequently, and with gusto!

You became, much to my surprise
A domestic goddess, polishing so much
That Mister Sheen, and my nose,
became personal friends,
For all of a week.

You smoked back then
And I hated the taste during sex,
So you sucked Polo Mints
Oh, the taste of second hand peppermint
And sight of your tongue and that hole!

And here we are
Twenty five years later
One mortgage, four jobs, three kids,
One affair, and couple of moves,
And I still can't forget
The ticking of that clock.

Sight: Blue Sky
sound: A creaking door
scent: Sweat
taste: Banana
touch: Leather

 

[KatieJones]

Open

Fingers of heat harvest
bananas from the trees
and scatter them along
the shoulder. Split skins
release the smell
of readiness. Blue sky
paints the open roof
of a car crowded
with sunlight that leaves
a wet kiss between
thigh and leather.

The door complains
as it opens, an arm
waiting for embrace
and for you
to come inside.

Sight: a screen of some kind
sound: pages turning
scent: something breaking
taste: something sweet
touch: bark

 

[todski28]

Sight: a screen of some kind
sound: pages turning
scent: something breaking
taste: something sweet
touch: bark

Stepping in close
my hands grasp
petite shoulders
rasping on your shirt
like bark
blushing up at me
breathing quickens
pupils dilate
your thoughts,
screened by words
"we mustn't"
I can hear what you really want.
like the crisp sound of a turned page
opened to me
you try to hide it but you can't
I can smell the scent of you
breaking between your thighs
I crunch down on the cough drop
I have been working in my mouth
as it cracks you start
I can sense your resistance failing,
as you lean in
I step away
smile cruelly


Sight: sand
Sound: fireworks
Scent: fire
taste: hamburger
touch: something that excites you

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Sight: sand
Sound: fireworks
Scent: fire
taste: hamburger
touch: something that excites you

Under the pier
where the sand is hard
but dry, we lay.
Firework celebrations,
hamburgers and bonfires
melt into insignificance
as your tongue sinks
between my legs.
Only the roving gull
echoes back
my keening cry.

Sight: pineapples
Sound: Aircraft
Scent: Wet earth
Taste: Milk
Touch: Hair

 

[butters]

Stepping in close
my hands grasp
petite shoulders
rasping on your shirt
like bark
blushing up at me
breathing quickens
pupils dilate
your thoughts,
screened by words
"we mustn't"
I can hear what you really want.
like the crisp sound of a turned page
opened to me
you try to hide it but you can't
I can smell the scent of you
breaking between your thighs
I crunch down on the cough drop
I have been working in my mouth
as it cracks you start
I can sense your resistance failing,
as you lean in
I step away
smile cruelly

this is a good 'un, todski, especially strong in the second half.

Under the pier
where the sand is hard
but dry, we lay.
Firework celebrations,
hamburgers and bonfires
melt into insignificance
as your tongue sinks
between my legs.
Only the roving gull
echoes back
my keening cry.

you should have entered this for the summer poetry contest, annie. it's a cracker!

 

[runningonblade]

When I Got To The Hawaiian Islands

Sight: pineapples
Sound: Aircraft
Scent: Wet earth
Taste: Milk
Touch: Hair

It was after I woke to the sound of aircraft
Zooming across the sky above my raft
That I must be nearing one of the Hawaiian
Islands where I could tell someone that Alan
Blunden was able to use all of his crafts
To survive a tsunami that cost the lives of every
Man aboard a boat known as the Tom And Jerry.

But that was before I came upon this one island
And detected the scent of wet Earth on the land
Before I got off the raft and was able to carry
Myself up this hill and to the most beautiful house
That I ever saw aside from the one of Mickey Mouse.

And when I stepped into the house and felt the silk
On the living room couch, I poured a glass of milk
In the kitchen and it had a taste that would arouse
Even the strongest man and give him a large dick.

Of course, that left me with one hell of a trick
To pull off which was to find any woman on that island
Who would be able to let herself be in such demand
To be fucked in the ass and pussy by such a large dick.

That was before I stepped out of the house to discover
A beautiful brunette swimming in the pool without her
Wearing a swimsuit to cover her body and not a care
In the world before she got out and dried her hair.

And when she saw me, the first thought inside her
Mind was to call the police and accuse me of stalking
Her in order to steal some formula she was working
On to cure mankind's dependency for that Viagra drug.

But when she got a good look at the body of this thug
And saw that my cock was not even shrinking,
She stepped back into the pool and I went in after
That babe in order to place a gentle hand on her
Hair and plant one hell of a kiss on her lips.

Then, after I laid both of my hands on her hips
And fucked her in the ass, she allowed me to turn her
Around and pump my fingers deep into her pussy before
I started sucking her tits which was no longer a chore.

And after we climbed out of the pool and I drilled my
Cock into her pussy so hard that it made her cry,
We had finally allowed a tidal wave of cum to pour
Right out of us before we fell asleep next to that pool.

That was before she told me something that was so cool.

She said that her name was Doctor Loretta Gregory and
She was hoping that her formula would be so grand
That nobody would ever again call her nothing but a fool
Before I saw her take a bite of a pineapple.

Sight:comic book store
Sound:music from any heavy metal band
Scent: pancakes
Taste: orange juice
Touch:soft skin