The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[todski28]

taste: clean
sight: bubbles
sound: silence
touch: slippery
scent: apples

Apple bomb,
bath wash
fizzes bubbles in luxurious heat
the kind that slides deep into those places that ache
ache for reprieve,
ache from work
there I find you
damp cloth over your eyes

the steam swirls
in silent worship
of your softening skin
I enter the hushed ambience
your arms drape
over the side
a contrast of cool tiles and heated water

I slip a glass of rose champaigne
into your upturned hand
place a finger gently on your lips
my hard calloused hands knead
their desire into your tense neck
you melt against them
moans ohhh out their delight
a solo of gorgeous sounds sing
as tension slips from your body
and enters the very air we breathe
gulped down with every bubbling drop
of sweet alcohol

slippery flesh
gives way to slippery flesh
and I gorge myself
on clean skin as we both
become dirty
to the bone

sight: raked ceilings
sound: flirty giggle
scent: perfume
taste: excitement
touch: cloth

 

[Sinseria]

Raw Emptiness

Well Todski beat me to it ...but I thought I would share anyway and keep with his words he chose ...



sight: tears
sound: scraping
scent: bodywash
touch: something spongy
taste: vinegar

Raw Emptiness

There she sits
An alabaster silhouette
Tethered to a blackened heart
Of liquid gold

Vinegared chardonnay
Drowning her moistened lips
Swaying her porcelain flesh
With mirth and malice
Absorbing as a natural sponge
To the crimson rain
Of a thousand tears

Shadows line her walls
Figurines of her mind
One by one
Two by two
Screaming with caress
On her elixir black scented flesh
Clawing and scraping
Pleading with duress
In a lipstick soul
Of raw emptiness

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: raked ceilings
sound: flirty giggle
scent: perfume
taste: excitement
touch: cloth

Kokuhaku

Raked ceilings, white walls,
black lacquer tables with cloth napkins
feels fancy, too rich, but I'm still here
people watching, watching me.

I’ve never seen such well-dressed,
beautifully groomed women as in Tokyo.

In some fashion, I've passed the test
wearing Armani, last summer's
Coeur d'Alene tan and a
Rembrandt movie star smile,
a D-Lister in disguise.

Kozue, high-glamour eats,
is where I meet an impeccably coiffed
dolly, tottering on impossibly high heels.
I seat her with a lusty growl,
her reply a girly, flirty giggle
sounding better than the jazz.

We sit in our own cloud nine
made up of her amber perfume
with lots of sake on the rocks
and my broken Japanese
and her broken English;
we find each other alluring.

I can taste excitement in the ice
crunching between teeth,
making a cool drink of promise
for a hot evening yet to come.




sight: sun dog
sound: some body of water
taste: salty
touch: prickly
smell: a flowering tree

 

[Remec]

sight: sun dog
sound: some body of water
taste: salty
touch: prickly
smell: a flowering tree

One Moment on an Expedition

The wilderness is much
more vast than anticipated,
and we have had to camp
yet again outside of the comforts
of an established fort.
With a yawn, I awoke at just past
dawn--mouth gummy with the
salt of unwashed saliva, and my
chin bristled against my hand
as I passed it absently through
the prickly beginnings of a new
beard--and staggered among
the low foliage to relive myself.
Seemed such a shame to douse
the scent of morning honey-suckle
with that of my personal water, but
it passed my mind as I stood
in the brush and watched the way
dawn had risen in triplicate;
one bright and glorious sun shadowed
and reflected by a pair of lesser ones,
sun-dogs that we had been told
warned of change in the weather.
We shall have to ride much harder
throughout the day.
~~~~~


sight: satellite (real or artificial)
sound: something going swish
scent: betrayal
touch: dried leaves
taste: outrage

 

[Lyricalli]

sight: satellite (real or artificial)
sound: something going swish
scent: betrayal
touch: dried leaves
taste: outrage



Copper and bile
flavor of my outrage
rises again in my mouth
and I restrain the urge
to hurl everything I have
at you, knowing it's all
just air swishing past
your narcissistic ears

Stale sweat scents the air
telling tales of broken promises
of never again
that turn to just one more time
which will never be just one

Hopes dried up
crumbled like autumn leaves
in your hands
scattered to the winds
but you don't need us
family is useless
and expects too much

Now life can revolve
around you, as you need it to
surrounded by those foolish enough
to be caught in the gravitational pull
of disarming charisma
even I have to admit you possess
but now I watch it all
from the safety of distance



sight: loneliness
sound: ringing in the ears
scent: fresh laundry
touch: something frayed
taste: something acidic

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: loneliness
sound: ringing in the ears
scent: fresh laundry
touch: something frayed
taste: something acidic

Tsuri

There is an ocean of black-haired waves
but surrounded by the people, I still see
loneliness crashing down the boardwalk.

Sachi-chan gets lost in the dark waters
I search for her, dive under,
holding my breath, but I'm assaulted
by too many faces in my personal space
in a place where there is no room
to move. Too many conversations
makes my ears go pop in the ring of
cellphones and talking all at once.

She's quick in the waters, done this
swish and disappear more than not;
she likes me needing her in this din.
I think she probably laughs when she
does. Manipulative yes, but I've never
had a woman who didn't try to hook me
with a little bit of that in her sauce.

Must have air. I'm not a fish; swim
against current to press the glass
and rise for that precious commodity.

I've lost her for now, but will find her
again between crisp white sheets
in a frayed crimson kimono
that's been torn off so many times
it's merely silken rose colored threads.

Maybe I am a carp after all, her bait,
plied with yuzu cocktails and sex,
her golden fish in a pond but by now,
I'm so wabi-sabi with that, I'm her koi.




sight: a ship
sound: wind
scent: seaweed
touch: sand
taste: salt

 

[champagne1982]

sight: a ship
sound: wind
scent: seaweed
touch: sand
taste: salt

The breakwater juts outward
then sharply changes direction
northward, protecting the beach
from the strong southerlies
blowing through the guylines
strung from mast to gunnel.

It sings a song to the ship
bringing grain down the lake
into the Owen Sound harbour.
I see her chugging her steady
plough through the water
but her voice is smothered
by the choir of wind and wires.

I wiggle my toes in the fine
grit of the shore, a remnant
of prehistoric reefs found
in the shallow inland sea
and dip my fingers into fresh
fries bought at the vendor

on the curb. The vinegar
does nothing to mask
the foil and duckweed captured
to steep and rot amid the rocks
like so much these waters
clean from grimy city streets.

sight: water drop
sound: breathing
scent: mulch
touch: linen
taste: cherry

 

[Remec]

One Night

sight: water drop
sound: breathing
scent: mulch
touch: linen
taste: cherry

Waking in the night, I look
about with the classic
disorientation of someone
sleeping in a strange place;

My eyes slowly adjust to the
shadowy gloom around me.
not even neon light pulsing
through the flimsy drapes
on the open windows;

I rise to use the bathroom,
careful not to disturb the body
I hear breathing beside me,
She had had a look that drew me
in and felt good against and
around me--tasted of cherries, though,
and her musky body wash had
slowly morphed to more like she'd
bathed herself in fresh mulch;

I piss as quietly as possible, and hope
the closed door will muffle the
flushing, then sit upon the now closed
lid and ponder whether to stay or go,
a bead of water on the sink's faucet
seems to echo my dilemma as it hangs
between gravity and surface tension
before finally giving in and becoming
one more drip into the porcelain and
down the drain. I give in as well,
and return to bed, spooning in and
resting my head on the pillow,
hoping for sleep but not unopposed
to anything else that might happen.
~~~~~


sight: technology
sound: courtroom arguing
scent: barnyard animals
taste: regret
touch: carpeting

 

[Angeline]

sight: technology
sound: courtroom arguing
scent: barnyard animals
taste: regret
touch: carpeting

Trump lumps along oompa
loompa ooh poo pah doo orange
spilling from my TV, the computer
screen all manner of machine
screaming like 30 lawyers
in a cage fight and baby
that is one ignoble sight
almost as bad as the carpet head
(gray drapes) himself I wouldn't
touch that with my worst
frenemy's ballot. America

what the fuck do you want?
It smells like a zoo in here.

I recall a skinny boy, a few spots
and longish hair: barely there
until he read a poem, lit a candle
and prayed Money Money Money,
bent over it with his words satirical
and frightening as they grew so loud
like a gun in church.

This is what regret tastes like:
heartburn.


sight: hats
sound: buzzsaw
scent: ginger
taste: pepper
touch: grass

 

[UnderYourSpell]

sight: hats
sound: buzzsaw
scent: ginger
taste: pepper
touch: grass

They were the brass hats
of the Apocalypse ,
riding in on a buzzsaw of prophecy,
with ginger on their tongues
tasting the pepper of Salvation
and the tall grass flattened before them
bowing in supplication
at the new coming.

Sight: waterfall
Sound: dawn chorus
Scent: roses
Taste: liquorice
Touch: corrugated cardboard

 

[Remec]

Sight: waterfall
Sound: dawn chorus
Scent: roses
Taste: liquorice
Touch: corrugated cardboard

Honeymoon, of Sorts

It's the crack of dawn,
and, after the night we had,
I am unsure whether it's
really, really late or if I'm
up much too early;

Either way, my actions have
their own background theme
as your precious cage of finches
and canaries have been singing
their little lungs out since
first light managed to creep
past the hotel's thick, but not
opaque drapes, Heck, with a
bare modicum of squinting, I
can still manage to see the
mists coming off Niagra in the
distance,

That view is perfect for framing
the scene I have set on the room's
less-than-Ikea constructed table,
one vase chock full of a multitude
of blooms--their colours complimenting,
and the scent of roses noticeable
from five feet back,

Noticeable, that is, unless you've spent
too many minutes going through the
corrugated box from the liquor store
that carried names and trademarks
for nothing that we had bought, and
almost as much time indulging in
too much cheap ouzo--wishing it
came in something other than
licorice, but making it work

~~~~~
sight: whitewashing
sound: running water
scent: Mexican cooking
touch: something unexpected
taste: something overly sweet

 

[Angeline]

Honeymoon, of Sorts

sight: whitewashing
sound: running water
scent: Mexican cooking
touch: something unexpected
taste: something overly sweet

Water water everywhere,
and they tell me to drink
some more, take this pill, breathe
that in, grip these handles
hard as I can and tell them--
Jesus--everything

then blow and blow and blow

until I'm blowed and gone,
floating free, untethered
from all pain and care
in treacly fogs of zero fucks,
unmindful of the hour or sky.

Such goings-on could even mean
I'm near the dreaded Jabborwock
with still no answer as to why
it smells like cumin
and cilantro in this poem.





sight: zebra
sound: theremin
scent: peppermint
touch: leather
taste: plastic

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

sight: zebra
sound: theremin
scent: peppermint
touch: leather
taste: plastic

my gay neighbour’s black and white
striped cover for his BBQ looks like
a zebra squatting in his immaculate yard.
The peppermint pink plastic patio chairs
huddle nervously as if intimidated by
the Mexican tooled leather hammock
swinging nonchalantly in the breeze
that sings breathlessly like a theremin
through the custom made wind toys.

sight: night sky
sound: grating
scent: cocoanut
touch: wrinkled skin
taste: smoke

 

[Remec]

sight: night sky
sound: grating
scent: cocoanut
touch: wrinkled skin
taste: smoke

Rooftop


Camping out is the best,
usually,
even when we have to cover
the rooftop of Billy's brownstone
with a dozen old army blankets,
wool always makes itch,
and these remind me of laying
on wrinkled sheep skin instead
of woven sheep hair,

But we make do,
set up a ring of stones,
who knows from where,
around Mary's hibachi and
move from spit-roasting franks
to trying to make s'mores,
but the scent of her body wash
makes me think she's been
bathing in coconut, while the
lack of a breeze coats the
toasted marshmallow so that
my mouth feels like I've been
chewing on briquettes,

Could be worse, at least
it's a clear night and I can
lie back and stargaze while
waiting for sleep to finally
get here--it's apparently afraid
of coming out here in what
passes for urban jungle,
the traffic passing around the
building had the dull hum of
white noise--just a near constant
grating that starts and stops
and never quite ends

Alright, maybe I was wrong,
camping sucks.
Although, we could try again
next week--Vinny and Angela
know someone out on the shore,
little place in the Barrens,
cabin of some kind, maybe,
That might work.
~~~~~

sight: First Communion dresses
sound: little white lies
scent: candle wax
taste: good intentions
touch: second base

 

[Neonurotic]

sight: First Communion dresses
sound: little white lies
scent: candle wax
taste: good intentions
touch: second base

Vinco, Vici, Victum

Too many years gone
and I remember we were
seven, speaking in hushed voices,
smell of wax in a dusty cathedral,
her veil and dress
fluttering on a draft in St. Jules,

Cute grimace on the aftertaste
of the Eucharist (the staleness
lasting this very day).

How innocent we were then.

All bashed to Hell.

Give or take time to age of consent
and the understanding of what
happened in the backseat of my Nova
was not a game of baseball,
rounding second with trembling
hands and an awkward home run.

"I'm pregnant."

"Let's get married?"​

It started out earnestly, but ended
so horribly, bi-polar:

I hateyou, therewasnobaby
nevermind; the truth is
thatwasa lie. I love you.
IloveyouIloveyou...I love you!​

I know she did when depressed,
but hated me when manic,
a victim manipulating,
feeding her victim
her so-called good intentions.

Little white lies
We keep to ourselves
We'll never tell
Ain't hurting nobody
Little white lies
Nobody else needs to get hurt
Oh 'cause they'll never know
Little white lies ¹

And I believed her every one
until there was so many
she couldn't stay afloat,
drowned in them
before I could save her.

Like our First Communion,
she wore white;
swaddled in comfort,
at last, like Sleeping Beauty
as I knew she would be,
that princess forever.


¹Little White Lies, Florrie


sight: grief
sound: seagulls
scent: decay
taste: envy
touch: wind

 

[UnderYourSpell]

sight: grief
sound: seagulls
scent: decay
taste: envy
touch: wind

Mine is the taste of envy
as the seagulls sail on the wind
over the old sea wall,
Each one crying out my grief
at what I had, gave away
and will never come again.
to leave only the scent of decaying
promises, made and not kept.
Folly thy name is woman.

sight: twilight
sound: roosting birds
scent: garlic
taste: bananas
touch: bubble wrap

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

twilight
roosting birds
garlic
bananas
bubble wrap

Ballaban and Sons, Green Grocers

Sudden rain and the big drops
sound like popping bubble wrap
as they hit the awning overhead.
Mister Balleban has garlic breath
and I bend over the yellow mass
of stacked bananas to avoid it
as he expounds on the new batch
of elephant garlic. He’s a lovely man
I’ve known since my schooldays
but he is in the twilight of his life
and often forgets my name, sucking
on his teeth as he wracks his aging
brain making a soft whistling sounding
like a roosting flock of drowsy starlings.
My name pops up and his smile is
beautiful, both pleasure and relief.
I pay for my kale and cherries and,
of course, my elephant garlic and
step out into the newly washed sun.

sight - sunset
sound - explosions
scent - bergamot
taste - bile
touch - thick fur

 

[todski28]

goodbye of sorts

sight - sunset
sound - explosions
scent - bergamot
taste - bile
touch - thick fur


dawn was twelve o" one hours ago
and it seems as if it has passed by
in a blinding flash
of surrealistic blurs and rhyming couplets
where it all started as a strong narrative
worded in mush mouthed crudity
and pineapple sunsets

till the realisation of keys
and rungs
and levels
and I no longer scratch my head at metaphors
as explosions ricochet through dazed synapses
understanding unveiled as time
tick-tocked away

where critiques hung in the air
bergamot sweet
and the clichés reeked of bad incense
and charred hair

I can taste bile in the bitterness of gone
like thick fur in my mouth
clogging my reason
and choking my words

but decisions were made
as I pass from
am here,
to was here...

taste: regret
touch: hard work
sound: car horn
scent: cologne
sight: tears

 

[Lyricalli]

taste: regret
touch: hard work
sound: car horn
scent: cologne
sight: tears


It aches the way strenuous work does
bone-deep, every pulsebeat
pressure-builds in the chest
the only outlet
some small relief
comes in blurry vision
and the taste of saltwater flood
when there's nothing left
that can be done

and regret hangs in the air
overwhelming
like cheap cologne

Reality piercing as a car horn
blasting an ear drum
tinnitus ringing a constant reminder
of all that's gone



taste: olives
touch: something rough/scratchy
sound: rumbling
scent: ocean/beach
sight: peeling paint

 

[Angeline]

taste: olives
touch: something rough/scratchy
sound: rumbling
scent: ocean/beach
sight: peeling paint

I dreamed of Maine,
pebbled beaches and rocks
spilling to the sea and behind me
climbing up Cadillac Mountain.

I dreamed for years of solitude
like some frozen Innisfree:
who comes to South Harbor in January
when ice hangs daggers,
windy pines scratch on glass
and snow muffles roofs, roads
in a stranded world at least
until plow guy comes to scrape.

There is nobody but me
bundled against the cold,
walking to the pier, rusting
among traps and peeling boards,
the gray. See the impossible
blue sky which is nowhere
but here.

I dreamed of Maine before
I met you: life is coincidence
or synchronicity, who knows?
This is best pondered with Stoly
and one green olive soaking
sans pimento, when words rumble
in me like heartburn.




taste: smoke
touch: glass
sound: kissing
scent: rain
sight: sloth

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

taste: smoke
touch: glass
sound: kissing
scent: rain
sight: sloth

On that Sunday morning
he kissed me awake saying
“it’s late, sloth is one of the
seven deadly sins, you know?”

There were places to go, things
to do, he said, and it was a
lovely day.

So we went for a drive.

I remember seeing the blood-
stained fragrnents of windshield
glass on my lap and thinking
“he’s given me diamonds.”
Then there was smoke, hands
grabbing me,

rain,

on my face.

taste: kimchee
touch: rough skin
sound: orchestral music
scent: cumin
sight: disappearing road

 

[KatieJones]

taste: kimchee
touch: rough skin
sound: orchestral music
scent: cumin
sight: disappearing road

He was unaware she reminisced|
about a rough palm across her cheek
as he lifted the small vial of cumin
to his nose before sprinkling seeds
across the sinking streets of sauce
running through the pan of kimchee.

It was as affected
as the softly playing Ravel
that would never reach its crescendo
and all because his hands were soft.

Taste: coconut
touch: dead leaves
sounds: silence
scent: fire
sight: turtle

 

[Tzara]

Taste: coconut
touch: dead leaves
sounds: silence
scent: fire
sight: turtle

It is very quiet on the island—so quiet one could hear a pin drop, even if it fell onto the surf-flattened sand. One would think one would hear the rustle of dead leaves from the scrub oaks scattered about the beach above the tide line, but there is almost no wind, and the withered leaves lie still as coffins along the shore. In the afternoon, Marianne split a coconut with her machete and we sat cross-legged in the sand digging out its ghost-white flesh and eating it. There are no palm trees anywhere near our camp, but when I asked her where she found the fruit, she simply smiled and did not answer.

As the sun set, it flamed as red as coals banked in a fireplace and I thought I detected the smell of ashes coming from the hills to the east. I wanted to investigate, but Marianne coaxed me into her bed.

This morning I found tracks in the sand where turtles had crawled back into the sea after burying their eggs. Tread marks from unicycles, ridden back into the deep.

Scent: peanuts or almonds
Sight: reflection
Sound: a very low, almost inaudible, hum
Taste: acid
Touch: slickness

 

[Sinseria]

Broken by Consent

Scent: peanuts or almonds
Sight: reflection
Sound: a very low, almost inaudible, hum
Taste: acid
Touch: slickness

Broken by Consent


Wonder if I went away
If I met my untimely fate
Would my ghost remain
Would I?
Could I?
Wonder these shattered walls
That have kept my life

Would I be lost
Even death as I was in life
That nonexistent being
Traversing the halls
With whispers and murmurs
So scarce the sound
As a dogs whistle for the living
Barely audible to human ears

Or would I venture forth
Traverse space and time
To see the reflections of my years
Memories flowing as movies to my eyes
Color coded by the amount of pain
Lived each day

Could I smell fragrant aromas
From a day so long ago
The sweetened whiff of salted ecstasy
With the almonds roasting on the fire
Cracking and snapping
As their scented essence filled the air

Would I be so bold
So daring or brave
To face that first kiss once again
The wrongness salivating
As acid from parting lips
To the taste of unwanted sin

Could I face again
As now an adult passed
The reflections of my life
Bound by the slickness of his touch
The stranger against my flesh
Silk and smooth with caress

The fear of remembrance
The anxiety
The pain
The apprehension
Imprisoned by the truth of my life
When I was
Broken by consent





Scent: sulfur
Sight: fluffy clouds
Sound: tear drops
Taste: Lemon Drops
Touch: darkness

 

[Remec]

Day by Day

Scent: sulfur
Sight: fluffy clouds
Sound: tear drops
Taste: Lemon Drops
Touch: darkness

Watching from the window,
while lying on the bed,
I could see the rising breeze
gather itself into a storm
in the way the fluffy clouds
sped across the still blue sky
too quickly to let me guess
at their form;

The apartment is quiet,
is always quiet, although I
can just hear the echo of
her tears as they dripped from
those rounded, pink, cheeks
that I was always conflicted as
to whether I wanted to kiss them
or pinch them and see which
brought out the higher squeal,

I'm not sure what happened,
but taking a treat from the candybowl
I have the thought that the whole
thing was much like the lemon drop
in my mouth--hard and having a crusty
sort of shell, that softened even as
the taste grew in both sweetness and
that sour that lets everyone be just
a little bit masochistic,
for a while,

The power fails as the storm finally
rolls in, and even as I go about
lighting candles with fireplace matches,
their sulphuric scent draws the
darkness in close so that the glow
likewise fails and I return to the bed
to simply let the gloom wash
over me.
again.
~~~~~



sight: family picnic
sound: water
scent: ketchup
touch: plastic
taste: heat