The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Tzara]

Touch: grass
scent: lavender
taste: water
sight: river rocks
sound: crunch

Dungeness

This is how I hoped we'd meet—
on these rocks as smoothed as pavement

by the action of the river,
our feet dangling in the water

still cold from the glacier.
Cup some with me and sip. So cold, so

sweet, which I guess means clear
or at least so icy one can't tell

how many hydrocarbons
we ingest

on this sunny, grassy bank
below the mountains.

If we squint we can still see
the bridge, the nuclear

submarines, the lavender fields,
fragrant in bloom,

hear the somber crunch of our ideals
in the bench-mounted vise

of what the newspapers cheerfully call
compromise.


Scent: something vaguely floral
Sight: a wide, neatly mowed and edged expanse of lawn
Sound: a string quartet
Taste: chocolate, champagne, or apple
Touch: well oiled wood

 

[darkmaas]

Scent: something vaguely floral
Sight: a wide, neatly mowed and edged expanse of lawn
Sound: a string quartet
Taste: chocolate, champagne, or apple
Touch: well oiled wood

::

No Small Seduction.

This is no tiny tryst
no cheerful hooking-up

No my darling,
this is on a scale
that Wellington
would appreciate

Cue violins
Pop the cork
and rattle ice
into a silver bucket
Brush your thigh
against the chill dew
of poor widow Clicquot's
burly Jeroboam.
Quaff deep my Babylon
then take a bite
from Eden's apple.
First Sin redux
adagio at first
then slowly building
to no small seduction.

I like the way
you've trimmed and edged the lawn
that grows blonde and curly
atop the mons veneris
and along the edges
of Venus' Grotto.
The subtle scent of lavender
is giving up the field
to a darker musk
no small seduction.

The battle ready shaft
of Priapus' spear
oiled and splendid in the dim light
waits with impatience
as the prelude unfolds
slowly making way
for the clash of flesh and bone.

Quaff deeply.
The cello whispers
"No small seduction".


::

Scent: juniper
Sight: mirrored glass
Sound: whistle
Taste: rich and oily
Touch: silk

::

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Scent: juniper
Sight: mirrored glass
Sound: whistle
Taste: rich and oily
Touch: silk

Silken clad ladies mince in stilettos heels
across the lawn, sipping gin and tonics.
Wrinkling aristocratic noses
at the scent of juniper berries
and rich, oily olives,
beside fish ponds, surfaces
still as mirrored glass.
In the distance the low whistle
of the 2.30 express to Kings Cross
is the only sound to disturb
the quintessential scene
of an English Garden Party.


Scent: Night scented stock
Sight: high flying falcons
Sound: rustling in the undergrowth
Taste: peppermint candy
Touch: pebbles underfoot

 

[Piscator]

too late but posting anyway - use UYS's sense words

Scent: juniper
Sight: mirrored glass
Sound: whistle
Taste: rich and oily
Touch: silk

Your double entendres grows tiring
she whispered from the other side of the
mirrored glass, her voice an emphysematic whistle
as she replaced the cigarette holder in her tracheotomy hole.
I knew this wasn’t real but still could smell the
sharp scent of the juniper laced concoction
she used to smoke. In mouth the
taste of kalamata olive lingered
as the silk cravat tightened
round my larynx as I
joined her in
the ever
after.

 

[KatieJones]

Scent: Night scented stock
Sight: high flying falcons
Sound: rustling in the undergrowth
Taste: peppermint candy
Touch: pebbles underfoot

The rocks massaged her bare soles
as she watched the river lose a brackish fight
with the ocean aware of no other movement
beyond the cast of falcons whose circles
occasionally eclipsed the moon
and caused mice to rustle beneath
the life-saving brambles. Like them she ran.
Away from the irony of an unwanted peppermint kiss
and the disappointment that she and all the other moths
had fallen for the lure of night
scented stock without thought to why
he’d said no need for shoes in the garden
just before he tried to lock the gate.


Scent: lemon
Sight: a road or a path
Sound: something in the distance
Taste: water
Touch: humidity

 

[Remec]

Scent: lemon
Sight: a road or a path
Sound: something in the distance
Taste: water
Touch: humidity

Summer Storms

She sat on the porch,
more of a stoop, really,
and sipped from a tall glass
of ice water; just enjoying the
counterpoint its chill made
to the warm dampness of the
day's humidity against
her skin,

Occasionally, she would take a sip
and breathe in the scent of the
sliced lemons floating amid
the ice cubes, they added just
the right light touch of flavor
to the water,

The day had been long, but boring,
so she sat, watching the darkening clouds,
and listening to their muffled
roars as the anvil formed down
the road a pace and began a
slow crawl towards her.

~~~~~

sight: rainbow
sound: crackling
scent: wet dog
touch: mud
taste: something sour

 

[Piscator]

sight: rainbow
sound: crackling
scent: wet dog
touch: mud
taste: something sour

West Coast Trail memories

There’s nothing special
about rainbows, just light diffracting
through rain drops, if you’re in
the right place at the right
time you see colours.
Lighting’s different, way more
scary, when your hair stands on end,
the air crackles and the flash and boom
come on top of each other.

But this rain isn’t like that,
no flash, no rainbows
just slow and steady for the
last three days, pausing every
now and then to tease you
before resuming, always in
evening when you’re trying to
set up camp, light the stove and
choke down the day’s freeze dried
whatever.

You boots are clogged with mud
sometimes knee deep
and your thigh throbs where
that stick poked you on a
poor dismount from a wet
slippery log on the second
day. It’s worst climbing up
and down the unending
ladders that make the trail
almost possible.
Your tent and sleeping bag
smell like a wet dog and you
smell worse and though
you’ve filtered the water
there’s a sour taste.

Then the rain goes away
and as the sun sets over the
infinite ocean, a full moon
rises in the east and it’s
suddenly special.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sight: brown eyes
sound: music
scent: marijuana
touch: hemp rope
taste: whiskey

 

[KatieJones]

sight: brown eyes
sound: music
scent: marijuana
touch: hemp rope
taste: whiskey

Sometimes your brown eyes seem unchanging
but tonight resting on the horizon
of your whiskey glass they play
a familiar song deep inside me
that resonates across a different plane
and reduces me to senses. I smell
the reason the neighbours are laughing
so hard floating over the fence. I hear
the ice settle as you free your hands
and pull my chair sharply to you
with a screech of protest as the legs
claw the cool tile. Your lips tug
on my naked ear lobe and I can tell
it was Crown Royal in the crystal
tumbler. I cannot sit still
as your shadowed face rasps
down my neck and you deliberately drag
the woven hemp across my bare wrists
because you know the second I close
my eyes and open my legs
I am ready
to come and meet you inside.


sight: something blue
sound: something constant
scent: wet grass
touch: glass
taste: lime

 

[Sinseria]

sight: something blue
sound: something constant
scent: wet grass
touch: glass
taste: lime


A Thousand Lies

There she stood
On the waters bed
This epitome of distress
Holding the crystallized glass
Of her shattered soul

The margaritas kiss
Lined her lips
With a little salt and lime
In the last and dying moments
Of her now forsaken will
As she stands alone
Searching for that inner peace
Reflecting on the blue sheen
Of the oceans deep

Her life splayed across the constant waves
Surging in that final ecstasy
Making love to the mind
As it roars against that midnight sky
Merely marking its terrain
To ease the pain

Its wet earthly scent spews forth
Wielding with its caress
On the sand and rocky shores
As it leaves each strand of grass
Weeping for more
With each parting pass

As the oceans waves reach beyond
Truth and time
With the power to heal and bind
Erasing the shame of life
And a thousand lies




sight: destiny
sound: something lost
scent: stagnation
touch: roses
taste: something painful

 

[KatieJones]

sight: destiny
sound: something lost
scent: stagnation
touch: roses
taste: something painful

For too long the sun's rays have licked
the surface of the pond
and soon its warm tongue will taste only stones.
The silence speaks to the death
of the hidden spring that once fed
the wild roses and sheltered turtles
from hawk shadows and swoops.

I watch a lone fish swim circles
in the remaining puddle and think
stagnancy is perhaps a more undesirable destiny
than death because at least in death we move
forward and feed the worms.
When I scoop the fish into my water bottle
and head toward the lake I wonder
did I change his fate or was I his fate all along?
Upon release he swims away without hesitation
and I envy the simplicity of a life without
Frost's roads and the question why.

sight: a fan
sound: a voice
scent: soap
touch: wood
taste: wine

 

[darkmaas]

sight: a fan
sound: a voice
scent: soap
touch: wood
taste: wine

::

Lazy Turns

The ceiling fan
does a lazy turn
ten feet above the bed.
Unlike it's modern cousins
it's old and silent
made to last a thousand years
in the sultry tropic haze
that softens every sound
except the voice of Liz
a gecko who lives behind
a portrait of some maharaja
hanging over the writing table.

Skin slick and tanned,
you smell of soap and sex.
You do a lazy turn
fall back upon the bed.
Your hands reach up
and rub for comfort or support
the carved and fretted slab of teak
that forms the headboard.

How many hands have done the same
and left behind a patina in certain places?

I watch you for a moment.
Last sip of sherry
sweetening my tongue
before I cross the room.
You raise and spread your thighs
and await my ministrations
while staring upwards
mesmerized
by the lazy turn
of ceiling fan.

::


sight: peacock blue
sound: tinkle
scent: wood smoke
touch: linen
taste: citrus


::

 

[KatieJones]

sight: peacock blue
sound: tinkle
scent: wood smoke
touch: linen
taste: citrus

Behind him glass chimes tinkled
played like a harp by wind’s fingers
but the music went unnoticed.
He watched her, sitting
in the company of koi.
Watched her wrist test the falling
water before it splashed
her white dress which lied
to his eyes, looking
peacock blue from the reflection
of the fountain’s painted basin.
When she stood every curve
was back lit through the linen.
The light lifted her dress
in an invitation to touch
and taste the lime she licked
from her fingers earlier. She claimed
the bonfire smoke stung
her eyes but he knew she was running,
running away
from the demand in his eyes,
the need in hers
and the crowd of people
standing between them.

sight: something falling down
sound: a bird
scent: gasoline
touch: something rough
taste: a drink (you pick)

 

[Lyricalli]

sight: something falling down
sound: a bird
scent: gasoline
touch: something rough
taste: a drink (you pick)


It doesn't happen every time
must be something in the air
it mixes with, but then
I breathe it in and there you are
wearing dirt and grease
gasoline and sweat-tang wafting
from your clothes
I don't remember now what
you were working on
just your laughter
as I tried to dodge
your calloused finger
striping my cheek

Later, when you smelled of soap
and you and me
we sat outside, sipping some
chocolate indulgence
while an owl greeted dusk
somewhere in the distance
as autumn leaves drifted to the ground
and I mused that they were falling
as softly as I was falling hard


sight: fireflies
sound: scratching
scent: coming storm
touch: something cold and hard
taste: fresh tomato

 

[Remec]

sight: fireflies
sound: scratching
scent: coming storm
touch: something cold and hard
taste: fresh tomato

Summer Idyll

Lunch was lingering,
not the garlic pepper or
the mayo,
not even the thinly cut pumpernickel,
lightly toasted on that big
cast-iron skillet Mom had
passed along to me,
no, it was those newly
ripened, just picked this morning
tomatoes from our garden out back,
the ones where a single slice covered
the whole piece of bread,
even now, sitting on the porch swing,
listening to its chains
scratching upon themselves,
link rubbing on link,
while watching the early summer
lightning bugs--I know, not what you
call them; but, to me, fireflies are
something totally different,
even in this mostly quiet moment,
I can still taste those tomatoes,
just as I can still hear my Muse
gently prodding me,
"Keep it coming," and it makes me
smile, and I think on what to do
as I pick up my icetea glass--all
cool and slick, harder to the touch than
it looks--and go looking for a refill,
maybe something stronger than tea,
but I pause as I catch a whiff of
something on the breeze and look
down at Princess' squinty eyes,
"Tut, tut, smells like rain."

~~~~~


sight: something twirling through the air
sound: brass instruments
scent: menthol
touch: sweat
taste: a salty snack

 

[KatieJones]

sight: something twirling through the air
sound: brass instruments
scent: menthol
touch: sweat
taste: a salty snack


Skip the Shower

When it’s all cleaned up
and sanitized with pleases
and gentle touches it skims
over her skin and where it matters
most she won’t be thinking
oh god but instead counting
how many times the ceiling
fan circles in a minute. She needs
you to come
in from cutting down the eucalyptus
tree that died last month
and know the smell of menthol
and the sheen of salt
on your chest work better
than any oyster, triggering
instincts that say you’d slay
a T-Rex or at least die trying
on that day. She needs you to lift
her up, pull her down
and ensure she drowns in it
from the inside out so skip the silk
and music because even the best brass
section will only entice her ears
and she would rather feel your fingers
on her wrists. She needs the bass
drum beating inside
until every nerve reverberates
under the touch of a thousand
hands and against the heat
molecules move further apart
until she liquefies. Reduced
but also so much more.


sight: red
sound: trees
scent: water
touch: skin
taste: mint

 

[todski28]

sight: red
sound: trees
scent: water
touch: skin
taste: mint

Trees rustle their leaves against
cold glass, the moon pours down
its idyllic soft glow, full and round
light beams fall in soft monochome

I click a mint between my teeth
draw back the covers and slide
down the length of her provocation
the naked flesh I intend to rouse
with gentle urgings

I slink as moons rays caress the
dragon on my thick arms
my hands delicately trace the strings
of a well worn tune on her skin

she stirs mmmmmmmumbling
and eases her thighs open
she inhales a sharp intake of breath
before I begin kissing gently at her
delicate centre
plumping and engorging her before
I plunge my tongue
there

the mint feels like a cool blast
before it begins to heat the softest tissues
she moans
her bretahless whispers of
what the fuck
make me smirk between licks
and gentle suction

my mouth attuned to her every move
as she writhes moisture flows
onto my chin and smells of life
of fresh water in a desert
as I thirst for her essence

her climax is a quiet crescendo
of mewling gasps
her legs quivering feet kicking out calf muscles
tensed and thrumming out music
of lust and dancing in reddest passion

the soft glow
of the moon
watches on as I enter her
my slide into her depth
is like leaping from a waterfalls edge
and landing in hot springs

we both groan out into
the gentle night
swaying aginst each other
like the rustle of leaves on
cold glass

Sight: something distant
sound: ticking clock
scent: something acrid
Taste: anything wet
touch: anything hard

 

[KatieJones]

Sight: something distant
sound: ticking clock
scent: something acrid
Taste: anything wet
touch: anything hard


To Err is Human

It’s coming. A predator
that moves only through the ink
of our self-created darkness
but in the mornings I see
its footprints everywhere
and smell its acrid breath
in the apocalyptic signs
of glacier tears, sinking
Keys and dying trees.
Forgiveness and pointing fingers
will be futile when the last
of us succumbs to history.

If only we weren’t human
and sprung into being
without sex, lived alone
on single stars without the tick
of clocks, the lure of golden geese
and quests for holy grails
placed on altars by long-dead
deities and without the vampiric
drive for the life-blood
of little deaths on dirty sheets.
If only
then maybe the seven would not exist
and maybe
we wouldn’t be drowning
in the desert of a dying earth, swimming
in a vortex of dichotomy
trying to live through destruction.


Sight: something small
sound: cars
scent: humidity
Taste: something strong in whatever way you’d like
touch: hot

 

[darkmaas]

Sight: something small
sound: cars
scent: humidity
Taste: something strong in whatever way you’d like
touch: hot

::

"So I said 'something small?' and little did I know,"
said the vicar's wife,
and everybody laughed.

Royal Doulton cupping cheap Earl Grey
hot and fragrant but
the smell of mildew and noisy car exhaust
spoiled the moment.

"Too many bags"
she thought, the taste was overbearing
like their hostess.

She could not concentrate
on the sermon that Sunday
Indeed she couldn't look the vicar
in his cassock
without recalling
loaves and fishes
and the vicar's
four turgid inches.

::

Sight: something longer than it's wide (following in the style)
sound: silence
scent: crisp
Taste: exquisite
touch: slick

 

[todski28]

Sight: something longer than it's wide (following in the style)
sound: silence
scent: crisp
Taste: exquisite
touch: slick

Silence echoes my harsh breathing
nightmares in day time
the exquiste taste of fear's salted tang
as sweat runs down onto my lip

his belt dangles from
the raw shake of his clenched fist
dragging it's hiss the buckle clinking
like a rattle snakes tail

No tears here, bite your god damn tongue
wait for him to lay in and lash on....

she dabs at the slick split welts
on my back, ass and legs....
her tears sting as they drip onto
the swelling

he is slumped on the bed
snoring gently
a boyish smile
alight on his grizzled face

The scent of blood is crisp with the tang of iron

the poor always bleed
for the sins of their parents

Sight: tv
sound: muffled voices
Scent: cheap cologne/perfume
Taste: salt
Touch: something raised

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight: tv
sound: muffled voices
Scent: cheap cologne/perfume
Taste: salt
Touch: something raised


Watching images flicker across the screen
over his shoulder
breathing in his cheap cologne
as he grunts
and bucks
she goes through the motions
her hands roaming
over his damp skin
trying not to cringe
as a salty drip
lands on her lips and finds its way in
she can't quite hear
the conversation
on the other side of the wall
but she recognized the slap

She dries her hands on the
pilled bedspread underneath her
when he's done
shrugs him off and gets ready
to find the next one



Sight: something silver
Sound: whistling
Scent: clean
Taste: sour
Touch: affection

 

[njoyjade]

Combined Search

Sight: something silver
Sound: whistling
Scent: clean
Taste: sour
Touch: affection

~~

Waves crash against a chosen shore
Once happy waters mix gladness with bitter turmoil
Neither searches for ownership or devotion
Perfectly formed shells unite
To become broken apart by pure waters
Oceans introduced by simple waves
Like gossamer wings tipped with silver light
Creating tomorrow’s shores with yesterday’s beauty
Leaving clear echoes from the whistling sand

~~

Sight: Mountains
Sound: Carousel
Scent: Bourbon
Taste: Apples
Touch: Leaves

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Sight: Mountains
Sound: Carousel
Scent: Bourbon
Taste: Apples
Touch: Leaves

When Grandpa returned
he'd greet us with Bourbon kisses.
He went each Autumn by the carousel
of the seasons, he said, to talk
as the leaves fell, to the only woman
he had ever loved and left
on a mountain high sleeping under
an apple tree as sweet as she.

Sight: The Eiffel Tower
Sound: Rain dripping from the trees
Scent: Coffee
Taste: Sugared Almonds
Touch: Velvet

 

[RideFl71]

Sight: Mountains
Sound: Carousel
Scent: Bourbon
Taste: Apples
Touch: Leaves

When Grandpa returned
he'd greet us with Bourbon kisses.
He went each Autumn by the carousel
of the seasons, he said, to talk
as the leaves fell, to the only woman
he had ever loved and left
on a mountain high sleeping under
an apple tree as sweet as she.

Sight: The Eiffel Tower
Sound: Rain dripping from the trees
Scent: Coffee
Taste: Sugared Almonds
Touch: Velvet

I'm new to this so here it goes....

Velvet...
The feel of her skin...
Coffee...
The smell of her hair as I run my fingers threw it...
Sugared Almonds....
The taste of her lips as we kiss..
Rain dripping from the trees
The sound it made as we intertwined
The Eiffel Tower
The place we made love..

Sight: Lace
Sound: Purring
Scent: Orange Blossoms
Taste: Nectar
Touch Electricity

And go...

 

[Lyricalli]

Sight: Lace
Sound: Purring
Scent: Orange Blossoms
Taste: Nectar
Touch Electricity

Stormwind gusts
drown the sound
that rumbles low
in his throat
when they blow

Fingers laced
in my orange-blossom hair
its scent swirls
with the smell of rain
and him
while the lace curtains billow

Crackle of lightning
echoes the static spark of
skin connection
current completion
as nectar flows
over my tongue


Sight: something seen with blurry vision
Sound: breath
Scent: skin
Taste: apples
Touch: a rough texture

 

[Piscator]

Sight: something seen with blurry vision
Sound: breath
Scent: skin
Taste: apples
Touch: a rough texture

A long exhale fogs the glass,
obscuring the waning moon
as she closes the window
against the cool night air.

Another sip of Riesling
savouring the apple and pear
which she would gladly trade
for a whiff of his aftershave
and the rasp of his stubble
on the back of her neck.


Sight: bright light off water
Sound: Kingfisher's rattle
Scent: approaching rain
Taste: sharp cheese
Touch: stinging nettles