The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Neonurotic]

sight: cans
sounds: labored breathing
scent: strawberry
taste: carbonation
touch: hunger

Stolen From a Hoarder

The man bent over showing
his fat can like two honey-baked hams,
wheezed as he dug through boxes
of his treasures.

"It's just the thing you gotta see"
is really nothing to me.

Bristles of a broom never touched
a corner, nor soap and water.
Items stacked to the ceiling,
best served in a landfill are pawed
with sticky strawberry soda fingers.

He inspects and admires it all,
places them with care into
cockroach and spider infested cartons.

Then he does find it and he is right,
it is the thing I gotta see, need,
hunger. I fake boredom,
let the fizz die on my tongue
as the bottle of Fanta Orange
did in my hand ages ago.

He believes, turns and moves
on to the next carton of jewels.
Stealth flicks a spider away,
finds a way into a pocket,
making the thing, my thing.




sight: a cat
sounds: birds on telephone wire
scent: smoke
taste: hope
touch: coins in a pocket

 

[Angeline]

sight: a cat
sounds: birds on telephone wire
scent: smoke
taste: hope
touch: coins in a pocket

Hope tastes like water
feels like birds lifting off
wires their shadows
winging the cat that watches.

Hope tastes like metal
a bright tang of fear
before I step out before
the smoke clears to show
the doves disappeared
the hat empty the coins
safe in my pocket.

sight: money
sounds: bells
scent: sweat
taste: something burnt
touch: glass

 

[Neonurotic]

ps, Ange, I knew you'd find something that tasted like hope. Fantastic 5 Senses too!

sight: money
sounds: bells
scent: sweat
taste: something burnt
touch: glass

Klutzy Woman

She rung my bell, an accident
of course, but still ding-a-ling,
banged my chin on the top of her
head. Somehow managed a
twist, a double dip, flip
me face down on crumpled dollars,
in rumpled sexed-up sheets.

Sweat and her perfume
cram my head with lust;
she'd conquer me with one lick
but she manages to fumble the glass
dildo, sliding it across my ass,
it landing on the floor with a crash.

I'm afraid of what comes next
but it happens before I'm ready.
The glass schlong broke
the cat's dish against an electric plug.
Smoke, fried wires and cat chow
rests on the tongue, fizzles out
however not the erection,
it responds to a bought blowjob.

Just as well, this girl is the death of me,
quite literally and yes that is an
euphemism for come, it better be,
after all, I paid her quite well.




sight: a photo
sounds: a clock ticking
scent: something baking
taste: sweet
touch: tears

 

[KatieJones]

sight: a photo
sounds: a clock ticking
scent: something baking
taste: sweet
touch: tears

A Life in Boxes

I am the last to arrive
with my little box
and all that’s left are bones.
Paisley wallpaper is dotted
with faded rectangles and holes.
The pink bowl filled with plastic flowers
is absent, leaving a white ring
in the dingy tablecloth. It’s all been stripped
like a puzzle in reverse
each piece taken with the hope
of recreating a whole that is gone.

I try to swallow the stillness and quiet.

The heartbeat of the house no longer sits
in the corner chiming in on the hour
and my cousin took the rocking chair
because she said it matched her sofa.
The kitchen still smells of sugar cookies
and when I open the cookie jar
there’s one left. It crumbles in my mouth
and I taste the sweetness with the salt
before I turn and shut the door, leaving
my empty box sitting on the floor.

Sight: evidence of wind
Sound: cracking ice
Taste: mint
Touch: metal
Smell: dampness

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: evidence of wind
Sound: cracking ice
Taste: mint
Touch: metal
Smell: dampness

On certain days the river groans
As if the burden of ice is too great.
The damp spring air smells of death
And rebirth, the wind raked trees
Lean towards the future. My hand
Is chilled by the metal rail as we
Climb towards the bridge suspended
above the creaking Ouse. The crushed
wild mint scents our boots and our progress.

Sight: soldiers
Sound: fiddle music
Taste: curry
Touch: fur
Smell: manure

 

[todski28]

Sight: soldiers
Sound: fiddle music
Taste: curry
Touch: fur
Smell: manure

the pride in his eyes died
at my dishonourable discharge
unfit to sit in any pit lest it
be filled with manure stench

they were weak willed and I was skilled
in manipulation, distraction of boredom
they followed and fired live rounds
into feral cats fur. that I donned in
a manner unbecoming but found amusing
by all, thought we were soldiers,
we were just dumb kids, living the lie
no dream of blame on our shoulders

five hours stood at attention in a room
the whine of out of tune music floods
in to hammer the senses in torture
that
"wasn't"
to name out the others
they were my brothers
I took the fall
fault was mine to take nothing soft to break
the time it takes to pass out under duress
I confessed two names in delirious state
and wished to god my betraying tongue could
be cut from it's spite filled home,
that I could make a curry from the betrayal
so hot that it burned all the way down

Why?
the only questioned asked
last time I ever wore khaki
the sight of it still emotes
feelings of
head hung
asphalt filled sight
blackening light and eye
scrape slide feet dragged
tears in eyes and a knowing

sight: dog
sound: crunch
smell: aftershave
taste: alcohol
touch: pain

 

[Remec]

sight: dog
sound: crunch
smell: aftershave
taste: alcohol
touch: pain

The Wayside

Even the compilation of
Brut, Old Spice, and a
number of other brands I
barely recognize do little
but overwhelm the sweat
and tobacco remnants in
the bar trying its best to
portray itself as a pool hall.
It's just another dive, a
little seedier than most,
I give George a glance on my
way to an open stool, take in
a slow breath as I down the
double house scotch he slides
down the counter to me, then
grab myself a handful of
beernuts, enjoying the way
they crunch like breaking bones,
and head towards the back.
Devil is lying in his usual spot,
and I edge past slowly, eyes
never leaving the dog, knowing
full well he's not really sleeping.
Nothing here ever does.

~~~~~
sight: children's tv show
sound: jingling
scent: talcum
taste: bug spray
touch: electric

 

[Angeline]

~~~~~
sight: children's tv show
sound: jingling
scent: talcum
taste: bug spray
touch: electric

Whatever have you against Sponge Bob
is a good question what with the tv
jingling like a mad tea kettle whistles
from another planet about vanilla
flavored bug spray pineapples under
the sea the whole electric buzz
of the universe our evolutionary pro-
gress as seen by carnival touts
and mad men.

Oh mother for a summer's day
when we'd pat lilac talcum
on our wrists, pass the time
talking of the garden how the
pole beans were coming along.


~~~~~~~~~~

sight: ski slope
sound: barking
scent: cologne
taste: ice
touch: your choice

 

[todski28]

Addiction

sight: ski slope
sound: barking
scent: cologne
taste: ice
touch: your choice

down
the only way is down
up is for winners, who smell
of old spice to mask the smell of money
which truth be told smells like shit
scientifically found on it more
than any other substance
yet we covet it, caress it
need and want combined in consumption


the poke of a button
the flanks of a horse
the bark of a dog
the white of a rabbit
on into poverty
but one more win
just one more win
just any win
to chase the losses
would have me riding high
consoling thoughts
on a bed of rocks and glass
a dirty rug as a blanket
the taste of winters ice a pillow

sight: object obscured by darkness
sound: a rustle
scent: cigarette
taste: morning breath
touch: fabric

 

[Remec]

sight: object obscured by darkness
sound: a rustle
scent: cigarette
taste: morning breath
touch: fabric

Visitations

The nightlight glimmers in the hall,
not enough to really see by, but
that's not why it's there.

She's overly imaginative, her mother
tells people, lets things she reads about
or watches on tv keep her from sleeping,

But night terrors are not as bad as
waking ones, and she huddles beneath
the soft warmth of a fuzzy blanket,

doing her best to ignore the rustle of
pajamas and slipped feet crossing the
shag throw rugs on her floor, hoping

there would not be the usual smell
of cigarettes, the stale flavor of always
reminds her she should brush more often.

She huddles and thinks if she pretends
to sleep well enough, the shadow will pass
her by. Sometimes it works. Just not enough.
~~~~~

sight: dinner plates
sound: doors or cupboards opening and closing
scent: strong spices
taste: anger
touch: oily

 

[greenmountaineer]

Hell Hath No Fury

She stuffed my face with dinner plates
from last night's tenderloin supper,
now filled with scrambled eggs
and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"
until I tasted the pepper,
tabasco or maybe jalapeño.

I think she wanted to poison me
to put my head in an oven or cupboard
and slam it with that part of my brain
that says "Well, Hell, I can't help it."

"But Madge my Darling, I was working late.
A snowstorm developed; the car broke down!"
I said to her at 5:00 am,
but shouldn't have said so then again
because I used it a month ago
when her soul froze like freezing rain.

sight: mountains
sound: dog barking
scent: pine trees
taste: hot chocolate
touch: a child's fevered forehead

 

[Desejo]

Hell Hath No Fury

sight: mountains
sound: dog barking
scent: pine trees
taste: hot chocolate
touch: a child's fevered forehead

Snowblind

Mountains stenciled faint
Misted in blizzard white
Steam exhales plumes
slow last breaths
From Untasted hot chocolate
hands Clenched in ceramic prayer

In an hour, maybe two
Dogs will howl and
Dig, tunnel, uncover
A glove, a hat
His forehead

how it burned once
Under her hand
How he kicked off blankets
Even when sleeping

Do his feet now kick
a blanket too heavy to move
Is his forehead cold

He smelled of pine
When she whispered goodbye

******
Sound:singing
smell: heat
taste: shrimp
touch: cold metal
sight: a stereotype

 

[Tzara]

Snowblind

Mountains stenciled faint
Misted in blizzard white
Steam exhales plumes
slow last breaths
From Untasted hot chocolate
hands Clenched in ceramic prayer

In an hour, maybe two
Dogs will howl and
Dig, tunnel, uncover
A glove, a hat
His forehead

how it burned once
Under her hand
How he kicked off blankets
Even when sleeping

Do his feet now kick
a blanket too heavy to move
Is his forehead cold

He smelled of pine
When she whispered goodbye

******
Sound:singing
smell: heat
taste: shrimp
touch: cold metal
sight: a stereotype

Turtle Beach, Barbados

Calypso music. Harry Belafonte—how quaint.
The mango shrimp salad
is almost too tasting of sea, salted
in its drizzle of brine. I grasp

a fork chilled just for me,
glance at the shimmer of a girl
who walks her bikini by, hips
winking yes/no/yes/no/yes

and I can even smell the warmth
rising off the sand of this perfect beach.
But Rihanna isn’t here,
and this is no music video.

And if you’re a wronged woman,
in an hour, you’ll be wronger.



Sight: Open space.
Smell: Smoke of some kind.
Sound: Wind.
Taste: Venison, or some other wild meat.
Touch: Leather.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Najah's Nightmare

If you were born in a desert then
under a caliph's thumb,
had you not been virginal
you would have starved to death

unless you found a carcass
on the outskirts of the village
where the good brother brought you.
The other wanted death

to save the family's honor.
Still, Abbud would have beaten you
with a stirrup from his saddle
to prove he loved your father

as the acrid animal smoke
from your so-called dinner
wafted to the desert
where Fadil collected stones.


touch: skin
sight: table
smell: bacon
taste: marmalade
sound: radio

 

[todski28]

flashes of memories tether to reality
or are they the insanity that resides inside
a knight on a quest for
marmalade toast
toast a glass raised from table to lips
a sip a praise
praise be to Jesus who was also a knight
night falls or does it rise who cares
when words whisper insidious
whittle you down
and it smells like bacon my brain frying
in a chemical coma of liquid cool
and it is cool to be a knight
black as pitch
pitch a curve ball
listen to the static radio signal a sign
of the times that crazy is the new knight
fight against the needles oppression a lesson
that the bell tolls
a knell that poses as pipes
someone has to pay the piper
wipe the windows and sign me up
for another dose
helaperadol for what ails an aching mind
forcibly injected just for shits and giggles

Sigh: bars
sound: bats
scent: varnish
touch : painful
taste: milk

 

[Remec]

Sigh: bars
sound: bats
scent: varnish
touch : painful
taste: milk

Two Week Summer Job

Summer in Fayetteville wasn't
so bad that year,
walking door-to-door and
doing my best to sign folks
up for the special information
service that was nothing
more than a modern way of
saying selling encyclopedias,

The main thing that sticks
in my mind, though, was how
slight the variety in the sprawl
was...trailer park, trailer park,
Pantry, Red Barn, Circle K,
a multitude of little strip malls
that usually had nothing but
pawn shops, bars, and actual
strip clubs sitting in them,

No time off to speak of, though,
which I really only felt on the
day I stopped for a break from
walking my daily trek, (I forgot to
bring my better shoes; toes aching
inside their plastic-and-canvas wraps)
sat and lisstened to the crack of
ball on bat from cages attached to a local
arcade and putting range, the scent
of their varnished surfaces
wafting just barely across the lot
to toy with the taste of my
chocolate milk. Odd, but not
unenjoyable.

~~~~~
sight: wood paneling
sound: distorted music recording
scent: Old Spice (or similar)
touch: faux leather
taste: bleu cheese

 

[butters]

sight: wood paneling
sound: distorted music recording
scent: Old Spice (or similar)
touch: faux leather
taste: bleu cheese


propped against a bar
knee caressing wood paneling like
secrets sliding over silk
distorted music played in her mind
a record of days when the scent of old spices
teased her nostrils
leather wasn't faux
and he fed her bleu cheese from a silver fork
watching her lips




sight: a yellow combine harvester, working a distant field
sound: madam butterfly
scent: the promise of snow on the air
touch: cinderblock
taste: regret

 

[Wintermute01]

sight: a yellow combine harvester, working a distant field
sound: madam butterfly
scent: the promise of snow on the air
touch: cinderblock
taste: regret

We landed five hours ago,
Greens replaced by white and grey,
Gloves, hats, and scarves.
In place of berets, neckties and bare flesh.
The rough unfinished block walls,
Match the greyness of that bruised sky,
Who's odour presages the deepening of the scene's white coat.
That northern grey is so grey, that it sucks the colour
Out of the brightly warm harvest-time idyll,
depicted in the room's only picture and it's only chrominance,
The radio plays static,
punctuated by some warbling Italian woman proclaiming, 'one fine day'
One fine day indeed, well - that day is not today.
I finger the MRE and wonder what the egg and bacon sandwich within will taste like,
If regret had a taste,
I'm sure that would be it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sight: the Canadian border
sound: a New York accent
scent: a corn field at harvest
touch: a plane ticket
taste: salted peanuts

 

[Angeline]

sight: the Canadian border
sound: a New York accent
scent: a corn field at harvest
touch: a plane ticket
taste: salted peanuts

Salt Peanuts

Man in the silver suit
says Salt Peanuts Salt Peanuts
waves a stick casts a spell
stomps it off so horns brash
thrust at cymbals rondo
Turk rondo blood pure joy
cacophony rim shot be bop
be bop pure Harlem NYC
but oh St. Joe's and Memphis
too rompin territories hard
by the northmost borders
cold harvest corn yardbird
plucked at midnight no bread
for a skybird but a bus
a battered old truck Fessor
Hawkins All-Stars it's an old
American Song.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sight: pyramid
sound: laughter
scent: musk
touch: leather
taste: wine

 

[todski28]

life is a pyramid, all the years stacked
atop the other, foundations
of joy and laughter
building blocks of shock
tears, fears, all those dreams
that seem out of reach
teach yourself to savor the flavor
of fine Bordeaux coz you aren't
born with that taste on your lips
little sips to tease the pallette
you relish the finer things
musky scent of a woman's arousal
stinging pleasure of leather crack
you need a little naughty to spice the nice
because life is too short to play it safe
life is a pyramid
running to a point

taste: rain
touch: marble
sight: slow spinning fan
sound: live music
scent: fresh (anything)

 

[Desejo]

Dimanche, Versailles

Dimanche, Versailles


Together, we pedal
past

antique rose trellises infuse
the air with millions of tiny pollen
time bombs, deployed in
the lazy fan of oversized leaves
attached to cruelly hobbled trees
towering overhead

Fat velo tires crunch gravel paths
waking soft echoes
shadowed satin slippers,
minuet steps to whispered string
quartets, breathed
swish of brocade and damask

We pause to touch pedestals
hidden in wooded areas
Diana’s cold marbled foot
crushes an eternally broken arrow
a hare hops to the underbrush

When the clouds offer rain
We tilt our heads up to
the chestnut cathedral
drops cascading off leaves
from heaven
My sister and I.

********
Sound: Skype call
Sight: alarm clock
Scent: warm blankets
Touch: something wrong
taste: wrong beverage

 

[Remec]

Sound: Skype call
Sight: alarm clock
Scent: warm blankets
Touch: something wrong
taste: wrong beverage

Woken Up

Beeps are annoying,
but, I suppose, that's the point,
they don't clang and clamor,
warning of impending danger,
simply chirp--over and over--
until someone either answers
them or turns them off,

But morning beeps are a
personal pet peeve, they are
just enough to draw me out of
REM and inject me back into
the waking world, although I
rose and looked, hand raised,
at my alarm clock before
realizing the beep came from
the computer, from someone
checking via Skype to see if
I was about. Which I wasn't
so sure about just then.

I grumbled my way to the laptop,
still smelling of warm blankets and
warmer dreams, pondering if she
would still be there if I managed
to return to bed, clicked the icon,
sighed to myself and passed a hand
over my head (pausing to glance
in the mirror as my fingers told me
my hair was badly out of sorts),
then ignored the beeping, shut it off,
headed back for more dreams

Why call me now? After all this time?
I shook my head and muttered little
things to keep her off my mind, then
stopped to finish a cup on the desk,
coughed as the "water" was melted ice
and vodka from the night before,
Great...these should be just wonderful
dreams. Simply perfect.

~~~~~
sight: dogs
sound: forced laughter
scent: disinfectant
touch: slimy
taste: coarse paper, like a napkin or paper towel

 

[Angeline]

~~~~~
sight: dogs
sound: forced laughter
scent: disinfectant
touch: slimy
taste: coarse paper, like a napkin or paper towel

Motel Room

We hear two dogs
at the edge of the surf
barking on the gold sand
silver the moon shines
alive in slivers of ocean
wavelets that shadow
to black the far ballyhoo
of the boardwalk ghosting
snickers and wisps of music
the surf and the dogs the
distant barking dogs.

The bathroom smells
like Lysol so we take towels
from the kitchenette you hold
one to my mouth before we wipe
our happy slime away
and shut the balcony door.




~~~~~
sight: mushrooms
sound: wind
scent: your choice
touch: something feathery
taste: something salty

 

[Remec]

sight: mushrooms
sound: wind
scent: your choice
touch: something feathery
taste: something salty

On the Balcony

Breathing in her sweat was
more than I needed to
show her my interest as her
hair brushed my face,
tickling against nose and lips
feather-light, and my tongue
savored the salt of the skin
along her nape and about the
curve of her ear, teeth toying
with that dangling lobe, my
fingers slipping beneath her
Fantasia pajama top, dancing
mushrooms moving atop my
hands in new, yet familiar, ways.

~~~~~
sight: sand
sound: counting
scent: stale air
touch: hunger
taste: blood

 

[todski28]

sight: sand
sound: counting
scent: stale air
touch; hunger
taste: blood

full moons cycle has come
but hunger has bitten deep
your arms, your charms
too long denied
the air stale between us
let us open the windows
and allow fresh air in to wash
away tensions built by
abstinence
count the numbers from
1-100 on your soul
with my tongue
taste your blood
drunk like a carnivore
about to bury it's bone
in the sand

sight: light
sound: drum beat
scent: pop corn
taste: potatoe chips
touch: finger nails